The al Maktabi brothers

Kings of the desert…Masters of the bedroom!

Razi al Maktabi

This prince has two passions: business and women. His playboy days might be numbered when duty beckons, but there’s always time for one final fling! As he takes the Phoenix throne, Razi will work the same magic on the Isla de Sinnebar as he has on every woman of marriageable age—but what happens when he finds out he’s going to be a father?

Ra’id al Maktabi

Twice as dangerous, Razi’s older brother sits on the Sapphire throne of Sinnebar. Scarred inside and out, Ra’id is a powerhouse of strength and command. He rules his heart like his country—with an iron will.

Now one woman is about to come between him and his throne!

Find Ra’id ruling in April 2010 Mills & Boon® Modern™ Romance!

Razi felt a surge of heat and triumph—not that the final outcome had ever been in any doubt.

Lucy had needs and he had urges. It was a match that would last for precisely one night. He’d leave her happy, but he’d leave. His playboy life was over. Duty beckoned, and he was ready to serve.

He smiled as she came shyly towards him, all buttoned up and ready to be undressed. He’d serve Lucy Tennant, and then he’d serve Isla de Sinnebar with the same focus and energy—though for a lifetime rather than a single night.

Susan Stephens was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern™ Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday, and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)

Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an after-dinner auction. One of the lots, ‘Spend a Day with an Author’, had been donated by Mills & Boon® author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.

Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel, and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks, and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside. Visit Susan’s website: www.susanstephens.net—she loves to hear from her readers all around the world!

Susan Stephens also writes for Modern™ Romance—look out for Ra’id al Maktabi’s story, coming soon!

Ruling Sheikh, Unruly Mistress

By

Susan Stephens

MILL & BOON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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PROLOGUE

‘DARKER than night and twice as dangerous’ was how the magazine he’d snaffled from his secretary’s desk referred to the al Maktabi brothers. Razi al Maktabi replaced it with a wink at the only woman who knew how he took his coffee.

Razi’s lips were still curving when he shut his office door. The media was struggling for dirt on him, apparently. Coming to a halt in front of a wall of windows, he placed his first call. While he waited for it to connect he studied a gunmetal slice of the Thames, where the never-ending action soothed him. Across the river, in what felt like touching distance from his penthouse, stood the Houses of Parliament, while behind him was the sleek cocoon of the CEO of Maktabi Communications, a company he had driven to international prominence. Ahead of him lay the Phoenix throne of the Isla de Sinnebar, but before he assumed the duties of his desert kingdom he was calling one last reunion.

The magazine article had got some things right, Razi reflected as the telephone droned in Lord Thomas Spencer-Dayly’s Gloucestershire mansion. Razi’s elder brother, Sheikh Ra’id al Maktabi, was every bit as hard as the journalist supposed and with good reason. Their father had sown enough wild oats to seed the whole of the American Midwest and there were numerous pretenders to Ra’id’s Sapphire throne.

This went some way to explaining why Ra’id ruled mainland Sinnebar with a rod of iron, earning him the sobriquet ‘The Sword of Vengeance’ by those who liked a lick of Hollywood with their sheikh. The journalist had left one thing out. Razi would die for the brother who had made his childhood bearable, and who had fought for him to share the same rights Ra’id enjoyed as their father’s legitimate son…

Razi’s face lit as the voice of his closest friend came on the line.

‘What’s up, bad boy?’ Tom growled, sounding as if he had just climbed out of bed.

Razi outlined his proposal.

‘The press turning up the heat?’ Tom suggested with amusement.

‘They don’t bother me. I’m more interested in us taking one last break before I assume control.’

The air between London and Gloucestershire stilled. Both men knew the seriousness of the task awaiting Razi. The moment he was hailed ruling Sheikh of the Isla de Sinnebar, Razi would immerse himself in caring for his people. ‘It’s a task I relish, Tom.’

‘I know…I know.’

Tom had his serious side too, but today was all about lifting his best friend’s mood. ‘I can’t pick up a newspaper without seeing your ugly face staring back at me,’ he complained. ‘I’ve got the morning press right here.’

Razi’s lips tugged with amusement. Brought to Tom’s suite of rooms having been ironed first by his butler, no doubt.

‘Here’s just one example…’

Furious rustling ensued as Tom attempted to tame the broadsheets. ‘Can the playboy prince work the same magic on the Isla de Sinnebar as he has on Maktabi Communications.’

‘I’ve heard it, Tom,’ Razi interrupted good-naturedly.

‘They say you’re a danger to women everywhere.’

‘Business is my passion,’ Razi cut across Tom flatly. And now he would turn those skills to the management of a country.

‘And the women?’ Tom pressed, not ready yet to let him off the hook.

‘I have a vacancy.’ And could be as dangerous as any woman wanted him to be.

Tom laughed. ‘That shouldn’t take long to fill. This journalist describes you and Ra’id as educated muscle.’

‘Yes, I rather liked that,’ Razi admitted, succumbing to Tom’s good mood with a grin. ‘Doesn’t it go on to say we’ve proved ourselves to be fighters and lovers of unparalleled vigour?’

‘Was the woman talking from personal experience?’

‘Hang on while I rack my brain for memorable encounters with someone audacious enough to take notes while I made love to her.’

Tom laughed and read on. ‘It’s Razi al Maktabi’s unforgiving gaze and striking physique, clothed in misleadingly sedate Savile Row, that gives him the edge, in the opinion of this writer.’

Razi’s looks were the result of a union between the Middle East and middle England, but even he would admit they were unusual. Emerald eyes contrasted sharply with the jet-black hair and deep bronze complexion of his Bedouin ancestors, and it was said he had the eyes and lips of the courtesan who had bewitched his father.

The same courtesan who had dumped him in the arms of whichever child-care professional court officials had seen fit to appoint. But that was another story. He’d moved on. He wasn’t interested in looking back, breaking hearts or taking revenge. On the contrary, he adored women. His love for them had remained undiminished throughout numerous attempts to trap him into marriage. As had his determination never to be tied down.

‘Enough,’ Razi exclaimed as Tom started reading another article about him. ‘Are you coming skiing with me or not?’

As he might have predicted Tom embraced his suggestion with enthusiasm. The ski company was a small part of Razi’s business empire and he kept it for pleasure rather than gain, moving to a different chalet each year, both to test them for his guests and to keep the press guessing. Was there any better way of celebrating life, loyalty and friendship before the duties and responsibilities of ruling a country ruled him than this one last trip into the mountains?

Tom gave a short, masculine laugh. ‘Though we’ll have to put a bag over your head if we’re to get any peace from the ladies.’

‘With you and the rest of the boys around I’ll blend into the crowd.’

‘Really?’ Tom murmured dryly.

‘This is a boys-only trip. There won’t be a woman in sight.’

‘With you involved I find that hard to believe,’ Tom argued in the upper-class drawl that always made Razi smile. ‘How do you intend keeping them away?’

‘That’s your job, Tom.’ He was lapping up this return to the easy humour they’d shared as boys at school and then later in the special forces. ‘You always were my first choice of wing man. Just watch my back.’

‘And if it’s a frontal attack?’

Razi’s lips settled in a smile of happy anticipation at the thought of all the beautiful women in the world waiting to be adored. ‘In that case, Tom, wait for my signal.’

Chapter One

SHE had the list of this week’s guests clutched so tightly in her hand her knuckles had turned white.

‘Hey, Luce, what’s the problem?’ demanded Fiona, another member of the elite chalet staff as she snuck out of the chalet Fiona’s usual good half-hour early. ‘You look like you got some troublesome guests coming to stay.’

‘No particular problem,’ Lucy Tennant replied distractedly over Fiona’s hearty laugh, glancing deep into the flames of the aromatic pine log fire Lucy had lit earlier. Was it only minutes before she had been feeling on top of the world? Shouldn’t she still be feeling elated? She had just opened a letter explaining she had been voted top chalet girl both by her colleagues and by her employers and it was the first time she’d won anything, let alone an acknowledgement that meant so much to her. But along with that letter had come this list itemising the preferences of that week’s guests, and for some reason, having read it, her confidence had shrunk to the size of a pea.

Tom Spencer-Dayly: no special requests.

Sheridan Dalgleath: Porridge made with salt, plenty of single malt to drink and any beef served must be Aberdeen Angus.

William Montefiori: Only fresh pasta, never dried, please.

Theo Constantine: Good champagne—lots of it. One other:

It was the world of white that yawned after the fateful words One other that had got to her. For some reason it had sent a shiver down her spine. There was also an addendum to let Lucy know that two bodyguards would be travelling with the party, one of whom, Omar Farouk, would be housed on the top floor, while the second, Abu Bakr, would take the small bedroom opposite the ski room.

The clients must be people with serious connections, Lucy reasoned, hence the unusual level of security and her apprehension. She had to remind herself that she’d seen it all before. Each week head office sent her the same standard form detailing the needs and expectations of the new arrivals and she always felt a little anxious, wanting not just to meet expectations, but to exceed them.

But she had never felt as uneasy as this before, Lucy realised, checking each line again. The list was quite straightforward. Which should have been enough to stop the shivers running up and down her spine, but wasn’t.

To calm her nerves she reasoned things through. This was one of the most expensive rental chalets in one of the most expensive ski resorts in the world. She was hardly a stranger to wealthy people, their needs, or the entourages that travelled with them. In fact, compared to most, this group appeared small and quite reasonable in their demands. Experience suggested a group of men would be mad keen to be on the slopes every daylight hour so she’d hardly see them, other than at mealtimes. Their main requirement would be lots of good food, plenty of hot water and clean towels and a never-ending supply of liquid refreshment when they got back to the chalet. With brothers of her own, it wasn’t long before she was starting to feel a lot more confident.

They would almost certainly be public-school educated, Lucy mused, studying the names again. So one man preferred to remain anonymous—there could be any number of reasons why that should be and none of them her business.

Stroking back a wisp of honey-coloured hair, she realised it was the note scrawled in ink on the bottom of the page that set alarm bells ringing: ‘If anyone can cope with this group, Lucy, we know, you can—’ Translated loosely, that said she was less likely to make a fuss if the clients were more demanding and difficult than usual, because Lucy Tennant was not only a highly qualified cordon bleu chef, but a quiet girl, a good girl, a girl who took pride in her job managing the company’s most prestigious chalet, someone who worked diligently without complaint. Her line manager knew this. So why did she get the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling her?

She shook herself round. Time was moving on. With Fiona’s social life making heavy demands on Fiona’s working hours, there was always plenty of work at the chalet for Lucy. But the crystal-clear alpine light was streaming in, tempting her outside…

Pushing back the quaint, carved chair, she went to draw the cherry-red gingham curtains a little way across the ecru lace to stare out wistfully. It seemed such a shame to close out the perfect mountain day, but if she didn’t she’d never get to work.

Work had always been enough for her—and working here, where she could almost taste the freedom of the mountains, the silence, the space, the intoxicating air.

And the loneliness…

Working here was fantastic, Lucy thought fiercely, blotting out the rest. A pang of loneliness was inevitable in a chic French town where everyone seemed to be part of a couple. She’d always known she would be on the outside looking in. It was a small price to pay to be part of so much energy and fun. Shy, plump and plain was never going to be a recipe for non-stop action in a community where glamorous, confident people revelled in using their bodies to the full—and not just for skiing. But she could cook for them and she could make a chalet cosy and welcoming, which had always been reward enough.

And one day my prince will come, Lucy mused wryly, fingering the tiny silver shoe she wore for luck around her neck—though whether he’d notice her amongst so many beautiful, sleek, toned bodies seemed highly unlikely.

‘See ya—’

The front door slammed and moments later she saw Fiona throwing her arms around the neck of her latest conquest.

Lucy pulled back from the window, knowing the snow scene and towering mountains with spears of brilliant light shooting through their jagged granite peaks were just a magical starting point. What she really valued was the good-natured camaraderie of her colleagues and the guests who gave her real purpose in life. Everything she lacked at home in the bosom of a relentlessly book-bound family living in the centre of a smoky, noisy city was here in this part-tamed wilderness of unimaginable icy splendour.

She loved books too, Lucy reflected, dipping down to look inside the fridge, but she liked to put what she read into practice, to experience things in reality. That was why she was here in a picturesque corner of an alpine village with a stream gurgling happily outside the pitched-roof wooden chalet, feeling reassured by the sight of the delicious local cheeses, along with the milk and cream she had sourced from the neighbouring farms. She still found it hard to believe that little Lucy, as her brothers still insisted on calling her, could negotiate the best of terms with local artisan producers, or that she held such a position of responsibility as a chalet chef for the ski season with the top company in Val d’Isere.

But she had paid her dues, Lucy remembered wryly, logging the items she would need to order for the week ahead before closing the door. She had come to France from a top restaurant in England where she had worked her way up from the bottom to the point where she received praise, as well as that all important reference, or lettre de recommendation, from Monsieur Roulet himself. Catering for demanding clients would never be easy, but she loved the challenge of the work as well as the opportunity it had given her to break free from her brothers’ shadow.

Lucy’s six brothers all excelled in areas her mother and father valued far more than cooking and it saddened Lucy to know she had never found a way to please her parents. Her self-respect had taken a real hit on the day her mother had alarmingly confided that they didn’t know what to do with a girl—especially one who cooked. Her mother had said this as if a passion for cooking were somehow degrading for a woman, and when she had added in her airy, distracted way that it was better for Lucy to stay close to home and cook for her family where there was no chance of getting herself into trouble, Lucy had known it was time to leave.

Get herself into trouble? Some hope!

Lucy’s wry smile returned. Her mother would no doubt applaud the irony that led men to treat Lucy as though she were their kid sister. At least she had escaped from other people’s expectations of her, and thanks to her own endeavours, had the chance to discover who she was. She knew she wanted to make a difference in life and if that meant giving people pleasure with her cooking then she asked for nothing more.

Her breakout moment from home had been the first time in her life she’d done anything unexpected. She had been prepared to wash dishes for however long it took until she could persuade Monsieur Roulet to take her on, and had been amazed when the ferocious chef had granted her one of his sought-after training places, and even more surprised when her training had finished and he’d said she should see something of the world and that he would personally recommend her. Not wanting to disappoint the man who had launched her career, she had come up with an audacious plan to cater a dinner party for the director of one the world’s most celebrated chalet companies. It was such a novel approach the woman had accepted and the rest was history. Lucy had returned home that night in triumph, and had sat patiently through the usual heated academic discussion taking place around a dinner table littered with dirty plates. Each time a break had come in the conversation she had tried to explain her exciting news, but her mother had hushed her and turned back to the boys, so Lucy’s opportunity to share her happiness had never come. She still wasn’t sure anyone had noticed her heaving her suitcase out of the house.

Enough reminiscing! She’d lose the job she loved if she didn’t get moving! Fiona leaving early meant there were still beds to be made and floors to be swept and washed, but at least the food was ready. In fact, if it weren’t for Mr One Other making her heart judder with apprehension she’d have a happy day ahead of her, doing all the things she liked best.

Razi scrunched the letter in his fist. It had been couriered to the helicopter taking him from Geneva to Val d’Isere and made him want to grab the old guard in Isla de Sinnebar by the collective throat and tell them, No way!

But that would mean cancelling this trip.

He barely noticed the sensational landscape of icecapped peaks. Promised in marriage to a cousin he had never met? He realised his throne was the real prize—and not just the throne of Isla de Sinnebar. From his kingdom it was a short stride across the channel to the mainland and Ra’id’s throne. But if anyone thought they could turn him against his brother—

His anger turned to cold fury as he ripped open the package that accompanied the letter. In his hand was a photograph. He studied the image of a beautiful young girl. She was his distant cousin Leila, apparently. Leila’s long black hair was lush, but her eyes were sad. She was as beautiful as any girl he’d ever seen, but he felt nothing for her. It was like looking at a beautiful painting and registering the perfection of its composition without wanting to hang it on his wall.

‘Poor Leila,’ he murmured, feeling some sympathy for a girl who clearly understood she was being used as a bargaining counter by her unscrupulous relatives.

Wrapping up the picture in its silken cover, he stuffed it into the net at the side of his seat. He would not be trapped into marriage by parent, child, or a council of elders. When he married, it would be to a girl of his choice; a girl so cool, so keenly intelligent and effortlessly sophisticated, she would make a Hollywood movie star look clumsy.

Disaster! She’d spilled everything! Canapés littered the floor. The floor was awash with champagne. One man was mopping his jeans, while Mr One Other stared at her, frowning.

Even her training under the strictest of chefs could never have prepared her for her first encounter with the mysterious One Other. Tall, bronzed and serious about working out, he was a formidable force in the room and in the space of a condemning glance had reduced her to a dithering wreck.

Everything ruined in the blink of an eye. She would be sacked for this. Lucy’s eyes welled with tears at the thought. She had planned so carefully, getting up at four to prepare the chalet and start cooking for the new guests.

She had left nothing to chance. There was a log fire blazing in the hearth, and fresh flowers she had arranged herself to bring the delicate fragrance of the French countryside into a chalet so clean you could eat the cordon bleu feast she had created off the lovingly polished oak floors. The menu she had devised encompassed every delicacy she could think of to tempt the palates of sophisticated men. Those men were currently lounging on the sofa, their faces registering varying degrees of surprise at her ineptitude, while the man in the shadows, the man who had compelled her attention from the moment she left the kitchen, gave off an impression of biting reproof. Her lovingly prepared tray of canapés was upturned in a puddle of vintage champagne and she had not only knocked the tray off the table when her gaze had locked with his, but had sprayed the designer jeans of a man whom, apart from the striking good looks he shared with his companions, she had barely noticed at all. Her attention had been wholly focused on the stranger staring at her now, and in holding that stare she had caught the toe of her shoe beneath the rug and had blundered forward.

How could a man standing in shade give off so much light? How could green eyes burn so fiercely? How could a man framed by four astonishingly good-looking friends eclipse them completely?

Breaking eye contact with him, she determinedly shook herself back to the task in hand. She had worked hard for this job and had no intention of losing it in the space of one compelling stare. ‘My apologies, gentlemen—if you will allow me to, I will quickly repair the damage—’

Then He stepped forward, blotting out the light. ‘Don’t you think we should complete the introductions first?’

There was no warmth in his voice. That was not a suggestion, but an order, she concluded, quickly trying to collect the crushed canapés from the floor. ‘Yes, sorry—’ She looked up, only to find her gaze level with a part of him that shocked her rigid. Jerking her head up past the heavy belt securing his jeans, and on over the tactile dark blue top he wore with the sleeves pushed back revealing muscular arms, she saw a face of impossible design, a face so strong and beautiful she could have stared at it for ever. He had wild, thick, blue-black hair that caressed his chiselled cheekbones and fell in heavy waves across his proud, smooth brow, while some of it had caught on sideburns that mingled with the night-dark stubble on his face.

Wow, she thought silently, standing up.

Wow again. One Other was a mountain of a man, a man with hard green eyes and an uncompromising mouth. She didn’t need to be told that he was the lead guest, and not just the lead guest, but the leader of the pack. The man with the voice like bitter chocolate was the man she had to please or lose her job. No wonder he came with a not so subtle warning, she thought, remembering the scrawled note from her manager on that week’s guest list.

She was still standing speechless when the kind man called Tom came to her assistance. ‘And this is Lucy,’ he announced smoothly.

Having introduced her, Tom stepped back.

Chapter Two

RAZI took in the trail of collapsed canapés on the floor, and yet more crushed in the girl’s hands. Being ever the gentleman, Tom was being careful to hide his thoughts, but it was clear to him that the blushing, flustered girl currently hopping from foot to foot in front of him wasn’t up to the job. She had gone to pieces like her canapés, spilling expensive champagne all over the floor as well as over William Montefiori’s jeans.

‘It’s nothing,’ William murmured, with relaxed charm, easing away from the promise of more disaster. ‘I’ll go and change.’

Razi was not so forgiving. His thumb was already caressing the speed dial to his personal chef.

‘Allow me,’ his friend Theo cut in with a predictably wolfish smile. Removing the cloth from the girl’s hands, Theo proceeded to hold her troubled stare as he dabbed ineffectually at the puddle of champagne.

‘For goodness’ sake—’ Razi’s whiplash tone prompted Tom to snatch the cloth from Theo and repair the damage as quickly as he could. Razi doubted either of them had ever held a cleaning cloth in their life and wouldn’t be doing so now if they hadn’t some intention of getting into the girl’s knickers. As for the girl, she was too badly shaken up to do anything—shaken up by what, exactly, he’d find out later.

‘Lucy,’ Tom repeated discreetly in his ear. ‘Lucy Tennant, our chef and chalet girl.’

‘Lucy…’ His friends faded into the background. The girl was visibly trembling. He saw how young she was then and flashed a reprimanding glance at Theo. The girl was not only unused to such an imbalance of female hormones and testosterone she was terrified of losing her job.

‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’

In her favour, her voice was musical, her stare direct, but that was no excuse for ineptitude. He employed the best across his organisation; only the best.

‘Lucy won the chalet girl of the year award,’ Tom broke in helpfully.

‘Thank you, Tom,’ he murmured in a voice that clearly said, Not now. Tom’s soft heart was one thing, but he was conscious of how slender a thread his leisure time hung on and how soon this last ski-break indulgence would end. When he looked at the girl he was working out how much incompetence he was prepared to put up with before he ordered in his own staff and they took over.

‘And you are?’ she asked tentatively, her cheeks pinking up as she made a last stab at maintaining the formalities.

He looked at Tom for inspiration.

‘Mac?’ Tom suggested with a shrug.

‘Mac,’ the girl repeated shyly.

Their gazes remained locked and her grip was warm and firm as they shook hands, though she removed her hand from his faster than he would have liked. The report he’d received about her said she was self-possessed, calm, intelligent, organised, multilingual and a cordon bleu chef. The last two he had no proof of yet—strike the rest.

Then she surprised him.

‘Once again, I apologise,’ she said, almost literally shaking herself round. ‘I hope the accident won’t spoil your enjoyment of the meal I have prepared.’

‘Not at all,’ Tom chipped in, falling silent when Razi shot him a warning stare.

But something did smell good. ‘What’s on the menu?’ he demanded.

She brightened and immediately proved to be one of those people who could deliver a menu and make the palate sing with greedy anticipation.

‘Freshly made French onion soup topped with a slice of Parmesan baguette, followed by crispy duck breast in a fruit reduction, with a chocolate torte and cinder-toffee ice cream to follow.’

‘I say,’ Tom exclaimed, while his other friends sighed happily, prepared to forgive her anything now. Even Razi was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. If Lucy could deliver what she’d promised she could stay with his blessing too.

‘Tom,’ he said, still staring deep into Lucy’s complex turquoise gaze, ‘would you kindly ring the chalet company?’ In spite of Lucy’s calm, sweet voice, tumultuous thoughts were still boiling behind her eyes. With his last words that tumult had turned to panic. She was certain he would not give her another chance, and she looked utterly devastated. It was then he came to a decision that surprised even him. ‘Would you tell them we don’t need any more staff hanging round? But we’d like Lucy to stay—Abu and Omar can handle anything else we require.’

She slumped with relief, but then another thought must have occurred to her because the panic was back.

‘You’ll be quite safe with us,’ he promised dryly as she took a jerky step away from him. ‘We’re here to ski.’ His lips tugged. ‘You’ll hardly see us.’

She swallowed deep. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said awkwardly, her cheeks blooming a deeper shade of scarlet.

You may go, he might have said at this point, had they been in the old palace on the Isla de Sinnebar, but this was both a different and more complex situation. Lucy worked for him and yet this situation demanded more of them both. The intimacy of a chalet was very different from life in a palace. She’d put her own stamp on the chalet, he noticed—personal touches. There were fresh flowers on the table, and fruit that looked as if it had been picked that morning. Cakes and biscuits, still warm from the oven, tempted with their delicious aroma, and there were books and a couple of decks of cards. He liked being spoiled—what man didn’t? She had done everything she could think of to make them welcome. Certainly, she could stay.

Seeing she was still uncomfortable after her bad start, he asked her discreetly, ‘Would you like me to call Omar and Abu to help you?’

‘Oh, no,’ she exclaimed, her eyes widening with a genuine desire to please that turned up the heat from hot to scorching. While he was admiring pearl-white teeth he could so easily imagine nipping him in passion she was glancing across the large, open-plan sitting room to her much smaller kitchen area. ‘I don’t mean to be difficult,’ she explained, ‘but my cooking space is very small—’

‘And you prefer to do things your way?’ he suggested, inhaling her wildflower scent. It was a surprise to be so attracted to such subtle charm, but then novelty was the most valuable currency of all to men who had everything.

‘I love my work, and I’m not very good at having people interfere.’

‘Really?’ A smile creased his face. ‘Than I shall be sure to keep everyone away from you.’

‘You’re teasing me,’ she said uncertainly.

‘Am I?’

She blushed deeply. ‘I’m sorry for what happened just now—’

‘Forget it—start again,’ he encouraged, enjoying the sight of her blue eyes blazing as she assured him she would. ‘You’ve got five hungry men to feed.’

Her eyes flickered as she glanced at his friends. Her expression said she had forgotten them.

He could hardly blame her for that, when so had he.

She started by preparing a fresh tray of canapés—something fast and delicious—and was stunned when Mac joined her at the stove. The space was small and he took up most of it. He was cool and she was hot. She picked up the tray and gripped it tightly so he couldn’t see her hands were shaking.

‘Don’t bother warming them up.’

‘It will only take a minute and I promise you they’ll taste better.’ Confident where her food was concerned, she only wished that confidence could stretch into her everyday life—if it had she might even have been able to hold the stare of a man to whom disagreement was clearly something new, and humour his constant companion. ‘I’ll just flash them under the grill,’ she told him in her most professional voice. ‘Excuse me, please.’

He stood back.

But he was too quick for her and stole one off the tray, biting into it with relish.

‘These get better when they’re warm?’ he demanded with surprise.

‘Yes, they do taste better warm,’ she assured him, growing enough in confidence to block his route to the grill before he could eat the rest. The desire to please him was dangerously strong. The sight of his sweeping ebony brows rising in genuine appreciation for her food was like receiving an award ten times over. Plus she was relieved. She had a suspicion that if she failed to please Mac his authority over the other men would leave her with an empty chalet.

‘So, tell me how you made them,’ he demanded, aiming that disturbingly intense green gaze into her eyes.

‘You want the recipe?’

His face creased in a devastating smile. ‘I’ll get one of my chefs to make them for me.’

Of course. She should have known that. Nothing in her life could have prepared her for this, Lucy realised. Mac was no ordinary guest and however friendly he might appear it was time to rein back and put everything on a professional footing. ‘Tiny circles of toasted Bruschetta topped with goat’s cheese,’ she recited firmly, clinging to her one area of expertise, ‘finished with a slice of fresh fig and a drizzle of honey. And I promise you they’re even better when they’re heated up,’ she said, gaining in confidence.

‘Aren’t most things?’ he murmured close to her ear before moving away.

She needed a moment. She couldn’t play these games. In a few words Mac had succeeded in turning her body into liquid fire. He was a playboy and she was an unsophisticated cook—she had none of the know-how. She never flirted with guests, and that short bout with Mac had left her reeling. That he was a player, she had no doubt. That he was playing with her, she had no doubt either. Women were a game for men like Mac, and he was way out of her league. The only way she could survive the week with her self-respect intact was to stick religiously to what she knew—which was cooking.

He had only been here five minutes and he was already suffering from a painful bout of sexual frustration made worse by noticing small things about Lucy—such as she was very tidy, very precise and very contained; the latter was in itself a challenge.

He shouldn’t be noticing her at all, he told himself sternly, trying to pay attention to a conversation between his friends about stocks and bonds that would normally have held him riveted. For some reason, watching Lucy loading a clean china platter with perfectly warmed canapés prior to handing them round was far more interesting—possibly because her hands were small-boned and pale, and yet her fingers were flexible and strong, and the thought of those hands touching him was…intriguing.

He liked her. He snapped a response when one of his friends tried to draw him into their conversation, and then she caught him looking at her and coloured up. He liked that too.

It was a relief when Lucy redeemed herself with an excellent meal. Her lush curves pleased him and he didn’t want to replace her with some fashionably thin creature whose only goal was to get a trophy lover in her bed. Where was the challenge in that?

Then Lucy mentioned cheese and everyone groaned. She flushed with embarrassment and both the desire to defend her and the pressure in his groin increased.

‘My apologies for feeding you too much—’

‘Too well,’ he corrected her.

Her swift intake of breath brought on another surge of interest from parts of him that were now refusing to be ignored.

Her face brightened. ‘Then shall we eat French-style tomorrow?’ she suggested, full of innocent delight to think her menu had gone down so well. ‘I mean, cheese before pudding,’ she said, visibly paling as he stared at her. ‘If that’s all right with you…?’

His lips quirked, but he kept a commendably straight face. ‘We’re in your hands,’ he assured her, matching her stare for stare.

Her cheeks were flaming. What was happening? Her life had been straightforward up to tonight. She worked in the background cooking and never connected with a guest. Not that she was connecting with Mac—she didn’t flatter herself to that extent. But it was impossible to ignore him—impossible to forget what she’d seen when she’d been on her knees in front of him at eye level with his crotch. Now he was suggesting he was in her hands…How was her imagination supposed to deal with that?

It was no use wishing that she were better looking, or more sophisticated, or that the right words might sometimes come smoothly to her lips. But just because she was quiet and good and plain, didn’t mean she lacked outrageous thoughts. Those thoughts ranged a lot further than serving Mac cheese.

She refocused as Tom left the table. ‘You’re an excellent chef, Lucy.’

‘Thank you. Whatever you prepare for us, and in whichever order you choose to serve it.’ Tom went on, ‘I, for one, shall certainly relish every mouthful—’

‘As shall we all,’ Mac cut across him sharply in a tone that startled her. He stepped in front of her, shielding her from the other men. ‘There will be three types of canapés tomorrow,’ she promised hectically, desperate to return to safer ground. ‘And none of them broken.’

The men laughed, and to Lucy’s relief Mac relaxed too. She laughed along with them, but her laughter sounded strained. Mac was still close by and her body insisted on reacting violently to him. Her nipples were erect, and another, far more intimate part of her was swelling so insistently a man like Mac, so sexual and knowing, must surely know…

She was so wrapped up in these thoughts she barely noticed the other men thanking her, and one by one, leaving her alone with Mac.

‘Three types of canapés, and some really good cheese? That sounds good to me,’ Mac commented approvingly.

His voice pierced her trance. Now the meal was over her confidence was stripped away. ‘It’s not a problem,’ she said, hoping Mac would leave her to it as she glanced at the deserted dinner table. ‘Just let me know what else you’d like and I’m sure I can handle it.’ She was thinking of recipes—he was clearly not.

‘I’m sure you can,’ he agreed, resting back against the wall.

Chapter Three

DID Mac have to be so attractive when he smiled that lazy smile with his green eyes glinting? She was the last person on earth who knew how to deal with a man like that, Lucy told herself sensibly as she served the men lunch the next day. It wasn’t just Mac’s fierce looks, which set him apart in a world of bland, but the sexual energy he exuded. If she got too close to that she’d get scorched. She only had to glance in the mirror to know he wouldn’t be attracted to her.

‘Do you want me to help you clear the table?’

‘No,’ she exclaimed, feeling awakward. Mac’s smile was confident and sexy as he leaned back against the wall.

She was in a hurry to finish cleaning up. She had a date tonight. The honour of the chalet company was at stake. Her colleagues swore this was something only she could do for them.

‘Do you have some special routine you follow?’ Mac said, breaking into these thoughts. ‘Lucy?’

‘Rinse and stack?’ she said hopefully, glancing at the dishwasher. She could do with some help.

Mac’s lips pressed down in wry approval. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

She was still open-mouthed when one of his friends poked his head round the door.

There was a moment of complete stillness as he took in the scene and then spoke to Mac. ‘We thought we might take a walk into town.’

Lucy breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Fine,’ Mac said, without breaking eye contact with her for a moment. ‘You go right ahead.’

He was staying with her?

He wanted to stay with Lucy. He wanted to know why she was in such a hurry, and why, when she had just served another fantastic meal, she was still lacking in confidence. Lucy wasn’t good at her job, she was outstanding—so why the angst?

‘Don’t you want to go into town?’ she hinted.

‘I’m in no hurry.’

He didn’t have to give Lucy a reason for staying in a chalet he owned. If he had he might have said he didn’t want her bolting while he was gone. The last thing he wanted was to have to replace her with some sex-starved Seasonnaire. But that was only part of the truth. The novelty of a quiet, self-effacing girl attracted him. She tried so hard, and had overcome the problems quickly and efficiently. He wanted her to grow in self-belief. He wanted to hear this quiet girl scream with pleasure when she lost control in bed.

She’d never had this much scrutiny from anyone, but with her calm head on she could understand that Mac would want to be sure she could hold things together for the week—though he could ring head office and have her replaced at once if he wasn’t satisfied with her work. Would that be too easy for him? He didn’t look like a man who embraced easy.

Dragging her thoughts from Mac, Lucy turned with relief to rinsing plates. But he was still there in her head. Mac with his glossy black hair and fabulous emerald eyes—Mac steeped in pure, potent power—Mac who unnerved her—deliciously. Unnerved her? She was completely out of sync.

‘Lucy?’

‘Yes?’ Her guilty gaze flew to Mac’s face.

‘You seem…distracted?’ he probed.

‘Distracted?’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘No…I was just planning tonight’s meal.’

‘Do you like the uniform?’ Mac enquired as she fiddled with it.

‘Yes, I do.’ She met his gaze, determined not to be put off her stroke. She didn’t wear the uniform with the same flair as, say, Fiona, but at least it made her feel anonymous and safe. ‘I feel…like I belong,’ she added as an afterthought, undoing her apron now they’d finished clearing up.

She had turned away to hang her apron on the peg behind the door and so she didn’t see Mac frown.

Then Tom came back to have another go at persuading Mac to go with him into town.

‘I’ll leave Omar here should you need anything.’

‘No, take him too,’ Lucy told Mac, thinking the invisible presence of a bodyguard she might stumble across at any moment almost as alarming as having Omar’s boss scrutinise her every move. ‘There are people on call at the chalet company if I need anything.’

‘In that case, see you later, Lucy.’

‘My pleasure,’ she added to an already empty room. If she had needed a reality check on how vital she was to Mac’s existence, she just got it.

As the front door shut behind the men she sank down on the nearest chair. She was trembling. She felt as if she’d run a marathon. She had. She had just completed the most important race of her life—to keep her job, though she wasn’t foolish enough to think that couldn’t change at any moment if Mac changed his mind.

She had to get back to work. Dreaming didn’t clean floors—plus she had some eggs to beat for tonight’s meal before covering them and leaving them in the fridge…

Staring round the gleaming kitchen as she cracked eggs in a bowl on autopilot, Lucy mulled over what she had learned about her guests. Aside from an overload of testosterone in the chalet, there were a lot of heavy gold rings in evidence engraved with family crests. Theo didn’t wear one, but Tom’s crest, along with Sheridan’s and William’s, marked them out as members of the British aristocracy. That was simple enough to work out, but what was she supposed to make of the fierce lion and the scimitar engraved on Mac’s ring?

The vision of an awe-inspiring desert landscape came to mind. But where had the green eyes come from? And such eyes…eyes that spoke of billowing Bedouin tents and the pearly light of dawn on the oasis as lovers woke and stretched their pliant limbs before making love again and again and again…

It took remarkably little imagination to take the hunk in jeans and place him in flowing robes. Hmm. Whisk suspended. As the picture drew clearer the whisk picked up pace again. The silk sheets on their Bedouin cushions would cling tenaciously to Mac’s powerful limbs, hinting at the brute strength underneath. But the sheets were covering him.

So she’d throw them off.

‘Are you going to beat that egg to death?’

She nearly hit the ceiling as Mac stopped her hand. She hadn’t realised he’d come back.

‘What has that poor egg done to you?’ He held her gaze in the most disturbing fashion.

‘I was just surprised when you came back.’

‘Is there a curfew in operation?’

‘Sorry.’ Her brain was addled. Mac in cool black performance gear, ready for the snow, was even more alarming than Mac in jeans. And he was still holding on to her hand.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said, releasing her. ‘I’m not checking up on you.’

Then why was he here? Lucy nursed her hand. Mac’s touch was warm, firm and commanding—and he’d let go of her far too fast for her daydreams and not nearly fast enough for here and now.

‘So, what are you up to?’ he said, staring into her eyes.

She gazed around, desperate for an answer. ‘Something for tonight…cake.’

‘Cake?’ Mac prompted, staring pointedly at the array of cakes already laid out on the table.

‘Isn’t Tom waiting for you?’ Lucy said hopefully.

‘And if he is?’

‘Could you pass me the cake tin, please?’

He held it out. She took hold of it, but he didn’t let go, so now she was joined to Mac by an inflexible ring of tin.

‘Lucy?’

She blinked and returned to her customary kitchenconfident self. ‘If you’d like a piece of the cake I’ve already made, just sit down, and I’ll—’

‘Serve me?’ Mac suggested wickedly, releasing the tin.

‘I’ll cut the cake,’ Lucy said primly, reaching for a knife.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Mac told her, and with one last mocking stare, he left the room.

Mac might have left the room, but he hadn’t left her thoughts. He was very much part of them and doing things to her that were almost certainly forbidden by law in several countries. How not to long for that? Running through a list of ingredients for the next meal didn’t come close.

Chapter Four

LUCY spent the next hour in her small attic room, pacing up and down. If only plain girls could be born with a lust bypass, she reflected, pausing by the mirror to view her unchanged reflection, it would make life and rejection so much easier for her. Of course, she knew her relationship with Mac was purely professional, and she’d only known him five minutes, but it would have been nice if, only for a few moments of that time, the frisson she felt could have been a two-way connection. The best thing now was to have a long soak and try to forget him. But she couldn’t, because she had somewhere to be and there were jobs to do first—beds to turn down, bathrooms to clean, towels to check, fires to bank up…

She was running late by the time she finished all her remaining tasks and she still had to get ready—number one on the list was a quick bath, and then she’d have to run all the way to the club where her friends would be waiting for her.

Interest laced with concern for Lucy had developed into hot, shameless lust. Razi had to have her. She was beautiful, unaffected and available—and as soon as he had given her a chance to clear up the chalet and set up for the morning he was going to have her.

His impatience was easy to explain—apart from the ache in his groin the clock was ticking. He had never felt the weight of duty more. He embraced the responsibilities coming his way with enthusiasm, but was under no illusion as to the effect they would have on his lifestyle. A traditional marriage—even if not to his cousin Leila—was on the cards. He owed it to his country. But before then…

‘Preoccupied, Razi?’ Tom asked him discreetly.

‘You know,’ he said offhandedly. They were sitting in a noisy bar and he was already itching to move on. The drinks weren’t cold enough and the nibbles tasted of cardboard after Lucy’s delicacies.

Next time she could serve them on her naked body and he’d lick the champagne she spilled off her belly.

‘We can move on if you like,’ Tom suggested.

‘Sorry, Tom. Didn’t mean to ignore you—things on my mind.’

‘Oh, no.’ Tom sighed theatrically and passed a hand across his eyes. ‘Let me guess.’

‘Don’t,’ he said sharply. For some reason he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone, even Tom, making sport of Lucy. ‘Don’t even go there, Tom. Let’s just move on.’

Muffled up in a super-sized ski jacket, a long scarf, a woolly hat with a bobble on top and a thick pair of gloves, Lucy hurried along the empty streets towards the club. The streets were deserted because everyone was already cosy and warm inside one of the many restaurants and bars by this time of night. It was a world of muffled music and the occasional blast of noise and laughter as a door opened briefly.

She was feeling guilty as she scudded along, knowing her brothers would have loved an event like the one she was due to take part in, while she felt shy at the prospect of entering a crowded club where everyone would know each other. She only hoped she could find her colleagues straight away when she arrived—and that Mac and co didn’t decide to go there too. She shivered at the thought of it and almost lost her nerve and turned around.

Her enthusiasm for the event shrank even more when a member of a rival chalet company barred her way at the entrance. ‘Here’s the runner up,’ he announced to his friends, who all started laughing. She hurried past, but her confidence had taken a dive. It got worse when she saw all her colleagues waiting for her and looking so hopeful.

‘Ready?’ they chorused.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ Lucy confirmed, wondering why she had agreed to sing in the first place. Being a good choir girl hardly qualified her for the annual karaoke competition between the rival chalet companies, and the moment she entered the makeshift dressing room, which doubled as the ladies’ restroom, she knew she’d made a big mistake. She didn’t have the personality for something like this.

‘Make-up?’ one of the girls prompted, waking her out of the terror stupor. They were stripping off her coat and scarf, and one of them plucked the hat from her head.

‘I don’t have any make-up.’

‘You don’t?’ The girls looked at each other in alarm.

‘I’ve never bought any.’

Alarm was replaced by incredulity.

‘I’m not very good with it.’

‘Not surprising if you never tried,’ one girl said with an encouraging smile, stepping forward. ‘No worries—we’ll do it for you.’

‘Oh, no, thank you—but if I wear make up, I’ll look awful.’ I look bad enough already, Lucy thought, gazing in despair at her reflection. Compared to the other girls she was a real plain Jane.

‘You couldn’t possibly look awful,’ one of the other girls said kindly.

‘I only took off my apron five minutes ago.’

‘So imagine the transformation.’

They were all so eager to help. How could she let them down? She dragged her confidence cloak tightly round her. ‘Okay, I suppose we’d better get on with it.’

Hasty words, Lucy realised as one of them produced a costume for her to wear with a flourish, carolling, ‘Ta da!’

‘No,’ she said firmly. Singing was one thing, but she was going to wear her sensible off-duty clothes, which comprised jeans and a pale blue fleece.

The girls looked at each other and then, recognising the straw that might well break the camel’s back, they gave in.

‘Just tell me when I have to sing and I’ll be fine.’ Or she might be, if her upper lip didn’t feel as if it were superglued to her teeth.

‘Here, have a drink of water,’ one of her colleagues said as Lucy licked to no effect with a bone-dry tongue.

Then they all went silent as the contestant from the opposing chalet company began to sing.

‘He’s got a great voice,’ Lucy commented, swallowing hard.

‘And he’s hot,’ one of the girls added.

Better to know she didn’t stand a chance before she headed for the makeshift stage, Lucy reasoned. ‘I’m going to give it everything I’ve got.’ She smiled bravely as a pile of make-up bags hit the counter.

Then the girls took over, transforming her while she could only watch helplessly. One of them brushed out her hair and curled it with a heated wand, while another made up her face.

‘Relax—I do this as a living when I’m not doing the ski season,’ one girl assured Lucy as she applied a brown stripe beneath Lucy’s cheekbones, a white one above and a blob of red on the apple of her cheek.

Now she looked like a painted doll with exaggerated colouring. She should never have let this happen.

Lucy closed her eyes, resigned to her fate, so it was a surprise when she opened them to find that once the stripes had been blended in she didn’t look half bad. Her skin looked even, radiant, and her face sculpted. The make-up was like a mask, Lucy realised with relief—a mask to hide behind. Careful work on her eyes and lips had turned her into someone she hardly recognised and Mac would certainly never recognise her if he decided to come in for a drink. ‘I had no idea,’ she murmured, leaning forward.

‘No time for that,’ the girls insisted as she continued to stare into the mirror, amazed at her reflection. Taking hold of her on either side, they ushered her outside.

One last glance confirmed the surprising fact that, left loose, her hair didn’t look half bad either. Thanks to the styling wand it hung in thick waves almost to her waist. She had never worn her hair like this before, because her mother said long hair was untidy, and, of course, in a professional kitchen her hair was always covered. Make-up? She pressed her rouged lips together anxiously—she’d never get used to it, but at least the girls looked pleased.

‘You look amazing,’ one of them assured her and they all agreed.

‘Amazingly silly?’

‘No!’

‘Have some confidence,’ one girl insisted. ‘You won our award when you least expected it, and now you’re going to win this.’

‘If I could sing better.’

‘It’s karaoke, Lucy.’ They all laughed. ‘You’re not supposed to sing—just get into the spirit of it and you’ll be fine.’

‘And if you’re not, we’ll hide and pretend not to know you,’ another girl teased her.

They had left the bar and headed back to the chalet for their skis to satisfy Razi’s whim to expend a small part of his energy skiing down the black slope with just the ultra-lights on their helmets to show them the way. With precipices on either side and at the speeds they travelled it was like playing Russian roulette with a loaded gun that had no bullets missing. It was both exhilarating and dangerous. Irresponsible, maybe, but it had left him on a high. The five of them had been doing this since school when they had first climbed out of a chalet window at midnight, leaving the school masters on the trip snoring. These days Razi pleased himself. He owned the chalet and could leave by the front door, but the thrill had not diminished.

They were all down safely, but with adrenalin surging through his veins he still had energy to burn.

‘Champagne?’ Theo suggested.

‘Lead me to it,’ Razi agreed, snapping off his skis in anticipation of a short stroll to his favourite bar.

‘Do you think we could drop by the chalet? Let Lucy know what we’re up to? Invite her along?’ Tom questioned with a knowing wink.

As Razi might have anticipated, this drew comment from the other men. They were experienced men of the world, but they had all seen something in Lucy—just as he had. His hackles rose. ‘Lay off her, boys,’ he warned, lifting off his helmet. ‘You could all see Lucy was overwhelmed when we rocked up.’

This drew a second chorus of knowing smirks, which he ignored. ‘The least we can do is give her a chance to get used to us.’

‘To you, don’t you mean?’

He refused to dignify Theo’s comment with a reply.

Tom drew alongside him to observe discreetly, ‘That’s extremely thoughtful of you…’

‘It’s nothing.’ Razi dismissed the comment with an impatient gesture. ‘Lucy was fine when we left and she’s probably asleep by now. She also left food on the table at the chalet, so if we need anything to eat later we can rustle up something for ourselves.’

‘Just like the old days,’ Theo agreed, coming up on his other side.

Not at all like the old days, Razi’s exchange of glances with Tom confirmed. This trip was not the same as the trips they had enjoyed in their carefree teenage years, but the briefest of stops before the weight of responsibility tied each one of them in their different ways. But for all their machismo they were up to the task, Razi concluded, taking a look around his friends. ‘Last one to the bar buys the drinks.’

Impossible to imagine their fortunes could be counted in billions as the four friends jostled and wrestled their way across the piste.

Okay, so this was it. But she needed an urgent trip to the ladies’ room first…

‘No looking back,’ the girls warned Lucy as they accompanied her to the stage.

‘I feel sick.’

‘There’s a fire bucket in the wings,’ one of the girls pointed out helpfully.

‘I can’t remember the words.’

‘You don’t have to remember the words,’ the girls reminded her in chorus. ‘This is karaoke, Luce.’

‘What if I can’t see the screen?’

‘We’ll sing along with you.’

‘What if I can’t hear you?’

‘You’ll hear us,’ they promised.

The compére was already on stage, waiting for the crowd to quieten so he could introduce Lucy. Would they ever quieten enough to hear her? It seemed unlikely, thank goodness. Freeing herself from her supporters, Lucy stepped reluctantly up to the red curtain someone had hastily drawn across the makeshift stage and peered through. She couldn’t see anything; the light was so bright—much better backstage in the dark where no one could see her. ‘Couldn’t I sing from back here?’

‘That’s a no, then,’ Lucy muttered as her friends exclaimed in protest.

She wished the spotlights weren’t quite so bright, or so well aimed. She felt nervous, hot and scared—and desperate not to let the side down.

‘There is one positive.’

‘A positive?’ the girls encouraged as she fought for breath.

‘Yes, I can’t make out any faces in the crowd—I took out my contact lenses,’ she managed on a gasp, breathing deeply into lungs that seemed suddenly on fire.

All she could hear now were whistles, shouts and catcalls. The compére had succeeded in whipping the crowd up to fever pitch just in time for her appearance. Great. The position of the fire bucket had never held such colossal significance.

‘You’ll be all right once you get on stage,’ the girls assured her, hands poised on Lucy’s shoulders in readiness to push her on.

She didn’t have time to think about it. Blundering through the curtain, she was instantly deafened by the booming bass on the backing track and blinded by the lights. She put up her arm to shield her eyes and in doing so missed the introduction. The crowd was silent like a fierce beast preparing to pounce and rip her into shreds, while she stood curled in a protective huddle in the middle of the stage, spotlights illuminating her humiliation, while her backing track moved inexorably on.

Somewhere in the distance she heard the girls shouting her name…

It was no good. She couldn’t do it—not even for them. Blinking like a mole, she realised with horror that she couldn’t see or hear anything, let alone sing…

Clenching her fists with determination, she forced herself to make a tremulous start, and no one was more surprised than Lucy when her voice gradually gained in confidence and strengthened as the beauty of the melody overpowered her fears. She had insisted on singing a love song when everyone had begged her to sing an upbeat number, and, what with the poignancy of the words and the beauty of the music, she only had to imagine Mac and she was away.

She would never have believed she could enjoy herself so much on stage—even the crowd had silenced in appreciation. They’d gathered round her and many of them were arm in arm as they stared up at her, listening. Discovering she could lose herself in music was a magical experience…Thinking about Mac made it perfect.

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