‘I have to warn you that you’ll be wasting your time, Miss Ashdown. I have no intention of being Christos Giatrakos’s puppet.’

‘All I’m asking is that you listen to me whilst I convince you to come to the shareholders meeting.’

Sophie took Nicolo’s silence as agreement. ‘Which bedroom should I sleep in?’ she asked breezily. ‘As we are going to be house-mates, maybe you could drop the Miss Ashdown and call me Sophie?’

‘House-mates!’ Nicolo’s eyes glinted. ‘Don’t push your luck—Sophie.’

Dio, he had never met a woman so determined to have her own way! For some inexplicable reason Nicolo’s eyes were drawn to Sophie Ashdown’s mouth. Her lips were soft and moist and temptingly kissable and he found himself imagining crushing her mouth beneath his own and kissing her until she was in no doubt that he was master of Chatsfield House.

Step into the opulent glory of the world’s most elite hotel, where clients are the impossibly rich and exceptionally famous.

Whether you’re in America, Australia, Europe or Dubai, our doors will always be open …

Welcome to

Synonymous with style, sensation … and scandal!

For years, the children of Gene Chatsfield—global hotel entrepreneur—have shocked the world’s media with their exploits. But no longer! When Gene appoints a new CEO, Christos Giatrakos, to bring his children into line, little did he know what he was starting.

Christos’ first command scatters the Chatsfields to the furthest reaches of their international holdings—from Las Vegas to Monte Carlo, Sydney to San Francisco … but will they rise to the challenge set by a man who hides dark secrets in his past?

Let the games begin!

Your room has been reserved, so check in to enjoy all the passion and scandal we have to offer.

Ref: 00106875

www.thechatsfield.com

CHANTELLE SHAW lives on the Kent coast, five minutes from the sea, and does much of her thinking about the characters in her books while walking on the beach. An avid reader from an early age, she found that school friends used to hide their books when she visited, but Chantelle would retreat into her own world and she still writes stories in her head all the time.

Chantelle has been blissfully married to her own tall, dark and very patient hero for over twenty years and has six children. She began to read Mills & Boon® romance novels as a teenager and, throughout the years of being a stay-at-home mum to her brood, she found romance fiction helped her to stay sane! Her aim is to write books that provide an element of escapism, fun and of course romance for the countless women who juggle work and a home life and who need their precious moments of ‘me’ time. She enjoys reading and writing about strong-willed, feisty women and even stronger-willed sexy heroes. Chantelle is at her happiest when writing. She is particularly inspired while cooking dinner, which unfortunately results in a lot of culinary disasters! She also loves gardening, taking her very badly behaved terrier for walks and eating chocolate (followed by more walking—at least the dog is slim!).

Billionaire’s Secret

Chantelle Shaw

www.thechatsfield.com

Family Tree

For Adrian,

Thank you for thirty-five wonderful years together and for your support, encouragement and occasional tear-mopping through twenty-five books!

All my love, Chantelle

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Family Tree

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Readers’ Extras

Author Note

Discover The Chatsfield

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SO MUCH FOR modern technology, Sophie thought as she pulled over to the side of the road and switched off the engine. Despite following the satellite navigation system’s directions she was hopelessly lost. The rolling landscape of the Chiltern Hills was spread out before her, but there was not a farmhouse or even a barn in sight, let alone an enormous stately home.

The country lane she had been sent down was so narrow that she shuddered to think what would happen if she met a vehicle travelling in the opposite direction. Sighing, she reached for the map on the seat beside her and climbed out of the car. At any other time she would have enjoyed the view of the English countryside in midsummer. The fields were lush and green beneath a cornflower-blue sky and the hedgerow on either side of the lane blazed with a colourful profusion of wild flowers. But Sophie was not on a sightseeing trip. Christos had sent her to Buckinghamshire to carry out a specific task and she was impatient to get on with it.

When she had set out from London two hours ago the weather had been beautiful. But now, although the sun was still shining, the air was strangely oppressive. Glancing over her shoulder, her heart sank when she saw ominous dark clouds on the horizon. Terrific! A storm was all she needed when she was stuck in the middle of nowhere. For a moment she thought the rumbling sound she could hear was thunder, but to her relief she saw a tractor trundling up the lane towards her.

‘I’m looking for Chatsfield House,’ she spoke to the tractor driver as he was about to turn into a field. ‘I think I must have gone wrong somewhere.’

‘Keep on going along the lane for another half mile or so and you’ll come to Chatsfield, miss.’

‘Along this track?’ Sophie looked doubtfully at the road that disappeared into dense woodland.

‘The road stops being a public highway from here and is privately owned by the Chatsfield family. But they don’t bother to maintain it.’ The man looked up at the darkening sky. ‘There’s rain on the way, and the potholes in the lane are deep. Be careful you don’t get a tyre stuck down one, or you’ll be stranded.’

‘Thanks,’ Sophie said drily as she slid back into the car.

The farmer gave her a curious look. ‘You’ve got business up at the house, have you? Not many visitors go to Chatsfield. The family left a long time ago.’

‘But Nicolo Chatsfield still lives there, doesn’t he?’

‘Aye, he moved back some years ago, but he’s rarely seen in the village. My wife’s sister works as a cleaner-up at the house and she says he spends all his time on his computer, doing some sort of financial stuff that has made him a fortune. It’s a pity he doesn’t spend a bit of his cash in the village pub. The King’s Head is in danger of closing down because of this here recession.’

The man stared at Sophie. ‘Don’t expect a warm welcome from Nicolo. And mind his dog, it’s the size of a bloody great wolf.’

Things were getting better and better! Sophie grimaced as she restarted the engine. She was tempted to turn the car around and drive straight back to London, but the idea of admitting failure to her boss was unacceptable.

Christos Giatrakos was the new CEO of the Chatsfield Hotel chain and had been appointed by the head of the family, Gene Chatsfield, to restore the once-famous brand name to its former glory. When Sophie had become Christos’s personal assistant she had realised that the only way to deal with his formidable personality was to stand up to him and show him that he did not scare her. The rest of his staff might treat him with kid gloves, but not her. Few things scared Sophie. Facing her own mortality when she had been a teenager had given her a different perspective on life. She was proud that Christos had picked her from hundreds of other candidates who had applied for the position of his PA, and her pride refused to admit defeat.

The trees lining the track were so overgrown that they formed a dark tunnel, and the faint light filtering through the leaves cast eerie green shadows. Any second now she would find herself in Narnia! Impatient with her overactive imagination, she carried on along the lane and drew a sharp breath when she rounded a bend and Chatsfield House came into view.

Her first impression of the huge, rambling building was that it looked like a nineteenth-century mental asylum. Built of dull red-brick, the architecture was decidedly Gothic, and the leaded-light windows gave the appearance of bars across the glass. Even the purple wisteria growing around the front door failed to soften the house’s grim facade. Sophie sensed that once it must have been a charming family home, but now the general air of neglect seemed intent on repelling any visitors.

Presumably that suited the only member of the Chatsfield family who lived here, she mused as she drove up the gravel driveway and passed an ornamental fountain that must have stopped working long ago. The pool had a couple of inches of muddy brown water at the bottom, and the stone statue of a water nymph had lost its head.

She recalled her conversation with Christos when she had arrived at the office at eight-thirty that morning. As usual, he had already been at his desk. He had ignored her breezy greeting and scowled when she placed a cup of coffee in front of him.

‘Hell and damnation! Sometimes I am seriously tempted to dump every one of the Chatsfield offspring on a deserted island and leave them there to rot.’

‘Ah.’ Sophie had immediately understood. ‘Which one of Gene’s children has annoyed you today?’

‘Nicolo,’ Christos snapped.

‘I take it he’s still refusing to attend the shareholders’ meeting in August?’

‘He’s as stubborn as …’

As you, Sophie was tempted to point out, but Christos’s glowering expression made her bite back the comment.

‘I’ve just spoken to him, and he informed me that he has no interest in the family’s hotel chain or his stake in the business, and therefore sees no point in coming to the meeting. He then advised me not to waste his time or mine by calling again, and hung up.’

Sophie winced as Christos growled a curse. People did not hang up on Christos Giatrakos—not if they knew what was good for them.

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘There’s only one thing for it,’ Christos announced. ‘I don’t have time to deal with Nicolo, so you’ll have to go to Chatsfield House and persuade him to come to London. I can’t implement the changes needed to turn the Chatsfield brand name around without his agreement on certain matters. If he is as uninterested as he says, he might be willing to sell his shares, but I need him to be at the meeting.’

‘What makes you think he’ll listen to me?’ Sophie argued. ‘You’ve already told me he’s lived as a recluse for years and avoids any kind of social contact.’

Christos ignored her protest. ‘I don’t care how you do it. Drag him by his ears if you have to. Just make sure you get Nicolo to the shareholders’ meeting! Incidentally, I’ll find it useful for you to be in Buckinghamshire. I want you to sort through some of the paperwork relating to a property owned by the Chatsfield estate in Italy. Gene worked from an office at the house in the early years and only started spending his time in London after the twins were born and his marriage to Liliana ran into problems.’

He smiled persuasively at Sophie. ‘It’ll be a nice break for you to get away from the city for a while and stay at an English country house. The grounds of the Chatsfield estate are extensive, and apparently there’s even a swimming pool, which should be lovely to use at this time of year.’

Sophie looked doubtful. ‘That’s supposing Nicolo invites me to stay, which seems unlikely.’

‘You don’t need an invitation from him. He lives at the house, but he doesn’t own it, and you have permission from Gene Chatsfield to stay as long as you like.’

Lucky me! Sophie thought now as she stared up at the imposing house. The huge front door was painted black and had an ugly brass knocker in the form of a ram’s head hanging in the centre. Taking a deep breath, she struck the knocker against the door and waited for a couple of minutes before knocking again. Presumably Nicolo employed some staff to run a house of this size, and she was sure her loud knock must have been audible to whoever was inside.

A sudden gust of wind sent a pile of dead leaves scurrying across the drive, and at the same time a dark cloud swallowed up the sun and Sophie felt a little frisson of unease run down her spine.

Get a grip, she told herself impatiently. She peered through a window, but saw no signs of life inside the house. Damn it! Where was Nicolo Chatsfield? Christos had only spoken to him on the phone a few hours ago.

She had a perfectly legitimate excuse to drive back to London and tell Christos that she had been unable to find Nicolo, but giving up wasn’t in Sophie’s vocabulary. Ten years ago she had needed every ounce of determination and tenacity while she had fought for her life. Being diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer when she was sixteen had been a shattering blow. One minute she had been a happy, carefree teenager, and the next she had been facing the very real possibility that she might die.

She had never forgotten the sickening lurch of terror in the pit of her stomach when the consultant had given her the news, the fearful expression on her mother’s face. At that devastating moment Sophie had vowed to herself that if she survived her illness and the high doses of chemotherapy that were her only hope of a cure, she would live her life to the fullest, seize every opportunity and never be deterred by any problem, however insurmountable it might seem.

After everything she had been through, a solid door barring her entry to Chatsfield House was simply a minor inconvenience, she thought wryly.

Following a gravel path, she eventually came to the back of the house and found a huge, overgrown garden. She imagined the lawn must once have been trimmed regularly, but now it had turned into a wild meadow, and the roses in the flower beds were being strangled by weeds.

The air of abandonment was tangible. She tried the back door and found it was unlocked, which suggested that Nicolo could not be far away. After a moment’s hesitation she stepped into the kitchen and her attention was immediately drawn to the cast-iron range that looked as though it was an original feature.

‘Hello, is anyone home?’

As she continued her exploration of the house her voice echoed hollowly around the wood-panelled hall. Various reception rooms led off the hall, all filled with exquisite antique furniture, including a grand piano in one of the rooms. She walked over to the piano and lifted the lid. Running her fingers over the smooth keys she was reminded of her father playing the piano at the house in Oxford where she had grown up.

She had loved to listen to him. They had been happy times, Sophie thought wistfully. Her early childhood had been idyllic, and as far as she knew her parents had shared a loving relationship. But her cancer had spread a dark cloud over all their lives and ultimately had destroyed their once-happy family. Her father’s betrayal had been the hardest thing to cope with, even worse than her illness. He had abandoned Sophie when she had needed him most, and the hurt still lingered deep in her heart.

Abruptly she closed the piano lid and shut a mental door on painful memories. A sixth sense warned her that she was no longer alone seconds before she heard a low growl that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle. She spun round and snatched a startled breath at the sight of the man and dog blocking the doorway. Both were big, dark and menacing—although on balance the dog looked slightly less terrifying than its master, Sophie decided.

The only photograph she had seen of Nicolo Chatsfield was an old press cutting from a decade ago that Christos kept on file. At the time the picture had been taken Nicolo had been a reprobate playboy who had seemed intent on blowing his sizeable trust fund on fast cars, vintage champagne and glamorous women. In his early twenties he had possessed the stunning looks of a male model from one of the glossy magazines where he often featured in the gossip columns. There had been no sign in the picture of the terrible scars he was reputed to have been left with after he had been burned in a fire.

Like his brothers and sisters, Nicolo’s behaviour had attracted the sort of scandalous headlines that had helped ruin the Chatsfield brand name. But a few years ago he had suddenly dropped out of the media spotlight.

The man in front of Sophie bore little resemblance to the old photograph. His handsome features had hardened, and his slashing cheekbones and square jaw were as uncompromising as granite. He looked older than his thirty-two years and his unsmiling mouth spoke of a world-weary cynicism that was reflected in his curiously expressionless eyes. His thick, dark brown hair fell to his shoulders, and the black stubble shading of his jaw gave the impression of a man who did not give a damn what others thought of him.

Sophie swallowed. She was not afraid, but for a moment she felt overawed by Nicolo’s formidable masculinity. He had not spoken and his silence was unnerving. With an effort she regained her composure and smiled at him.

‘I expect you’re wondering what I’m doing in your house?’

‘I know what you’re doing.’ Despite the curtness of his tone, Nicolo’s deep voice was laced with a sensual huskiness that sent a tingle down Sophie’s spine. ‘You’re trespassing.’

‘I’m not exactly.’ Sophie took a step forward and hesitated when the dog gave a warning growl. She eyed the animal warily. She recognised the breed as an Irish wolfhound—with emphasis on the wolf side of its personality, she thought ruefully. The dog was so enormous that if it stood on its hind legs it would easily be taller than her five-foot-four frame. Deciding not to provide the hound with an early supper, she remained perfectly still as she spoke to Nicolo.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sophie Ashdown, and I am Christos Giatrakos’s personal assistant. Christos sent me here to ask you—’

‘I know what Christos wants,’ Nicolo interrupted. ‘My answer is the same as I told him on the phone earlier. You’ve had a wasted journey, Miss Ashdown. Shut the door on your way out.’

‘Wait …’ Sophie cried as he swung round and strode out of the room with his hound following faithfully at his heels. ‘Mr Chatsfield …’ She hurried across the hallway after him but he took no notice of her as he walked into another room and shut the door firmly behind him.

‘Well, of all the …’ Sophie stared at the door and her temper simmered. She had never experienced such rudeness before and without pausing to consider her actions she grabbed the door handle and turned it.

Evidently this was Nicolo’s study. As she crossed the threshold she glanced around the large high-ceilinged room where the walls were lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets. On the desk was an impressive computer system with eight monitors displaying constantly changing columns of figures and graph lines. She recalled Christos saying that Nicolo had built a career as a hugely successful financial trader. He owned a hedge fund company called Black Wolf Asset Management and was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the city.

He certainly did not appear to spend any of his fortune on clothes, Sophie thought, running her eyes over him. His long black waxed coat had seen better days, and his calf-length boots were scuffed. Curiously he wore a leather glove on his left hand only. If she had not recognised him from the newspaper photo she could easily have mistaken him for a gamekeeper, especially when he was accompanied by the hound from hell.

The dog was growling deep in its throat and the sound reverberated through Sophie’s body. Nicolo was standing by the desk, studying the various computer monitors, and did not look round even though he must have heard her enter the room.

‘Goodbye, Miss Ashdown,’ he said in a soft voice that held a definite hint of danger.

Sophie’s patience was wearing thin. ‘Mr Chatsfield …’

The wolfhound bared its teeth. Nicolo continued to ignore her, and Sophie wondered if he would be even mildly interested if the dog ripped her to shreds in front of him.

This was ridiculous. She could not begin to persuade Nicolo to listen to her while she was staring literally into the jaws of a savage beast which had its hackles raised and its black eyes fixed hungrily on her. Sophie’s only experience of dogs was her beloved Yorkshire terrier, Monty, who had been her childhood companion, but she was sure she had read somewhere that Irish wolfhounds were gentle giants with a friendly temperament. The dog’s gums were drawn back to reveal a worryingly sharp set of teeth. There was only one way to find out about its temperament. Steeling her nerve, Sophie walked across the room and held out her hand.

‘Hello, boy! You’re rather lovely, aren’t you,’ she said softly. She glanced at Nicolo’s broad back. ‘What’s his name?’

Madonna! Nicolo cursed beneath his breath. Although he had grown up in England, he often reverted to Italian—the language his mother had spoken to him as a child—at times of heightened emotion or when he was annoyed by something. Right now, the something was the woman who’d had the audacity to stroll uninvited, not only into his home, but into the private sanctum of his study.

He dragged his eyes from the monitor showing the FTSE 100 Index and glanced over his shoulder, astonished to see Sophie Ashdown stroking the dog’s head.

‘Dorcha,’ he muttered. ‘In Irish it means dark.’

‘Ah, I was right. He’s an Irish wolfhound, isn’t he?’

Nicolo grunted. In truth he was surprised by Sophie’s fearlessness. Most people who met Dorcha tended to back away from the hound the size of a pony. With his shaggy black coat and strong neck and jaw, Dorcha looked menacing, but as he was now proving, he was a big softie who loved to be made a fuss of. Any minute now the dog would roll over and let the woman tickle his stomach, Nicolo thought disgustedly.

‘He doesn’t really look like a wolf,’ Sophie commented.

‘The Irish wolfhound’s name originates from its use as a wolf hunter, not from its appearance. The breed was around in Roman times, and wolfhounds were used as guard dogs and for hunting wild boar and wolves.’

‘Well, I’m glad he doesn’t seem to want to hunt me.’ Sophie gave a cheerful smile as she stroked the dog’s rough coat, and Nicolo grudgingly had to admit that Christos Giatrakos’s PA was very attractive.

He frowned at the thought of the Greek usurper who his father had placed at the helm of the Chatsfield Hotel empire. He had not met Christos Giatrakos and had no intention of doing so. For the past eight years Nicolo had distanced himself from the Chatsfield and had told himself he was not interested in what happened to it, but his father’s decision to appoint an outsider as CEO had shown him that he did care about the family business.

It was more for his sister’s sake than his own. Lucilla had worked at the Chatsfield’s flagship London hotel for years, and she’d had every right to expect to take over from their father as head of the entire business empire. Understandably, Lucilla was angry and upset that she had been overlooked, and Nicolo felt a lot of sympathy for her. Hell, his older sister had done her best to hold the family together after their mother had abandoned them and their father had been busy sleeping with whichever chambermaid took his fancy. But instead of being given the top position she deserved in the company, Lucilla had been forced into second place and was expected to take orders from the new CEO.

Anger surged through Nicolo as he skimmed his eyes over Sophie Ashdown. How dare she walk in here from the enemy’s camp and assume that she would be welcome? Every aspect of her appearance infuriated him: her chic linen suit that bore the hallmark superb tailoring of a top designer, her long legs in sheer hose and the elegant stiletto heels that made her slender calves look even shapelier.

Her hair was a warm honey-gold colour. He wondered sardonically how many hours she spent in a hairstylist’s chair to achieve the glossy layers that rippled halfway down her back. Miss Ashdown looked as primped and pretty as a pampered show cat, and no doubt she was used to getting her own way by fluttering her ridiculously long eyelashes. In his younger, wild days he would have been attracted to her subtle combination of sexy sophistication and he would have wasted no time trying to persuade her into his bed. The knowledge filled Nicolo with self-disgust. He despised the man he had once been, and he hated being reminded of his past.

‘Dorcha—heel,’ he commanded, and was gratified when the hound immediately padded over to him. At least he could prevent the dog from making a fool of himself over a beautiful woman. He glanced at the computer monitors. There was a buzz of activity on the Asian markets and the Nikkei was up three hundred points. He wanted to be alone so that he could focus on the one thing he was good at, which was making money, and he resented the presence of his uninvited guest.

‘Perhaps you didn’t understand me, Miss Ashdown,’ he said as he strode across the room. ‘I’m not interested in the shareholders’ meeting, or in anything that your boss has to say.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder and spun her round, feeling faintly amused when her eyes widened in shock as he marched her over to the door. ‘Christos can go to hell for all I care. He has no right to be running the Chatsfield.’

‘Your father gave him that right.’

‘My father needs to see sense and put my sister in charge. Lucilla knows the business better than anyone, including Giatrakos.’

‘I understand your loyalty to your sister …’

‘You understand nothing,’ Nicolo growled. The soft expression in Sophie Ashdown’s hazel eyes was the last straw. For a split second he had felt an inexplicable urge to admit that he believed his father had betrayed the family by handing power over to an outsider. Nicolo was not a man who shared personal confidences even with his few close friends and he could not understand why he had been tempted to reveal his thoughts to a woman he had never met before.

Standing close to her in the doorway, he could smell her perfume, and immediately recognised it as the Chatsfield signature scent. The notes of cedarwood, bergamot and white rose, with a hint of lavender, evoked mixed emotions in him, reminding him of his early childhood when he had visited various Chatsfield Hotels around the world with his parents. To this day every Chatsfield Hotel was subtly scented with the perfume, diffused through the air conditioning and also reflected in the range of toiletries provided for the guests.

They had been happy times, Nicolo recalled. His parents had seemed devoted to each another, and he had grown up in the security of a stable family unit. But then it had all fallen apart. His mother had walked out and he had not seen her again. He had felt devastated and abandoned, and when he had discovered the truth about his father he had felt disgusted.

The familiar scent of Sophie Ashdown’s perfume mocked him. He did not want to think of the past, the things he had done, the regrets that ate away at his soul. He had found some measure of peace hidden away here with his computers and his work and he resented her intrusion of his privacy.

He steered her out of his study. ‘You managed to find your way into the house so I’m sure you won’t have a problem finding the way out again,’ he said sardonically.

A deep rumble of thunder made the hundreds of small panes of glass in the original Victorian windows tremble.

‘I’d get a move on if I were you, Miss Ashdown. The lane is prone to flooding when it rains and it’s a long walk back to the village if you get stranded.’

CHAPTER TWO

FOR THE SECOND time in the space of ten minutes Sophie found herself on the wrong side of the door to Nicolo’s study. Damn his stubbornness, she thought grimly, rubbing her shoulder where he had gripped her. She wouldn’t be surprised if she had a bruise there.

Christos had warned her that Nicolo would be no pushover and she would have to use all her powers of persuasion to get him to agree to attend the shareholders’ meeting. But so far she hadn’t even managed to talk to him. However, she had glimpsed a chink in his armour when he had mentioned his sister. He clearly believed that Lucilla should be CEO of the Chatsfield. If she could somehow assure him that Christos was prepared to listen to some of Lucilla’s suggestions for running the business, then perhaps he would agree to come to London for the all-important meeting.

The brief flare of emotion she had seen on Nicolo’s granite-like features reinforced Sophie’s determination not to give up. She just needed to try a different tack. If she went back into his study now she could guess what kind of reception she would get, but if she returned with a peace offering perhaps he would be more amenable and inclined to listen to her.

She walked back to the kitchen. It was lunchtime, and it seemed like a good idea to tempt Nicolo with some sandwiches. But she quickly discovered that the contents of the fridge consisted of a lump of out-of-date cheese and a couple of raw steaks. Investigation of the kitchen cupboards proved just as unsuccessful. Sophie was desperate for a cup of tea but she had to make do with preparing coffee in a cafetière, and from the back of a cupboard she unearthed a packet of biscuits which she placed on a tray and carried back to the study.

There was no response when she tapped on the door. Undeterred, she walked in and smiled brightly as she placed the tray on the desk in front of Nicolo.

‘I thought you might like some lunch but I couldn’t make any sandwiches because you don’t seem to have any food, apart from a couple of steaks in the fridge and half a dozen more in the freezer. I guess all that red meat is for Dorcha. What on earth do you eat for dinner?’

‘Steak,’ Nicolo growled, ‘cooked rare.’ His eyes narrowed on Sophie’s face. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Miss Ashdown? I told you to leave—not scavenge around in my kitchen.’

‘To be honest there wasn’t much to scavenge. And it would have been nice if you had offered me a cup of tea after I’d had a long drive here.’

‘It was your choice to come and not my problem that you had a wasted journey. I made my feelings about the goddamned shareholders’ meeting clear to Giatrakos.’

Sophie had drawn up a chair beside the desk, but before she sat down she reached for the cafetière. ‘I’ll pour, shall I?’ she said brightly.

‘Santa Madre!’ Nicolo exploded. ‘What part of get out of my house do you not understand, Miss Ashdown?’

‘I have no intention of leaving,’ she told him calmly.

‘In that case I am perfectly entitled to force you to leave.’ Nicolo jumped to his feet and strode around the desk, propelled by a surge of anger that surprised him with its intensity. For years he had stifled his emotions, determined that he would never again allow his temper to flare out of control. The scars covering one side of his body were a constant reminder of what he was capable of when he lost his temper, he thought grimly. Dio! But Sophie Ashdown had pushed him to his limit by barging into his home and disturbing his peace.

Sophie’s heart sank as she stared up at Nicolo’s furious face. His skin was drawn tight over his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes were no longer expressionless but were glinting with a warning that she was beginning to wish she had heeded. A purely feminine instinct noted that he had interesting eyes; the light brown irises were ringed with a distinctive band of olive-green and the unusual two-toned effect was strangely mesmerising.

She edged away from him and her spine came into sharp contact with the edge of the desk. It occurred to her that she should have told him she had his father’s permission to be at Chatsfield House, but she had kept that trump card to herself in case there was an occasion when it might be useful. The occasion was now, she realised. But before she could speak, Nicolo seized hold of her waist and, ignoring her startled cry, lifted her off her feet and hoisted her over his shoulder.

‘Hey—put me down….’ The room swung dizzily in front of Sophie’s eyes as he walked over to the door. She could feel her blood rushing to her head, but worse than the discomfort of her position was the loss of her dignity. She was outraged at being carried like a sack of potatoes.

‘How dare you!’ She curled her hand into a fist and thumped his back, but he took no notice and continued walking out of the study and across the hall to the kitchen.

Her handbag was on the worktop where she had left it. He picked it up. ‘Are your car keys in here?’

‘Yes. Put me down. I promise I’ll leave.’

‘You had your chance, Miss Ashdown.’ His tone was uncompromising.

It was difficult to breathe properly with her stomach squashed against Nicolo’s hard shoulder and Sophie could hear herself panting in time with his footsteps. She could not believe he was treating her like this. She kicked her legs wildly, hoping to force him to put her down, but he simply tightened his hold on her. His hand was splayed across her bottom to anchor her in place and she could feel the heat of his palm through her skirt.

To her shock, she felt a melting sensation between her thighs. She stiffened, horrified by the idea that she found Nicolo’s caveman tactics exciting. She was a well-educated professional with a business degree and an executive secretary’s diploma from the London Chamber of Commerce, she wanted to yell at him. He had no right to manhandle her!

He pulled open the front door and strode down the steps. The storm had broken and raindrops the size of coins pelted Sophie, quickly soaking through her blouse. She belatedly remembered that she had left her jacket in the kitchen, but even if Nicolo allowed her to run back for it, she could not contemplate going back into the house.

When he set her down on the driveway she was almost speechless with anger. Almost—but not quite.

‘You—you Neanderthal! I’ve a good mind to report you for assault.’ She clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering as a combination of shock at Nicolo’s actions and the sensation of being lashed by the increasingly heavy rain set in.

He folded his arms across his massive chest. ‘You are trespassing on my property and I am entitled to use reasonable means to eject you,’ he said coldly.

Sophie stared at his chiselled features and felt a dragging sensation deep in her pelvis. God, he was sexy! In his long black coat and boots he reminded her of a Regency rake from the historical romance novels she secretly enjoyed reading. She would never admit to the other members of the online book club she belonged to that she was a fan of so-called ‘bodice-rippers,’ or that she fantasized about being swept off her feet by a devilishly gorgeous hero.

She watched Nicolo sweep his long dark hair back from his brow and thought ruefully that a couple of centuries ago he was more likely to have been a highwayman. He certainly had a total disregard for rules and social niceties.

Christos would have to think of another way of persuading Nicolo to attend the shareholders’ meeting because she refused to remain at Chatsfield House a minute longer. Her hand shook as she scrambled in her handbag for her keys and unlocked the car. She was drenched and her skirt clung to her legs, making it awkward for her to slide behind the wheel.

‘Drive carefully,’ Nicolo advised. ‘Some of the sharp bends along the lane can be treacherous in the wet.’

She longed to slap the arrogant expression from his face, but there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes and her common sense prevailed.

‘Go to hell,’ she snapped as she slammed the door and started the engine. Seconds later the tyres spun on the wet gravel as she pressed the accelerator pedal and shot down the driveway. She glanced in the rear-view mirror, expecting to see Nicolo watching to make sure she left, but he was walking back into the house and did not look round.

Sophie drove as fast as the torrential rain and the terrible potholes in the lane allowed while she called Nicolo Chatsfield every rude word she could think of. She was still seething when she arrived in the village and pulled into the pub car park. But her anger was mixed with another emotion as she acknowledged the reality of the situation.

She had given up! Sophie Ashdown—who, as a teenager, had clung on to life with sheer determination, had been defeated.

She bit down on her lip. She hadn’t cried since she was sixteen and had caught sight of her bald head in the mirror. At the time, she had lost her hair because of the chemotherapy and had usually worn a woolly hat that her grandmother had knitted her—partly to hide her baldness and partly because the cancer made her feel cold all the time. Seeing her shiny scalp that day, instead of a mane of long blonde hair, had forced her to confront the seriousness of her condition and the frightening possibility that she might die.

She had cried for hours, alone in the isolation room where she was receiving treatment. It had seemed so unfair; she had so much to live for, so many plans. At the end of the crying jag, she’d had a puffy face and red eyes to go with her lack of hair. To her mind she was the ugliest person on the planet, no longer the pretty teenager she had once been. Sophie Ashdown did not exist anymore.

It had been the lowest moment of her illness. But it had also been a turning point. As Sophie had stared at her reflection in the mirror she had vowed that she would not let cancer steal everything she loved. It had taken her hair and her eyelashes and her pride; it had taken two of the friends she had made at the cancer unit. But she had vowed that she would not give up her life without a fight. Having cancer had made her develop a steely determination never to let anything beat her. And ten years on, that trait was an intrinsic part of her nature.

Why had she let Nicolo Chatsfield get the better of her? Sophie now asked herself as she stared at the faded sign of the King’s Head hanging over the entrance to the pub. She had played right into Nicolo’s hands. His outrageous behaviour had resulted in her swift departure from Chatsfield House exactly as he had intended. Now she was faced with returning to Christos and admitting that she had failed the task he had set for her—or she could turn the car around and drive back along the lane full of potholes.

The prospect of facing Nicolo again made her heart lurch. The sensible thing to do would be to head back to London and let Christos deal with Nicolo. But her pride rejected the idea. Nicolo had won the first skirmish, but the battle was far from over! Determination surged through her. Somehow, she was going to make him listen to her. However, before she returned to Chatsfield House she would need to shop for groceries. She could handle Nicolo’s bad temper, but the thought of eating the bloodied lumps of steak she had found in his fridge made her shudder.

Nicolo emerged from the copse at the edge of the Chatsfield estate and looked round for Dorcha, who was pawing at a rabbit hole.

‘Come on, dog,’ he called as he opened the garden gate and strode across the wet lawn. After spending hours sitting in front of his computer it felt good to get outside and expend some energy. The storm had passed, leaving an overcast sky in its wake that belied the fact that it was midsummer, but the dank atmosphere suited Nicolo’s grim mood.

Dorcha bounded ahead of him up the path to the kitchen door. The hound had been acting strangely all afternoon, pacing around the study and whining. Perhaps he had been unsettled by the presence of another person in the house. Nicolo frowned. Sophie Ashdown’s visit had been an annoying distraction, and even after he had got rid of her he had found it difficult to concentrate, which had proved disastrous when he had needed to be completely focused on the financial trading markets. The result was that he had lost several hundred thousand pounds. The money was not a problem; it represented only a tiny fraction of his wealth, but he rarely made bad decisions and he hated losing a deal.

It was all the fault of Christos Giatrakos’s goddamned PA, he thought irritably. The scent of Sophie’s perfume still lingered in his study, which was another reason why he had decided to go out and get some fresh air. He could not understand why her image lingered in his mind. She was attractive, admittedly, but he was no longer the crass idiot of his youth who had been at the mercy of his hormones and had lost count of the number of women he had bedded. He did not want to be reminded of the person he had once been, whose stupid exploits had frequently made the headlines and whose love life had provided fodder for the paparazzi.

Dorcha was barking madly and jumping up against the kitchen window. Maybe the dog had seen a mouse. Nicolo pushed open the kitchen door and stopped dead.

‘You, again!’ he said harshly. ‘For God’s sake, Miss Ashdown, can’t you take a hint? You’re not welcome here.’

‘Your dog is pleased to see me—aren’t you, boy?’ Sophie crooned as she made a fuss of Dorcha. ‘Can you smell your dinner?’ she asked the wolfhound. She glanced at Nicolo. ‘I’m cooking a steak for him and stuffed baked trout for us. You really shouldn’t eat too much red meat—it’s bad for your digestive system and is probably the reason you’re so grouchy.’

Nicolo’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’ No way was he going to admit that the aroma of warm trout was tantalising his taste buds. Truthfully, he was sick of eating steak every night, but he had not realised it until now.

‘I bought lots of fresh vegetables as well as store cupboard essentials,’ Sophie continued brightly. ‘The lady in the village shop said that you used to employ a cook, but since Mrs Pearson retired a couple of months ago you live here alone.’

‘I like being on my own,’ Nicolo said pointedly.

Sophie apparently did not hear him and prattled on. ‘Although the shop lady said you have a cleaner come in twice a week. I knew that anyway. Your cleaner is the farmer’s wife’s sister, isn’t she?’

‘I haven’t a goddamned clue who my cleaner is related to. How the hell do you know?’ Nicolo strode across the kitchen. ‘Dio, do you ever stop talking, Miss Ashdown?’ He swore beneath his breath. ‘What do you want?’

‘You know what I want. Christos asked me to talk to you—’

‘Perhaps he hoped you would bore me to death.’

‘—about the shareholders’ meeting.’ Sophie ignored his jibe. She turned her head and gave him a direct look that for some peculiar reason made Nicolo feel uncomfortable. ‘I’m simply trying to do my job,’ she said quietly.

Sophie stiffened as Nicolo strode towards her. ‘If you’re planning to use brute force to throw me out of the house again, I’d better warn you that I am perfectly capable of defending myself. It was just that you took me by surprise earlier.’

Nicolo skimmed his gaze over her petite frame. ‘I’m a foot taller than you. What do you intend to do—bite my ankles?’ he asked sardonically.

Sophie’s hazel eyes flashed dangerously and she folded her arms across her chest. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m a black belt in—in tae kwon do.’

It was true that she had never sparred with an opponent as physically imposing as Nicolo, but she wasn’t going to admit that to him. ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Mr Chatsfield.’

‘You’re hardly in a position to make a deal, Miss Ashdown.’

Despite himself, Nicolo was intrigued by Sophie. When he’d walked into the kitchen he had been shocked to find that she had returned to the house after their previous encounter. She had guts, he acknowledged grudgingly.

Irritatingly, he was also forced to admit that attractive did not adequately describe her classical beauty. She had changed into jeans and a plain white T-shirt. There was nothing remarkable about her clothes but he could not help noticing how the denim moulded her pert bottom and the clingy cotton shirt revealed the upwards tilt of her breasts. Her long hair was caught up in a ponytail, with a few feathery strands framing her face, and the transformation from sophisticated secretary to a look that was both wholesome and yet sexy stirred a purely masculine response in Nicolo.

‘What deal?’ he growled.

Sophie felt a surge of triumph that she seemed to be getting somewhere with Nicolo but she was careful not to reveal her satisfaction in her voice. ‘If you will allow me to stay and try to persuade you to attend the shareholders’ meeting, I’ll cook for you.’ She smiled. ‘Without wanting to boast, I’m a very good cook.’

Nicolo shrugged. ‘I have to warn you that you’ll be wasting your time, Miss Ashdown. I have no intention of being Christos Giatrakos’s puppet.’

‘All I’m asking is that you listen to me. Also, Christos wants me to stay for a few days and sort through some of the files that your father kept here.’

Sophie took Nicolo’s silence as agreement. ‘Which bedroom should I sleep in?’ she asked breezily. ‘As we are going to be housemates, maybe you could drop the Miss Ashdown and call me Sophie?’

‘Housemates!’ Nicolo’s eyes glinted. ‘Don’t push your luck—Sophie.’

Dio, he had never met a woman so determined to have her own way! For some inexplicable reason Nicolo’s eyes were drawn to Sophie Ashdown’s mouth. Her lips were soft and moist and temptingly kissable and he found himself imagining crushing her mouth beneath his own and kissing her until she was in no doubt that he was master of Chatsfield House.

Madonna, that was not a path he wanted to go down, he reminded himself. He had no interest in Christos Giatrakos’s ultra-confident, ultra-irritating personal assistant. He could physically evict her from the house again, but she would probably find a way of getting back in. She had proved herself to be surprisingly resourceful. His jaw tightened with irritation as he acknowledged that he would have to put up with her presence for a couple of days. Once she’d got the message that he would not change his mind about the shareholders’ meeting she would presumably take herself back to London.

‘You can use the room at the far end of the second-floor landing,’ he told her abruptly. ‘It has a good view of the Chiltern Hills from the window.’

‘Thank you,’ Sophie murmured. To her annoyance her voice sounded faintly breathless. She had noticed how Nicolo’s gaze had lingered on her breasts, and she prayed he could not tell that her nipples had hardened beneath her bra. She was supremely aware of his potent masculinity and dismayed by the subtle undercurrent of sexual tension that she sensed between them. The last thing she wanted was to be attracted to Nicolo Chatsfield!

Feeling flustered, she swung away from him and walked over to the range cooker. ‘If you need to carry on working in your study, I’ll call you when dinner is ready.’

He muttered something beneath his breath that to Sophie’s sharp sense of hearing sounded like ‘bossy madam.’ She could not tear her eyes from him as he shrugged off his leather coat, revealing a black silk shirt that moulded his muscular torso. He pulled the glove from his left hand and she gasped when she saw his discoloured skin. The scarring had the distinctive mottled appearance of a burn injury, covering his fingers and the back of his hand and disappearing beneath his shirtsleeve. Sophie wondered how far up his arm the scar went.

Her eyes flew to his face. Nicolo had stiffened at her reaction and his expression was shuttered so that she had no idea what he was thinking.

‘I couldn’t help noticing your hand,’ she said shakily. ‘Christos told me that you were badly hurt in a fire years ago at the Chatsfield.’

When he made no response she continued, ‘You saved someone’s life. The papers said you were a hero.’

Nicolo gave a harsh laugh and his mouth twisted in an expression of bleak bitterness that shocked Sophie.

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in newspapers,’ he said savagely. Spinning round, he strode out of the kitchen and across the hall to his study, closing the door behind him with a resounding slam that made Sophie wonder how the leaded-light windows had any glass panes left in them.

* * *

Hero! The word echoed inside Nicolo’s head, mocking him, taunting him. He sank down onto a chair and thumped his fist on the desk. Sophie did not know the truth. No one did, apart from his family. The newspaper reports about the fire in his father’s penthouse suite had only told half the story. They had said that the teenage Nicolo Chatsfield had saved the life of a chambermaid trapped in the fire—but he was no goddamned hero, Nicolo thought heavily. He had been a stupid, scared little boy. It had been he who had caused the fire. His father had managed to keep the facts from the media, but the terrible secret had hung like a weight around Nicolo’s neck for all of his adult life.

For many years he had buried the truth deep inside him and enjoyed the media spotlight, playing up to his reputation as the playboy hero. His life had been one long round of parties, champagne and a constant supply of beautiful women in his bed. He had not cared about anything other than his own selfish gratification. It was as if, after the months of suffering he had endured as his burns had slowly healed, it was somehow his right to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh that had experienced agonising pain.

For how long would he have continued to live a shallow, unprincipled life? Nicolo wondered. If the chambermaid Marissa Bisek hadn’t come to him eight years ago to beg him for financial help it was likely that he would still be a degenerate womaniser. The memory of the man he had been then filled him with shame. Dio, he had looked at the poor chambermaid, who had been horrifically scarred in the fire and yet was pathetically grateful to him for saving her, and his world had crumbled.

Faced with the evidence of his culpability, he had been forced to acknowledge he was not the hero that everyone, including Marissa, believed. The ugly scars covering his body were his punishment for his childhood crime. After meeting Marissa he had wanted to crawl away and hide beneath a stone like the worthless creature he was. But the chambermaid’s lack of self-pity shamed him further. He had realised that he had a choice. He could sit around feeling sorry for himself, or he could turn his life around and do something worthwhile.

And so he had set up a charity to help other burn victims, and for the past eight years he had devoted himself to raising funds for the charity. He wasn’t a hero, Nicolo thought bleakly, but he was doing his best to atone for the sins of his past.

For a moment he tried to imagine Sophie Ashdown’s reaction if he told her the truth about himself. No doubt she would be disgusted. She might even rush back to London to tell her boss that Nicolo Chatsfield had no moral right to be involved in the family’s hotel business.

Nicolo was impatient for Sophie to leave Chatsfield House, yet he could not bring himself to admit the truth to her. He did not want to risk seeing the same horrified expression in her eyes that he had witnessed when she had noticed the scars on his hand. He could only imagine her reaction if she ever saw the grotesque scars that covered one side of his chest. Beneath his clothes he had the body of a beast, and he was sure Beauty would recoil from him if he ever revealed his true self to her.

CHAPTER THREE

EVIDENTLY SHE HAD touched a nerve with Nicolo when she had mentioned the fire, Sophie mused. She only knew a few sketchy details about the incident that had happened almost twenty years ago. According to the newspaper report Nicolo had risked his life to save a member of the hotel staff from the blaze but he had been severely burned.

She had no idea why he had reacted so violently to her calling him a hero. He was a complicated man, she thought with a sigh.

She had not seen him since he had stormed into his study forty-five minutes ago. The trout had taken ages to bake in the old range cooker because Sophie had forgotten to change the thermostat to a higher heat setting. The delay had given her a chance to find the guest bedroom, unpack and take a quick shower, but now her stomach was protesting that it was hours since she’d eaten a couple of apples in the car on her journey to Buckinghamshire.

‘You’ve already had your dinner,’ she told Dorcha as the wolfhound nudged her with his big head. She could not resist the appeal in his liquid eyes and gave him another dog treat. ‘You’re gorgeous, and so friendly—not like your bad-tempered master.’

‘I’m hurt by your opinion of me,’ drawled a sardonic voice.

Sophie looked across the kitchen and flushed as Nicolo strolled through the door.

‘I don’t think you are. I don’t think you give a damn about anyone’s opinion of you,’ she said meditatively.

He gave a careless shrug that drew her attention to his broad shoulders. She guessed from his damp hair which fell past his collar that he had showered recently. He had changed out of jeans and boots into tailored black trousers and a white shirt with long sleeves that fell low over his wrists but did not completely hide his burned hand.

The ugly scars did not lessen the impact of his smouldering sensuality. His dark, brooding looks reminded Sophie of a Byronic hero from a nineteenth century novel. No wonder Heathcliff and Mr Rochester were regarded as archetypal sex symbols, she thought as she quickly looked away from Nicolo and took a deep breath to try and steady her racing heart.

There was an air of mystery about him, and the cynical half smile on his lips both repelled and attracted her. His arrogant, devil-may-care attitude threw out a challenge to women to try and tame him, but Sophie had a feeling that no woman ever would.

She busied herself with taking the trout from the oven and draining the potatoes over the sink. ‘I didn’t know if you usually eat in the kitchen or the dining room, and you weren’t around to ask,’ she said pointedly, ‘so I decided to lay the dining table.’ She picked up the plates of food. ‘Can you bring the salad?’

‘Are you always this bossy?’ Nicolo asked drily as he followed her.

‘I prefer the description “organised and efficient.” It’s why I’m good at my job. To be honest you could do with a bit more efficiency around here,’ Sophie told him. ‘The house is a mess inside, and outside it’s even worse. You can’t expect one cleaning lady to manage a house this size. Why don’t you employ more staff to take care of Chatsfield? I’m sure you can afford to. Christos said—’ She broke off when Nicolo frowned darkly.

He sat down opposite her at the dining table and leaned back in his chair, studying her from beneath heavy eyelids. ‘Christos said what?’

‘That you have made a fortune on the stock market. Obviously I can’t tell you how to spend your money …’

‘But I sense you are going to tell me anyway.’

She flushed at his sarcastic tone. ‘It seems a shame to let this grand old house fall to ruin. You grew up at Chatsfield, didn’t you? Surely you have happy memories of living here?’

‘A few, but I also have some not so happy memories.’

Sophie looked surprised. ‘I would have thought that living in a great big house with your brothers and sisters, and having the huge Chatsfield estate to play in and explore, must have been wonderful—running wild in the countryside, having picnics and coming home to your parents at the end of the day.’

‘It’s a nice fantasy,’ Nicolo said drily, ‘but my childhood wasn’t as idyllic as you seem to think. My parents weren’t around that much. My father was away in London running the Chatsfield Hotel business and my mother was—’ he hesitated ‘—unwell a lot of the time.’

He guessed depression was a form of illness. When he had been a young boy he had not understood the reason for his mother’s frequent crying bouts, or why she locked herself in her room and refused to see any of her children.

Memories resurfaced of him standing outside her bedroom, begging to be allowed in.

‘I want to see you, Mamma. I want to hug you, and then you will stop crying.’

‘Go away, Nicolo. Leave me alone.’

His mother’s rejection had hurt. He had thought perhaps he had done something wrong that had made her not love him anymore. Nicolo recalled how he had spent hours sitting on the floor outside his mother’s bedroom, because he had wanted to be near her.

‘So who took care of all the children in place of your parents?’ Sophie’s voice pulled Nicolo back to the present.

‘We had nannies. But none of them stayed for very long because our bad behaviour made them leave,’ he admitted wryly.

The baked trout was delicious, and for a few minutes Sophie concentrated on eating, but she was curious to learn more about her reluctant host.

‘What happened after you were burned in the fire?’ she asked tentatively, hoping he would not react angrily to her mentioning what had obviously been a traumatic event in his life. ‘Did your mother take care of you while you were recovering from your injuries?’

‘She wasn’t around by then.’ Nicolo’s jaw tightened as he relived memories that were still as raw as his burned flesh had once been. ‘My mother left the family when I was twelve years old. She did not know about the fire—or if she did hear she did not care about me enough to come and visit me during the many months I spent in a specialist burns unit.’

‘Oh, that’s awful.’ Sophie’s reaction was instinctively sympathetic. She knew from Christos that Liliana Chatsfield had walked out on her husband and children and had not been seen by any of the family again. Surely if Liliana had known her son had been badly burned she would have rushed to be with him?

The circumstances were different, but she understood what it felt like to be abandoned by a parent. True, she had remained in contact with her father after he had left. Her cancer had been in remission when James Ashdown had announced that he was leaving his wife and daughter to start a new life with his mistress. But Sophie had been devastated by her father’s decision. She could imagine the sense of rejection Nicolo must have felt when he had been lying injured in hospital and had desperately needed his mother.

‘You must have missed her,’ she said softly, ‘especially while you were in hospital.’

His expression was shuttered and Sophie had a strong sense that he disliked talking about his past.

‘She couldn’t have done anything to help,’ he said curtly. ‘I owe my recovery to the doctors and the nursing staff who looked after me. I didn’t need my mother fussing around me.’

Sophie found that hard to believe. She had certainly needed her mother’s support during her illness, and in a funny way her cancer had brought them closer together. While she had been growing up, her mother, Carole, had been busy with her career and Sophie had spent more time with her father. But when she had been diagnosed with cancer her mother had cut down on her work to be with Sophie while she was in hospital.

Had her father felt pushed out by the close bond that had developed between mother and daughter? Sophie wondered. Was that why he’d had an affair with another woman, which had ultimately broken up the family and broken Sophie’s heart?

She pushed the thought away and focused her attention on Nicolo. He had sounded dismissive of his mother, but Sophie sensed that he was adept at hiding his emotions and, in fact, had been deeply hurt by Liliana’s desertion and her failure to visit him when he had been injured.

‘How did the fire at the hotel start?’ she asked curiously.

‘I don’t know,’ he growled. ‘Why are you so interested? It was a long time ago. Trust me, Miss Ashdown, it is better to leave the past alone. I am growing impatient with you poking your nose into things that don’t concern you.’

Oh, dear, they were back to him calling her Miss Ashdown again. Clearly the slight thaw in Nicolo’s attitude towards her was over. Sophie regretted her curiosity. She had been trying to gain a better understanding of Nicolo but she’d hit a brick wall.

‘I’m just wondering why you are so opposed to helping restore the Chatsfield name to what it once was,’ she murmured. ‘The brand used to be synonymous with elegance and good taste, but that is no longer true. Frankly, every time the Chatsfield name features in the press it is usually followed by reports of scandalous behaviour by one of your siblings.’

Ignoring Nicolo’s deepening frown, Sophie continued, ‘It’s not surprising that your father wants to change the way the business is perceived. Gene is trying to do what is best for the Chatsfield. You might not understand the reason for some of his decisions but I truly believe he has acted the way he has because he loves his children and wants to help them. That is why he has appointed Christos as CEO. Because he thinks Christos can turn the hotel business’s fortunes around. But Christos needs the support of the shareholders—which means you. Surely, out of respect for your father, you should attend the shareholders’ meeting?’

‘My father is to blame for many of the company’s problems,’ Nicolo bit out. ‘It was his behaviour that first tarnished the Chatsfield name, and it was because of what he did that my mother …’

‘Your mother—what?’ Sophie broke the tense silence that had fallen. ‘And what did your father do? I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t need to understand.’ Nicolo scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘None of this is any of your concern.’

‘But you should be concerned,’ she said intently. ‘If you refuse to cooperate with Christos your father has threatened to disinherit you and withhold the allowance you receive from the Chatsfield family trust fund.’

‘I don’t give a damn about the bloody money.’ Nicolo put his hands flat on the table in front of Sophie and leaned in close so that she was forced to meet his glittering gaze. ‘Giatrakos was right about one thing. I’ve made a fortune on the financial markets. I don’t need handouts from my father and I don’t care what happens to the Chatsfield Hotel chain.’

‘But you do care about your brothers and sisters, and especially Lucilla,’ Sophie said intuitively. ‘You say you’re not interested in the Chatsfield, but Lucilla cares about it, and for her sake you should consider attending the shareholders’ meeting.’

‘It seems to me that the best way I can help my sister is to refuse to go along with what Christos wants. I have no problem with being a thorn in his side,’ Nicolo said harshly.

He trapped Sophie’s gaze and she felt swamped by the force of his powerful personality. ‘You’ve lost the argument, Miss Ashdown, and tomorrow morning you can trot back to your boss and tell him that my answer hasn’t changed. I will not be at the meeting.’

He moved abruptly away from the table and Sophie released her pent-up breath on a shaky sigh as she was freed from Nicolo’s magnetic spell. She was shocked by her reaction to him. While he had been leaning across the table her eyes had zeroed in on his mouth and she had found herself fantasizing about him slanting his lips over hers. Her instincts warned her he would not be a gentle lover. There was something faintly barbaric about the stern line of his mouth and she sensed his kiss would be fiercely passionate and mercilessly demanding.

No way was she interested in Nicolo, Sophie assured herself as she watched him stride out of the room. The men she dated were liberal, open-minded and completely comfortable with equality between the sexes—definitely not the kind of men who would haul a woman over their shoulder and carry her off in the manner of a primitive heathen.

She collected up the dinner plates and carried them out to the kitchen. As she loaded the dishwasher her thoughts returned to Nicolo, and she gave a rueful sigh. She doubted he had even heard of the term New Man. She was annoyed by her inexplicable fascination with him. It wasn’t as if she was looking for a man. She was no longer in love with Richard, but she could never forget the reason why he had ended their relationship and the hurt had not completely faded. Her inability to give Richard the family he wanted had made her feel deficient, and the sense of abandonment she had felt when he had broken off their relationship had brought back memories of how she had felt abandoned by her father.

Her attraction to Nicolo was simply sexual chemistry, Sophie reminded herself. She had no intention of giving in to the disturbing feelings he evoked in her. Dangerously sexy highway-men were fine in historical romance novels but they had no place in real life.

* * *

Sophie did not know what had woken her. For a moment she felt disorientated. The intense darkness in her room was thick and muffling, as only the darkness of the countryside was without the gleam through the curtains of car headlamps or street lights that polluted the night sky in towns and cities. The luminous dial on her watch showed that it was 3:00 a.m. From far away she heard a low rumble of thunder. Maybe that was what had disturbed her?

She settled back down on the pillows, but now that she was awake she was conscious of strange noises in an unfamiliar house. The tick of the grandfather clock on the landing seemed overly loud, and she prayed that the scrabbling sound from the wardrobe wasn’t a mouse. Her heart missed a beat as she became aware of another noise.

Someone was in her room!

She could hear heavy, panting breaths coming closer to the bed.

Tense with fear, she put out a hand and groped for the lamp on the bedside table. Her fingers came into contact with something hairy and she stifled a scream as she felt hot breath on her face.

Frantically she managed to locate the lamp switch and turned it on.

‘Oh, heavens! Dorcha!’ she gasped when she saw the dog. Relief flooded through her as the huge hound nuzzled her arm. ‘You terrified me. I thought …’

She had thought all sorts of stupid things. Only children were worried about ghosts and things that went bump in the night, Sophie acknowledged ruefully. ‘Go back to your basket,’ she instructed the wolfhound. ‘I’m going to try and get to sleep.’

But as she reached to turn off the lamp she heard loud shouts, followed by a dreadful groaning that chilled her blood.

It sounded as though someone, or something, was in terrible pain. The groaning came again and Sophie knew she had not imagined it. Apart from Dorcha, only she and Nicolo were in the house. Silence fell, and she held her breath. But then it came again, this time a cry of such raw agony that she could not bear it. Jumping out of bed, she did not waste time pulling on her dressing gown as she hurried out of her bedroom and along the landing.

She did not know where Nicolo’s room was, but the groans were coming from the far end of the corridor. Sophie hesitated outside the bedroom door as another desperate cry came from within, and it occurred to her that maybe a burglar had broken into the house and was attacking Nicolo.

Swallowing, she picked up a heavy pewter vase from the bureau and, gripping it tightly, she turned the door handle.

The moon was on this side of the house and it cast faint grey light through the chink in the curtains. Sophie could make out a shadowy figure lying on the bed, but there was no one else in the room. Nicolo gave a low cry that sounded as though it had been torn from his soul. What hellish place was his mind trapped in? she wondered as she stepped farther into the room.

‘Nicolo …’ she said softly.

‘Get out!’ He shouted harshly. ‘For God’s sake, go!’

‘All right, I’m going. I’m sorry.’ Sophie shot out of the door, hot-faced with embarrassment. Clearly she had been wrong and he hadn’t been asleep and dreaming. Heaven knew why he had been making those blood-curdling groans, but she wasn’t going to go back in and ask him.

She scuttled back along the landing, but his shouts followed her.

‘Get out! If we don’t get out, we’ll die.’

Nicolo was asleep, and having a nightmare, Sophie realised. She was reluctant to return to his room but his harrowing cries made her turn back.

This time she entered his room and walked across to the bed. As she drew closer she saw that he was lying on his back, one arm thrown across his face. In the moon shadow she could make out his long dark hair on the pillow.

‘Nicolo, wake up.’

He groaned again.

Desperate to rouse him, Sophie touched his shoulder. ‘Nicolo …’

She let out a startled cry when he suddenly gripped her wrist and gave a forceful tug. Caught off balance, she fell on top of him.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Nicolo—it’s me, Sophie.’

‘Sophie?’ His deep voice was slurred.

‘Sophie Ashdown—remember me? You’ve been dreaming….’

There was silence for a few moments. ‘I grew out of wet dreams a long time ago,’ he drawled finally. ‘This is no dream. You feel very real to me, Sophie.’

To Sophie’s shock he tightened his hold on her wrist and moved his other hand to the small of her back, pressing her down so that she was acutely conscious of his muscular body beneath her. Only the sheet and her nightdress separated them. Sophie could feel the hard sinews of his thighs. She caught her breath as she felt something else hard jab into her stomach. Nicolo was no longer caught up in a nightmare; he was awake, alert—and aroused.

She hurriedly reminded herself that it was a common phenomenon for males to wake up with an erection and it did not mean that Nicolo was responding to her in a sexual way. The same could not be said for her body, however.

‘For goodness’ sake, let me up,’ she said sharply, frantically trying to ignore the throb of desire that centred between her legs. To Sophie’s horror she felt a tingling sensation in her nipples and prayed that Nicolo could not feel their betraying hard points through the sheet.

The pale gleam from the moon highlighted the hard angles of his face and the cynical curve of his mouth. Trapped against him, Sophie breathed in the spicy tang of his aftershave. It was a bold, intensely masculine fragrance that evoked an ache of longing in the pit of her stomach. Nicolo was the sexiest man she had ever met and she was shocked by her reaction to his potent masculinity. ‘You were having a nightmare,’ she insisted. ‘I was trying to wake you. What other possible reason would I have for coming to your room in the middle of the night?’

She flung out a hand and by lucky chance found the switch on the bedside lamp. Nicolo blinked in the sudden brightness and his brows lifted in surprise when he saw the pewter vase in her other hand.

‘Were you were planning to do some flower arranging, or knock me out with that thing?’

Sophie flushed, wondering how she had forgotten she was holding the vase. ‘I thought you were being attacked by a burglar,’ she muttered.

‘And you came to defend me? I’m touched.’

The mockery in his voice was the last straw. Using all her strength, she jerked out of his grasp and slid off him.

Nicolo sat up, and the sheet slipped down his body. His sardonic smile faded when he heard her swiftly indrawn breath, and following her gaze he glanced down at his chest covered in mottled red scars that ran from his hip up to his neck.

His eyes narrowed as he saw Sophie recoil from him. ‘I apologise if my appearance revolts you,’ he said harshly. ‘Perhaps you’ll think twice in future about stealing into a stranger’s bedroom without invitation.’

She swallowed, desperately trying to disguise her shocked reaction to the sight of the terrible scarring that covered the left side of his torso and the whole of his arm.

‘I didn’t steal in here. I heard you shout out in your sleep and was concerned and came to wake you.’

He gave a grim laugh. ‘And you discovered a monster. I hope the sight of my ugliness doesn’t give you nightmares.’

‘You’re not a monster,’ Sophie said shakily. ‘I’m not revolted by your scars. But I hadn’t realised the extent of your injuries. You must have been in agony in the aftermath of the fire.’

Nicolo instinctively rejected the sympathy he could see in her hazel eyes. He despised pity. In the almost two decades since he had been burned, countless women had seen him naked. He had grown used to witnessing the horror in their eyes when they saw his scars and he told himself he did not give a damn that Sophie looked sickened by the sight of his damaged body.

‘I don’t want your concern,’ he growled. ‘I suggest you get out of my room before the sight of you in your very fetching night attire makes me forget that I’m a gentleman.’

His mocking taunt reminded Sophie that she was only wearing a peach satin nightdress. Her nightwear was not especially revealing, but the gleam in Nicolo’s eyes made her feel as if she’d shimmied into his room wearing nipple tassels and a thong! Flushing, she crossed her arms defensively over her breasts.

‘If you were a gentleman you wouldn’t have thrown me out of the house like a bag of rubbish,’ she said tightly. She marched over to the door, but the memory of his desperate groans during his nightmare made her hesitate. ‘Do you need anything to help you sleep?’

His low, sexy laugh sent a frisson of awareness through Sophie. ‘What did you have in mind, Miss Ashdown?’

‘A mallet,’ she said through gritted teeth, and stalked out of the room before she gave in to temptation and hit him over the head with the pewter vase.

After Sophie had gone Nicolo switched off the bedside lamp and stared into the darkness, trying to clear his mind of the remnants of his dream. His nightmares were not so frequent now, unlike the months and years following the fire when he had suffered almost nightly flashbacks.

Sophie had been right to guess that his injuries had been agonising. It was impossible to explain the intense pain of third-degree burns that turned flesh into raw, weeping wounds, or the gut-wrenching agony of surgical dressings being changed. He had been in hospital for months and had undergone several skin grafts. Even after he had been allowed home he’d had to wear compression bandages and take high doses of antibiotics to prevent his burns becoming infected, as had happened to his friend Michael.

Nicolo closed his eyes and pictured the smiling face of the young man who had been a fellow patient at the specialist burns unit. Michael Morris had been amazingly cheerful, despite having suffered burns to eighty per cent of his body. He had been Nicolo’s inspiration. But Michael had developed an infection and septicaemia and his sudden, shocking death had plunged the thirteen-year-old Nicolo into the depths of despair. He had cried like a baby when one of the nurses had told him that Michael had died.

Muttering a curse, Nicolo sat up, switched the lamp back on and picked up a book from the bedside table. Goddamn Sophie Ashdown, he thought grimly. Her arrival had unsettled him and her curiosity about the fire had opened a door in his mind that he usually kept bolted shut.

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