“We’re here.”

Clare’s eyes shot open. “Where?”

“My mother’s.”

“Your mother’s?” She swallowed hard. What on earth was he bringing her here for? She was meant to be another one-night stand, not taken home to mother! She looked down at her breasts, struggling to escape her skimpy red dress, the indecent amount of leg she was showing and her striking red stilettos…with the discomfort, she guessed, of a lap dancer at the opera. What had she got herself into?

Mark took Clare’s hand as he helped her out of the limousine. He tried not to smile. He’d certainly surprised her—she looked positively put out. “Problem?”

She flashed him a smile. “No, of course not.” She smoothed out her dress, looking for all the world as if she was searching for extra length. “Flattered, really.”

Darcy Maguire is the newest Australian author to join Harlequin Romance®.

You’ll love her fresh, contemporary style, brimming with emotional warmth!

Men who turn your whole world upside down!

Strong and silent…

Powerful and passionate…

Tough and tender…

Who can resist the rugged loners of the Outback?

As tough and untamed as the land they rule, they burn as hot as the Australian sun once they meet the women they’ve been waiting for.

Accidental Bride

Darcy Maguire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

SHE was to die for.

Mark King couldn’t help but look at her. He darted glances from the dance-floor, noting the other men in the room, young and old alike, drawn to her like yuppies to Wall Street. They had no idea.

Mark, however, knew she was dangerous. His heart pounded in his chest and his blood fired to the challenge. And she’d be a challenge—he raked her boldly with his eyes—every sexy inch of her.

She stood as tall as the group of men who swarmed around her, dwarfing them in both stature and style. The light fell softly on her from the chandeliers of the hotel ballroom, setting off burgundy highlights in her dark hair—hair that was swept back to her nape, small wisps escaping to frame her ivory face.

Pearl drops hung from her ears and a string of pearls fell low over the swell of her breasts. Mark closed his eyes and could almost imagine trailing his lips over her skin.

He led his date closer to the stranger, moving slowly with the music, his eyes drawn to the long black gown that hugged the woman’s shape faithfully, and to the curves that made his hands itch with the need to touch. The split in her dress ran almost the entire length of her long legs—legs that captivated him with fantasies of what they’d feel like wrapped around him.

Mark saw a bearded man close to her, intimately close, possessively close, almost touching his suit against her bare shoulders. His gut clenched tight. He dropped his gaze to her hands—not one ring on any of her fingers—and let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Who was she?

‘Mark!’ Sasha’s voice scraped on his fantasies. ‘If you don’t want to dance, just tell me. These are new shoes.’

Mark looked down, dimly aware of his size ten and a halves on the tips of Sasha’s shiny red shoes. ‘Sorry.’ He moved back onto the floor, noticing the score had changed, as had the rhythm of the music. He willed himself to focus on something other than the sexy stranger.

There was always more than enough work to fill his mind. Tracking down the next challenge, the delving and the searching for weaknesses in a company, the thrill involved in acquiring it, and the dissecting and selling off to make every dollar spent multiply for him.

What sort of job would Miss Femme Fatale have? A model? A designer? Or maybe she survived as a professional heartbreaker, progressing from one relationship to the next, consuming both bank balance and heart? A fleeting urge to find a place for her in his company surged from his loins—he could see her occasionally, often, always…

‘Excuse me,’ said a silky voice. A perfectly manicured, unvarnished fingernail tapped Sasha’s shoulder.

Mark looked directly into deep blue eyes that were unafraid to gaze right back at him. His breath caught in his throat. The sexual magnetism that made the stranger so confident radiated from her. Drew him in. Stoked a growing fire deep inside him.

Mark couldn’t tear his eyes away. Her ivory face had a soft flush, as though an artist had carved her delicate features from marble then dabbed her cheeks with colour. Her dusky-rose lips were full and tempting, and her royal blue eyes danced over him in a way that sent bolts of desire coursing through his body. A small scar interrupted one finely arched eyebrow, suggesting she was indeed human after all and not some exquisite work of art.

Sasha dropped Mark’s hand and swung around, her face set grimly to confront the interloper. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m cutting in.’ The stranger’s voice rang with command as she unhesitatingly took Mark’s hand and stepped into his arms. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

Mark tried to hide his amazement.

He didn’t hesitate.

He slid his hand around her waist and the heat of her body ignited his blood and mind to fantasy again. He encased her slender fingers in his and swept her across the dance floor.

A tremor of excitement ripped through him at her light touch on his shoulder. Her appeal was devastating, and her creamy skin felt as smooth and silky under his hands as it looked.

The sensations that radiated from her warm hand to his took him by surprise, while his other hand at the small of her back threatened to fall lower.

Mark took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweetly intoxicating scent of roses that surrounded his stranger.

He couldn’t pick out what it was about her that made his body react to her. He’d seen many beautiful women before, and even had a few throw themselves at him. But this woman, she was different, and the need to find out exactly how pounded deep in his chest. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Clare had been irked Mark King hadn’t noticed her grand entrance, but the thrill of knowing he’d been watching her was enough to give her the extra bit of courage she needed to take the plunge and cut in. Now she had him where she wanted him.

‘I was bored.’ She raised one shoulder in the slightest hint of a shrug. The swell of satisfaction was bolstering. King was lured by the bait; all she had to do was get him to take the hook and reel him in. Guys were so easy to interest.

‘Bored?’ The comment seemed to surprise him.

‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed softly, glancing around at her audience. Clare hadn’t expected her outfit to attract quite so much attention, but it served the purpose, and maybe the attention everyone else was giving her would motivate King and his over-sized ego right into her ambush.

After what Mark King had done, she was going to stuff and mount him, nailed directly through the heart. He wouldn’t know what had hit him.

King would look sensational mounted on her apartment wall, she thought crazily. His jet-black hair and olive skin would go well with her decor. His strong jawline, handsome square face, and the generous mouth that promised to be as seductive as the rest of him, would be far more interesting to look at as she sipped her morning tea than her print of Cézanne’s Still Life.

‘Why would a woman as beautiful as you be bored?’

The rich timbre of his voice tingled down her spine. She shrugged, allowing a smile to touch her lips. ‘Don’t you ever feel that there aren’t any challenges left in life?’

King’s gunmetal-grey eyes glinted mischievously. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’ He pulled her closer to him, her soft curves moulding to the contours of his hard body.

They fitted so well together, she thought traitorously, then rejected the notion. She wasn’t going to think of the enemy that way—and he was the enemy. What he’d done was unforgivable. She’d had it with men and their games. This was the last straw in a series of griefs and it was well past time she evened the score.

He expertly swept her around in a circle, as if he were as much at home on the dance floor as in the boardroom. She supposed he thought he was God’s gift to women. He held her firmly, the warmth of his embrace so male, so bracing, so damned annoying.

Clare hadn’t expected him to be quite like this. She’d expected someone colder—not this hot-blooded specimen that called to her primal urges. It was no wonder that women succumbed so easily to his charm.

She could feel the hard muscle of his shoulders under his black suit, feel the power in his body, feel the promise throbbing from him that he’d be an experience to remember.

Clare wasn’t about to lose her head, though. She’d had enough knocks in life to know the truth about men and relationships—all liars and all lies. No matter what he could make her body feel, what magic he might weave, she was impervious.

The anguish her last boyfriend, Josh, had left her with had cured her of any romantic notions. She bit her lip at the unwelcome surge of pain that accompanied her memories. It amazed her how she had been drawn into believing in love—the quiet dinners, the beach walks, the moving in. And then bam! It was over. And she hadn’t had an inkling that something was wrong until she’d found Josh packing.

How could she have been so blind? He’d been slipping away from her the moment he moved in: right into someone else’s loving arms. And she’d been too busy to notice.

She could have done something, she figured. Changed somehow. If she’d realised. He was married now, to that woman. Her neck muscles tightened—she’d never feel his cheating lips again.

She’d been a gullible fool. But not this time. Clare was prepared. Forewarned. Steeled for this. And she was glad she could look Mr Tall, Dark and Dangerous straight in the eye, thanks to her generous heels.

The music stopped and they stepped apart, applauding the orchestra with the rest of the crowd. She had to concede that the Excelsior’s grand ballroom made the perfect location for King’s charity dinner. The polished timber floors, the extravagant chandeliers of imported crystal and the twenty-piece orchestra all furthered his cause—to romance the money from his guests’ pockets.

Clare leant towards King and brushed her lips against his warm cheek. ‘Are you game for one?’ she whispered.

His eyes glittered dangerously. ‘One what?’

‘A challenge,’ Clare said casually. And she turned on her heel and walked away from him, vividly aware of his gaze following her. She forced herself to breathe through the onslaught of butterflies in her stomach. Step one was over; the plan was in motion. She just had to reel him in—and nothing was going to get the best of her, especially Mark King.

CHAPTER TWO

MARK scanned the room, his eyes searching the crowd for one extremely intriguing lady. He knew he shouldn’t have taken his eyes off her, but locating Sasha in the crowd next to the dance floor had been all it took to lose sight of her. Brunettes were everywhere, but none with the height, the split in the dress or those haunting deep blue eyes.

‘Who the hell was that woman?’ Sasha snapped, hooking her arm in his possessively.

‘I have no idea.’ But he was determined to find out. If she was as fascinating and mysterious as she’d intimated, he wanted to discover every detail about her—down to what underwear she wore. Or didn’t.

‘And you let her embarrass me like that in front of all these people?’ Sasha swung her arms wide, her cheeks flushed.

Mark forced himself to focus on his date. His blood cooled at the hurt in her eyes. The deal was to introduce Sasha to the notables of society, and he’d all but ignored her. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘Well, I’d appreciate it if you did think. I don’t know how I can look anyone in the face now.’

Agreeing to a date with his sister’s best friend wasn’t the cleverest situation he’d got himself into, but he had needed a companion and Sasha had been available and there were no strings attached. And strings were what he wanted to avoid.

Mark caught a glimpse of his stranger. She certainly was a vision. She was so confident and so perfect that he knew there had to be a catch.

He had no idea what she meant. Was she challenging him? And, if so, to what? His mind buzzed with the possibilities—and they all ended with his stranger naked and in his bed.

Mark shook himself. This was crazy. The last thing he’d expected at this charity night was a woman like her. He was here to raise money for the Heart Foundation, to give back to society, to give his life some meaning beyond the size of his bank balance.

His own heart thrummed a call he couldn’t ignore. There was no reason he couldn’t pursue the woman and serve the charity…

Mark strode to the entrance of the dining room and hailed the head waiter. He leaned close to the man’s ear. ‘Seating has been changed. See that woman.’ He cast a look to his stranger, who was in a conversation with a gangly man. ‘I want her at my table.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

Mark smiled, straightening to his full height. He walked through the doorway, smiling to his guests. If she thought he was going to play along with her game she had a surprise coming. He was going to get some answers.

Clare wasn’t surprised when the waiter extricated her from the man she was talking to and escorted her to Mark King’s table. She would have been disappointed if he’d done anything less. From what she knew about him he was finding life a tad boring now he’d made it, and was taking on all sorts of challenges for the thrill alone. She figured his personal life wouldn’t be any different.

Clare had noted that he managed to keep his exploits out of the papers—and his photo. Which was probably why she was so surprised by King in the flesh.

Clare glanced around the dining room. It was laid out with over fifty round tables, all with white tablecloths overlaying burgundy ones. She couldn’t miss the lavish bouquet of roses that adorned each table, or the careful positioning of the cutlery, glasses and elaborately folded serviettes. Of course King wouldn’t settle for anything less than stylishly elegant.

She lifted her chin. The perfect venue for her trap. Public enough to be safe; private enough to get away with what she was about to do.

Everyone else was seated when Clare arrived at the main table. She cast a lazy glance around the guests, taking in the heavy-set men accompanied by wives laden with expensive jewellery, the younger men with pretty companions hanging on their every word. And Mark King.

‘Welcome, Miss…?’ King rose from the table and gestured to the chair on his left. On the other side was the woman in red she’d ousted on the dance floor.

‘Thank you.’ She ignored the question and allowed him to help her into her seat, aware that all eyes were on her. He moved her chair in and she felt his knuckles brush the skin on her back, causing an irritating shiver to course down her spine.

‘I’m afraid I’m at a loss.’ King’s voice was deep and demanding, his gaze sharp.

‘I find that hard to believe.’ She took a sip of champagne, casting him a look of defiance from beneath lowered lashes. She’d been in business long enough to hold her own in company such as this.

King took his own seat, leaning close to her. ‘Are you avoiding giving me your name, or are you just playing coy?’ he whispered with a vague hint of annoyance.

‘I assure you, I’m not playing.’ Clare could hear the edge in her voice and added a smile to tone down her slip.

She saw King raise an eyebrow. ‘What’s your business, then?’

‘Much the same as yours, I’d say.’

King turned in his seat to give her his full attention. ‘Why did you walk away like that?’

‘Like what?’ she asked innocently, very aware that most of the occupants at the table were hanging on their every word. It surprised her that he’d confront her so openly, in front of his guests, but then King was about the most arrogant, self-assured jerk she’d ever met. He probably didn’t care what anyone thought of him.

A muscle in King’s jaw twitched. ‘I personally invited everyone here tonight.’ King glanced around the room. ‘And I can tell you, you weren’t one of them.’

‘Really?’ Clare opened her serviette with a deft flick of the wrist and laid it across her lap. ‘Are you sure?’

Clare struggled not to smile. She had him there. She knew he was so busy that he needed three secretaries to keep up with his workload, plus two personal assistants, both men, which confirmed the fact that he was still serious about work—no distractions. Even his female secretaries were over forty and married, to ensure everyone’s mind stayed on their work.

A thoughtful smile curved King’s mouth, softening his features. ‘You have me there.’ He twisted in his seat and raised his hand. ‘John?’ A man at the next table turned nervously. He rose and approached, his tall, dark and lanky frame looking pretty spiffy in his dinner suit—but then most men looked great in black.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘John, here, is my personal assistant. He took care of the invitations.’ King smiled. ‘John, did you invite this young lady?’

John looked from his boss to Clare, obviously confused. ‘Over two hundred invitations went out, sir. But I’ll do my best. Your name?’

Clare smiled at King.

‘She won’t give her name, John. Surely you can remember inviting a young woman?’

John shrugged, looking quite helpless. ‘Security is tight, so she must have had an invitation.’ John gave Clare an odd look of confusion. ‘We could have her taken out, if you wish, sir.’

‘Perhaps that would be best.’ King’s expression darkened. ‘If you don’t tell me your name then I’ll have Security escort you out.’

Clare shrugged. ‘If you’d rather throw me out than—’ She broke off deliberately, taking another sip of the champagne, casting a look around the table at the curious faces.

‘Than what?’ His mood veered sharply to anger.

‘Than work it out for yourself, then of course—go ahead.’

King stiffened as though she’d struck him. Silence descended on what little conversation there had been at the table. Slowly his tight expression relaxed into a smile that lit his eyes and dimpled his cheek.

Clare felt an unwelcome surge of excitement at the warmth of his smile. She wrenched her attention off King to the roses on the table, taking a long, deep breath. But she couldn’t help herself. Her gaze wandered to him again.

King dismissed John with a wave and turned his attention back to her. His grey eyes stabbed her, as though he was trying to penetrate her defences with his look alone.

She slowed her breathing and willed her heart to do the same, praying someone would distract King from her before she lost her nerve.

A waiter laden with a tray of steaming soup bowls moved between them. He placed a bowl in front of her.

Clare looked up at him. ‘What sort of soup is it?’ The opportunity for a break from King’s intensity was welcome. It might even break his train of thought, if she was lucky—if she was very lucky.

‘It’s champagne and pear.’ The waiter gave her a smile and a conspiratorial wink. ‘All vegetarian, miss.’

‘You’re a vegetarian?’ King pounced. ‘That’s very trendy of you.’

‘I’m not a vegetarian to pander to any social trend.’ Clare snatched up her spoon and plunged it into the misty green liquid. She’d be damned if she was going to explain her lifestyle decisions to King! She concentrated on eating, on how the smooth and gentle soup caressed her tastebuds with flavour before slipping down her throat.

‘For health, then?’ suggested the woman in red next to him.

‘Yes.’ Clare smiled warmly past King to the pretty young blonde. She’d been so intent on King she hadn’t given her a second thought. Shoving her aside on the dance floor was one thing—that was business—but to ignore her over a meal was another. Besides, she had to be barely twenty—just a girl.

‘How did he know that you were concerned about it being vegetarian?’ King gave her another raking gaze. ‘Unless they knew you were coming? You phoned them or spoke to them?’

‘Yes.’ Clare took another mouthful of the divine soup. It was her cousin Paul’s creation. She’d had it several times before, while he was learning to be a chef, but this was her first opportunity to dine where he worked without him. Paul was like a brother to her, only two years older than her twenty-seven years, and they were close. They’d grown up under the same roof.

‘Yes to which one?’ King brandished his soup spoon at her as though it were a weapon.

‘Whatever.’ Clare shrugged. Paul had smuggled her into the charity dinner, and all she’d had to do was promise she’d accompany him to the next social event to enhance his image. Some career strategy, she guessed.

She broke her bread roll apart and buttered it lazily, very aware of King’s eyes on her. ‘How do you know Mark?’ she asked the girl in red, whose face kept appearing over King’s shoulder.

‘I’m a close friend of the family,’ she bit out defensively. ‘I’m Sasha Taylor-Jones.’

‘Beautiful name.’ Clare tried to swallow the smile that was threatening to erupt. The look on King’s face at being ignored was priceless. ‘You’re very kind, doing Mark the favour of accompanying him. He would have been embarrassed to have arrived solo.’

Sasha blushed. ‘Actually, he’s doing me a favour—though you wouldn’t think it.’ She cast his back a dirty look and ran a hand over his shoulder. ‘Did you know he’s just been nominated for Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year?’

‘Has he?’ Clare smiled her amusement. If only the organisers knew what he got up to with poor innocent young girls, they’d crown him the most opportunistic bastard of the year. She gave Sasha a second look. Was she the next victim?

King’s eyes darkened. ‘Will you ladies stop talking about me as though I wasn’t here?’ He swung back to Sasha.

‘Mark, don’t be angry with her,’ Clare chastised him.

‘And don’t call me Mark. Hell, I don’t even know you.’

She could tell it was killing him. If he knew her name then he’d find out everything he needed to know in about two minutes flat, and that wasn’t what she had in mind. She had something more memorable planned.

Something that King wouldn’t ever forget.

CHAPTER THREE

HOW her little sister had ended up in King’s bed concerned Clare. It wasn’t as though they frequented the same circles. King’s realm was a world unto itself. Even with her own lucrative transport company’s success, she couldn’t hope to come anywhere close to it.

The sort of wealth and position he’d built for himself were what dreams were made of. Clare let her gaze wander over his dark hair, his strong jawline, and the quirk of his lips. Surprisingly, he looked quite normal for a millionaire, apart from being aggravatingly handsome.

Meeting King made her goal of owning her entire company seem not so far-fetched. If this guy could do it she was certain she could, too. One day.

‘You may not know me. But I do know you.’ Clare laid her spoon in her empty bowl and met King’s stormy eyes. ‘I know your parents split up when you were ten and you spent the next eight years moving from one to the other while your mother searched for love. Your father was declared bankrupt in seventy-nine and eighty-six—when you were ten and seventeen respectively.’

Mark’s eyes flickered, and a shadow flashed across his features.

She suppressed a smile of satisfaction—the investigator had been worth the money. ‘You studied business economics overseas, then returned to invest your inheritance from your grandparents. Do I need to go on?’

‘So you’ve done your homework.’ His voice hardened. ‘Are you going to tell me what you’re after?’

‘No. But I’ll tell you this—’ She leant close to him, breathing in his spicy cologne. ‘We have mutual acquaintances.’

His eyes widened at her admission. ‘Ha, it was one of the guys, wasn’t it?’ He laughed, darting looks around the table. ‘Which one of you jokers is responsible?’

Two of the men cleared their throats, three others shrugged, and they all cast curious looks at King.

King snapped his attention back to her, his eyes smouldering.

Clare tried to smother a laugh at his confusion. She had him going. This was even better than she’d planned.

The waiters removed the empty bowls and King dodged around them to see her. ‘How long are you going to play this game?’

Clare waited until the table had been cleared, then she leant close to him again. ‘Are you bored with me already?’

‘Yes.’

But the fire in his eyes told her otherwise. ‘Oh, my.’ She patted his hand lightly. ‘You have it worse than I thought.’

‘What?’ King’s eyes were glued to where her hand covered his.

‘Boredom,’ she said knowingly, lifting her hand and placing it on her lap, still tingling from the contact. ‘You know you age prematurely if you’re bored? It can lead to depression and all sorts of mental conditions.’

‘Is that true?’

She allowed herself a smile. ‘No idea, but it sounded good.’ It was like dangling candy in front of a child. Too easy.

A waiter presented Clare with her entrée: a miniature risotto. It was shaped in an oval and topped with caramelised onions. She cast a casual glance around the table—the others had each received a mushroom and ham torte, garnished with snow pea shoots and long curls of carrot.

The touch of King’s hand on her thigh almost made her jump. Almost. She hadn’t expected it. For some silly reason she’d assumed she wouldn’t have to endure physical contact with him until later—much later. There was no doubt now that he was a fast mover.

His fingers stroked her skin, arousing every nerve in her leg, in her stomach, in her entire body. His hand was so warm, so firm and so maddening! He had probably swept her little sister away with his charms before she’d had a chance to think.

‘I hope you’re not bluffing, Miss…?’ His thumb massaged her muscle, working higher up her leg. ‘What the hell am I meant to call you?’

‘What do you want to call me?’ she said calmly. Clare steeled herself against the disturbing sensations his hand on her thigh caused through her body. She took a small bite of the rich rice dish, another of Paul’s, focusing on the meal rather than her body’s traitorous response to King.

‘How about Scarlet?’ Sasha offered. ‘From that old classic movie.’

‘But you’re in red, not me.’ Clare couldn’t help but notice the way Sasha touched King, lightly but possessively. Poor Sasha was laying herself open to King, as good as screaming Ready, willing and waiting. If she had any idea where his other hand was…

‘You’re right.’ Sasha chewed her bottom lip, running a hand absently up King’s arm, over his nicely built muscles and resting it on his shoulder.

‘How about the Black Widow?’ King’s hand reached the top of her split and traced the edge of the fabric with his fingertip.

Tingles of awareness shot to her toes. ‘I’m in black, but I’m no widow.’ Clare took another portion of the risotto and put it in her mouth as casually as she could manage, willing herself to chew and swallow without choking, without balking.

The need to slap his hand away was swamping her. How dared he treat her like this? With no respect for Sasha, no consideration for all the hearts he’d left behind him, cracked and bleeding.

Clare swallowed the lump of risotto, helping it down with several gulps of her wine. She looked dubiously at the small serving on her plate. She’d hoped to avoid as much conversation as manners allowed, but she figured having her mouth full wouldn’t last long as an excuse.

‘Never been married?’ King nodded and scooped his entrée into his mouth, looking as if he wanted to get the distraction out of the way as quickly as possible.

Clare took more of the deep red wine. How was she going to last an entire evening with King and his tenacity? She put more risotto in her mouth, then shook her head, cursing herself for not pacing her risotto to the questions she didn’t want to answer.

The smile on King’s face suggested he was pleased.

‘What about something from Shakespeare?’ Sasha glared at Clare as though she was loath to continue a conversation that didn’t revolve around herself, but beamed at King like a puppy wanting a reward.

‘Hmm, Lady Macbeth comes to mind.’ King’s voice was deep and husky, his hand caressing her bare skin with slow, sensual movements designed to muddle minds. ‘We’ll call you m’lady, then.’

Clare smiled, covering her disgust. It was all she could do to let him keep touching her leg without breaking his nose. After what he’d pulled on her sister…She gritted her teeth, swallowing the tirade of abuse that threatened to erupt.

After her dad had left Clare had looked after her little sister, Fiona, while their mother had worked three jobs. Even living with her mother’s widowed sister and her son hadn’t eased her mother’s burden. The debt her father had left behind had been painfully large.

Clare had pulled strings to get Fiona a job in her office when she’d left school early, unable to cope with the pressure. And she’d retired her mum as soon as her business had made enough to buy a home for her in the Dandenong Ranges. She should have sent Fiona up there too—protected her from the harsh realities of life and men like King.

‘Your meal, miss, with compliments from the chef.’ A waiter winked at her, then laid a plate in front of her. The rich aroma of the dish drifted upward. It was another of Paul’s—a vegetable lasagne with chilli, vegetables and tomato, topped with exotic cheeses.

She concentrated on eating, even though her stomach felt leaden with King’s eyes continually on her.

Clare was thankful he needed both hands to tackle his steak. His hand on her leg had been sending a steady stream of interference to her brain. And she needed all her wits about her if she was going to take this guy down.

King ate almost silently, only occasionally joining in the table’s conversation and twice responding to Sasha’s questions. On the whole, Clare supposed, he was mulling over the facts and trying to figure her out.

‘I know you’re around twenty-seven, twenty-eight,’ King stated coolly, pausing as dessert was served. ‘You’re in a high position in business, or you own your own. You’re well-off, you don’t live far away, and you haven’t had any serious relationships.’

Clare’s spoon stopped halfway to her pastry. She turned to him, her blood pounding in her ears. ‘How?’

King’s smile lit his entire face. ‘Your manner denotes leadership and the quality of your dress screams money. You came in a taxi because of those heels—you wouldn’t have been able to drive in them. And there isn’t a hint of an indentation or change in colour on any of your fingers, which means you haven’t worn a ring in a very long time. You don’t wear nail polish,’ he continued, sure of himself, ‘no fancy rings, only simple jewellery—I’d guess you’re a very capable, self-assured woman, not needing all those artificial adornments to enhance the package.’

Clare noticed Sasha pull her hands off the table and tuck them on her lap—her pink-painted nails a dead give-away of her supposed insecurities, if King was to be believed. Personally, she figured he was full of himself—a load of hot air polluting the planet.

King was certainly clever. She had to give him that. But there was no reason she had to pander to him. She stared at the sweet on her plate and took a corner and put it in her mouth. The sheets of buttered wafer-thin pastry were layered with nuts and soaked in a lemony orange-blossom-flavoured sugar and honey syrup. It was heavenly, but it didn’t help her brain come up with some clever retort. ‘I could have changed into my heels after I’d driven here…?’

Mark knew he was right. He had to be or she wouldn’t be looking so demure, being so quiet and intent on her dessert. And he was sure her cheeks had paled a fraction. It was the thrill of the hunt. She was right. He enjoyed a challenge and she was just the sort of challenge he wanted to indulge in at the moment. ‘So, do you need a ride home?’

‘Are you offering?’ his stranger asked, her voice lilting melodiously. She dabbed her full lips with her serviette, staring him directly in the eyes as though daring him to wipe the smile off her lips with his own.

The music resumed in the ballroom and people started drifting away from the tables. Mark, however, had no intention of going anywhere until he had some answers.

He noticed Sasha rising next to him. ‘I’m just going to powder my nose.’

Now was the time to interrogate this lady, to give him a fair chance at this challenge of hers. He could throw all decorum and manners to the wind and seriously terrorise her into the truth without concerning himself with the effect on young Sasha.

Clare rose.

He started. ‘Are you joining her?’

‘Yes.’ She offered him one of her dazzling smiles. ‘Will you miss me?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll be here.’ Working out what the hell she was up to. She certainly was astute—she knew she’d be vulnerable on her own.

The thought that she was some gold-digger had occurred to him. She knew enough about him to know exactly the sort of woman he’d be attracted to. But, hell. Whatever she wanted, however much she cost, the way things were going he’d be up for it—for a chance at taming her.

Mark couldn’t help but watch her. She didn’t look back. Sasha did, though, and Mark couldn’t decide whether his sister’s friend liked the woman or was going to have a go at chopping her off at the knees. Mark suspected that Sasha figured he was her territory, but she’d have no joy with his stranger. This was a woman who knew her mind.

Mark had to admit he felt more alive than he’d been for a long time. He liked this game. But he wasn’t going to stick to the rules. He hadn’t got to where he had by falling in with other people’s games. He moved his leg and slipped out her mobile phone from underneath.

Distracting her had been a delight. That split in that dress of hers was perfect. She’d been so soft, so smooth—her handbag and its contents had become almost inconsequential to her leg.

Mark rose and strode to a quiet alcove off the dining room. He turned the small red mobile in his hand. He hoped she’d used it for a personal call and not some weather report that would get him nowhere. But then, there was always the kitchen staff. He didn’t have a qualm in the world about striding in there and interrogating them as to how they’d known his mystery guest’s dietary requirements.

He flipped it open and pushed redial. A taxi company would be ideal to track down who’d driven her here and from where, but too easy. Mark smiled. The thrill of the hunt pounded through his veins in tune with the peal of the phone.

‘Hello?’ It was a shaky voice. A woman’s. ‘Is that you, Clare?’

He rolled the name around his mind. ‘Excelsior Hotel. Lost and Found. We’ve just had this phone handed in and we pride ourselves on service. We’d love to return it to the owner before they leave tonight. Would you be able to describe the owner? I’ve just pushed redial so you’ve spoken to them recently. The phone is small and red. Looks like a woman’s.’

‘It’ll be Clare’s.’ The woman cleared her throat. ‘Clare Harrison. She’s tall, has shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes.’

Bingo! A swell of satisfaction rose in his chest. ‘Thank you. I’ll page her right away.’ He rang off, smiling. Clare Harrison. He had her now.

‘Isn’t that a woman’s mobile?’

Mark turned. John was so young and so naïve about the business world and all its shades of grey that became a way of life. ‘Yes—yes, it is.’

‘You look pleased, sir.’

‘Very pleased.’ Mark pressed the phone into John’s hand. ‘Hand this in to a waiter. Say you found it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ John looked dubiously at the phone and then at Mark.

‘Do we know a Clare Harrison? The name sounds familiar.’ And he was going to get a whole lot more familiar with the devilish woman.

‘Yes, sir.’

Mark snapped his head up. They did? How could they? He would never have forgotten her! ‘Well, who is she?’

John shuffled his feet. ‘She’s one of the owners of Trans-International. One of the smaller companies in the pipeline.’ John pulled at his tie. ‘Why?’

Mark tensed. Trans-Inter. Small and innocuous. Rising fast. A gem to add to his holdings. ‘I thought no one knew about our intentions for Trans-Inter?’

‘Nobody should, sir. Only a select group involved in researching and compiling the report. You’ve an appointment to see the other partner on Monday. He owns the majority of the company.’

‘I have, have I?’ Mark glared at John. ‘Under what name did you make our appointment?’ Mistakes weren’t to be tolerated. John was new, but Mark had made it very clear what he expected of him. If a sniff of his plans were known before he’d got his foot in the door with a partner he’d not only be fighting off the competition but the employees and the other partner…

‘Under Mark Johns, sir.’

Mark rubbed his jaw. A clever ruse, and not entirely untrue. John would be with him.

So, with that avenue ruled out, how had Miss Harrison found out? And what did she have planned for him? His mind went into overdrive. What would he do to save his business if the tables were turned? Anything! He couldn’t help feeling that whatever she had planned for him, he was up for it.

Clare Harrison was quite a woman. He would volley anything she could toss his way. And he was sure he’d enjoy the game.

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