‘You feel it too. Don’t you?’

‘Feel wh-what ... ?’ Kitty stammered.

Darius gave a click of impatience, the gleam leaving his eyes.

‘Oh, come on, Kitty,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t deny what your body accepted minutes ago. Because you can’t, can you? Your eyes are begging me to kiss you, aren’t they?’

‘N-no. They aren’t,’ she lied ineffectually.

He smiled. ‘And do you know, I’m very tempted?Very tempted indeed!’

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and ... well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him ... Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Passionate Fantasy

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Cover

Dear Reader

Author the Author

Title Page

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

I MUST be mad, thought Kitty as she knotted the ribbon in her hair before tying it in a bow. No, not just mad. Certifiable.

What did a girl wear for an interview with a world-famous film director?

She stared in the mirror again. Her ginger curls had gone totally wild after her shower, billowing into a mass of uncontrollable frizz. Very attractive! Just about the only thing she could do with it was to catch it back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck with a black velvet ribbon. Her pale, freckle-spattered skin was bare—she had discovered a long time ago that foundation was useless on a complexion which was basically two-tone! The eyelashes which surrounded her blue eyes were normally the same pale ginger-blonde as her hair, but every six weeks she dyed them black. It made her eyes look bigger, and it meant that she didn’t have to mess around every morning applying mascara.

She had ummed and ahhed about what to wear. Mr Darius Speed would doubtless be used to women in up-market designer clothes, which was tough, since she didn’t have any. Kitty had chosen instead a smart pair of cotton shorts in jade-green, with a matching silk scoop-necked T-shirt. There were a million colours you couldn’t wear with ginger hair— but fortunately green wasn’t one of them. It would actually have been preferable to wear long sleeves to cover up her freckly arms, but the weather in Perth, Western Australia was sweltering and since Kitty had arrived two months ago she had had to abandon her much loved camouflage of jumpers and cardigans.

It was hard to believe that she was actually being interviewed for the job of cook to a man with the formidable reputation of Darius Speed. She would have thought that he’d have a top chef flown in from somewhere, but no—it seemed that he was interested in her, Kitty Goodman, with nothing to her name but a diploma from catering college.

What Mr Speed didn’t know was that Kitty was specifically interested in him, and not the job. Not romantically interested, of course, as so many women were—that was if you could believe half of what you read in the gossip-columns.

No, Kitty’s interest was of a far more noble nature—she was on a mission for her new and very dear friend Caro—to prove to the world that the supposedly high-minded Mr Speed had ripped Caro off—had stolen the film-script which Caro had spent a lifetime working on, and was planning to use it under his own name!

It had astonished and horrified Kitty to discover just how devious she could be. She had planned this interview with the film-maker with the precision of a military campaign. She had applied to him first in a letter, stating her qualifications and references. What had seemed like ages had passed, until she had been certain that she was out of the running—and then a well-spoken man had rung her up out of the blue to arrange an interview time.

‘Are you free tomorrow evening?’ the voice had asked.

She had remembered Caro showing her the newspaper clipping which had pictured a girl draped round the film director’s neck like a boa-constrictor. ‘Tomorrow evening, Mr Speed?’ she had enquired frostily.

‘I’m not,’ an amused-sounding voice had said, ‘Darius Speed. I’m Simon Parker—his secretary.’

‘It seems rather an—odd—time for an interview,’ Kitty had ventured.

The voice had sounded even more amused. ‘Not so much odd as unusual. He’s an unusual man. And besides, he’s out doing research during the day.’

‘Oh.’

‘So are you available or not?’

It had struck Kitty that he could have chosen a word with slightly less awkward connotations than ‘available’, in the light of what Caro had told her about Darius Speed’s reputation with the fairer sex, and she couldn’t help feeling a little shiver of apprehension, half tempted to tell him no. But then she had thought about what she had promised Caro. ‘Yes,’ she had said, forcing a note of enthusiasm into her voice. ‘I’m free.’

‘Good. Can you meet him in Barbary’s restaurant at eight? Oh, and don’t eat first.’

A meeting in a restaurant. At night. Don’t eat first. Kitty’s face, she hoped, hid her misgivings as she paid her cab fare and walked into the fashionable and already crowded restaurant at five minutes before the appointed time.

‘Mr Speed, please,’ she said to the maȋtre d’.

He gave her an expansive smile. ‘Mr Speed hasn’t arrived, madam. If you would like me to show you to your table?’

She followed him across the room to a table which was suitably central for an important customer, yet far enough away from other tables to prevent any conversation being overheard.

‘Would madam like a drink?’

‘Just a mineral water, please,’ she said instantly, vowing that alcohol wouldn’t cloud her senses. ‘Sparkling.’

The drink was produced immediately in a long crystal glass packed with ice, With a piece of lime floating decorously on the surface, and Kitty had just started sipping it when there was the momentary lull which, she knew, heralded the arrival of Somebody Very Important, and the man whose photograph she had seen in the newspaper appeared in the doorway.

Darius Speed.

He looked straight across the restaurant, at the table at which she was sitting, and their eyes met. He stood very still for a moment, and stared hard at her. His own face was stern, although he said something to the maȋtre d’ which produced a wide smile.

Wow! was her first thoroughly instinctive thought. In the photograph he had looked devastating, but in the flesh he was something else! He had to be the most delectable man she had ever, ever set eyes on, and then she reminded herself what kind of man he was, and immediately felt appalled at herself.

He began to walk towards her, full of both grace and power, and Kitty watched him approach, suddenly exceedingly nervous of what she was intending to do. She was intending to infiltrate the house of this man, to gain his trust, and then coolly to rob him. And while that was OK in theory, the reality of such an intimidating opponent quite unnerved her.

He was so much bigger than she had imagined— well over six feet—and his shoulders were distinctly and disturbingly broad. His hair was as dark as the night, unmarred by any trace of grey. And as he came closer to the table she could see that his eyes were the light, mercurial colour of quicksilver—grey one minute, silver the next.

He wore a suit in some dark grey material which fell loosely about the powerful frame, yet hinted at the strength which lay beneath, but there all conventionality ended because beneath the suit he was tieless, wearing a shirt of black silk—the hard inky colour somehow at odds with the softness of the material, as the penetrating look in his eyes was curiously at odds with the polite half-smile he gave her as he extended his hand.

‘Miss Goodman? No, don’t get up—I’m Darius Speed.’

She took the hand he offered, felt it give hers the most cursory of firm squeezes, before he sat down opposite her, his eyes questioning as he waited for her to speak.

‘Good evening, Mr Speed.’ Stop sounding like a mouse speaking to a lion, she told herself firmly.

‘Darius,’ he corrected shortly. ‘And you’re Kitty?’

She nodded, taking her courage in both hands. ‘I am.’

The grey eyes flicked over her face, briefly taking in the well-pressed but fairly unremarkable outfit she wore. ‘You don’t,’ he said, the deep voice holding the faintest undercurrent of warning—or was that just in her guilty imagination—‘look in the least bit like a cook.’

Her instinct was to counter-attack, but she wanted the job, so she forced herself to be pleasant. From everything that Caro had told her, she already despised this man, but he wasn’t going to discover that. Not for a little while, anyway. ‘Whereas you,’ she smiled, ‘look exactly like a film director.’

There was an almost imperceptible tensing of his facial muscles. ‘You’ve heard of me, then?’

‘Naturally,’ she concurred. ‘I’m applying to work for you, aren’t I?’

Grey eyes narrowed instantly. ‘But the job description said only that the successful applicant would be working for a businessman. I don’t remember specifying which business.’

‘Well, I recognised you as soon as you walked into the restaurant,’ she amended hastily. ‘From your photo in the paper.’

He leaned back a little. ‘Did you?’ he enquired lazily, and Kitty got a strange and vivid impression that he would easily be able to differentiate between truth and fiction. She had better be careful. ‘Well, that makes a refreshing change,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

He shrugged, the movement causing a dark tendril of hair to stray on to his high and faintly tanned forehead. ‘You have no idea,’ he said, ‘how many young women believe that it will elicit my lasting and unswerving dedication if they play-act-usually badly—failing to recognise me. The implication being, I imagine, that I will respect a woman far more if she likes me for being just me, rather than for the attraction of my fame and my money.’

Kitty remembered one of her mother’s lessons. She counted to ten, but as she did so she began to savour putting into action her plan to extricate the script from this intolerably arrogant man! ‘Dear me,’ she said placatingly. ‘How difficult relationships can be—as I know to my cost! You don’t appear to have had very much luck either.’

It was the gentlest of put-downs. Obviously not what he was expecting her to say. He should have had the grace to look abashed.

He didn’t.

‘You don’t look like a chef,’ he observed again.

‘Don’t I?’ She gave a serene smile. ‘You would have preferred the stereotype, perhaps? A good ten pounds overweight, checked trousers, a white jacket with tall matching hat? Perhaps the tip of my nose covered in flour would have added the final convincing touch?’

There was the faintest smile, before the handsome face resumed a mocking mask. ‘Something like that,’ he said softly.

She looked straight into the flashing silver eyes. Oh, that voice, she thought reluctantly. Had she ever heard a voice like that before? Never. It sounded like chocolate and honey. Like music played by some deep, sexy instrument. With the faintest of underlying drawls which made it especially distinctive. She sighed. Why couldn’t he have looked like the back end of a bus? Much easier, surely, to deceive someone who didn’t bring you out in goose-bumps all over.

The silver-grey eyes were unwavering. ‘Now,’ he said crisply. ‘Before we go any further, I have to tell you that I’m looking for a chef and not an actress.’

She stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked slowly.

‘Think about it.’

Comprehension slowly dawned. ‘You think—that I’m really an actress? That my applying for the job of cook is simply a ploy to get to meet you?’

‘You’ve got it in one,’ he murmured.

Of all the insufferable arrogance! Stealing from this man was going to be pure, undiluted joy! ‘You’ve seen my certificates,’ she said coldly. ‘You must know I’m bona fide.’

‘Oh, yes—I’ve seen them.’ He laughed then, a sort of bitter, empty laugh. ‘But you’d be surprised,’ he drawled, ‘just how many women try it on. The whole world, it seems, wants to break into the movie business. I ring out for pizza—the girl who delivers it belts out a number from last year’s musical. I go shopping, and the woman selling me the sweater asks can she visit me on set to audition. Not just women, either. I take a bus and the driver gives me a rendition of Macbeth’s soliloquy. Yes——’ he must have seen her disbelieving expression ‘—bus. I don’t travel exclusively by limousine. If I cut myself off from real life, then I can’t make real films.’

What a cynic! Kitty drew a deep breath. ‘Listen to me,’ she told him. ‘I cannot recite poetry or dance to save my life. When I start to sing, people leave the room in droves. I have no desire in the world to become an actress. Cooking is what I do best, and I enjoy it. At the moment I’m temping— mostly waitress work—handing out microwaved food with stupid names to people who don’t need it. I answered your advertisement because I want to go back to cooking, which is why I’m here, though heaven knows—a restaurant seems a bizarre place in which to conduct an interview——’

‘You think so?’ Unexpectedly he gave a wolfish grin and handed her one of the leather-bound menus which the maître d’ had placed silently on the table in front of him during their little discourse, as though he hadn’t dared to interrupt. ‘I can’t think of a better place to interview someone who works with food.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She nodded in comprehension as she took the menu and scanned it. ‘This is to be trial by bread and butter, is it? I’ll be pilloried if I commit a crime so heinous as ordering strawberries out of season, or liberally sprinkling my food with pepper and salt without having tasted it first ... ?’ She looked up to find that his eyes were fixed with amusement on her face. It was there for a moment, and then it was gone, and, in the few seconds that it took, her heart-rate underwent an alarming acceleration.

‘Do you always have an answer for everything?’ he mused.

She stared down at the menu, the handwritten italic script just meaningless hieroglyphics to her confused eyes. No, she didn’t. This verbal jousting had been sparked by him. Him. And admit it, she thought, you enjoyed sparring with him. You liked the fact that you were able to make him smile.

‘She retreats,’ he commented. ‘Wondering whether she has taken one step too far.’

If it weren’t for Caro, she’d be taking more than one step, she fumed silently. She’d be taking several, right out of here, and away from Darius Speed with his alarming attraction.

‘What should I have?’ he queried casually. ‘What can a restaurant best be judged on?’

It was a relief to be able to concentrate on something other than what a hunk he was. Her special field. ‘Something fresh,’ she replied promptly, ‘which can’t be successfully reheated. Here I would try the eggs Florentine—poached eggs, béarnaise sauce and spinach—a simple dish which is heaven if it’s done properly, hell if it’s not.’

He nodded. ‘If——’

‘Mr Speed ...’

They both looked up. A woman, who looked as though she had been poured into a black satin dress, stood looking down at them. The hair which tumbled artfully over her shoulders was blonde, but with the falsely honeyed hue of bottled peroxide.

He raised dark eyebrows. ‘Yes?’ he enquired noncommittally.

‘Mr Speed,’ she gushed, ‘I’ve been a fan of yours for so long. I loved your last film, and——’

‘There’s a problem, Mr Speed?’ It was the professional voice of the Maȋtre d’.

‘No problem,’ he came back implacably. ‘What can I do for you, Miss ... ?’

‘Arnold,’ she gushed. ‘Ffyona Arnold—that’s with two fs and a y. Could I have your—autograph?’ She batted sooty lashes and gave a little-girl smile. ‘Please’?

‘Sure.’

Kitty thought she detected a faint sigh as he took a gold fountain-pen from the pocket of his jacket and accepted the card which Ffyona Arnold offered.

Was this what it was like, then—fame? wondered Kitty. That elusive twentieth-century symbol of success, chased by so many and given to so few. Was this all it was? Total strangers disturbing you in restaurants, transparent in their eagerness for something more than a mere signature?

‘What would you like me to write?’ he asked politely.

Ffyona Arnold gave another coquettish smile. ‘How about the chance to show you what I can do—acting-wise, I mean?’ She giggled hopefully, then must have seen the barely concealed look of boredom on his face. ‘Your phone number would do,’ she gushed.

Good heavens, thought Kitty, the woman must have the skin of a rhinoceros not to have picked up the negative vibes which were shimmering across the table from where the film-maker sat.

‘Sorry.’ He negated her request with a tone of chilly indifference, signing his name instead with a sweepingly confident flourish, and handed the card back with a polite gesture of dismissal.

After the disappointed woman had been firmly led away by the Maȋtre d’, he turned back to Kitty, and she could see the mild expression of distaste which curled his lips. Was that all for her benefit? she wondered. If he hadn’t been interviewing, would he have taken the woman up on her blatant offer? Taken her back to his house for a night of decadence?

He gestured towards her now empty glass. ‘Something stronger?’ he enquired. ‘Some wine perhaps?’

‘No, thank you. Just mineral water,’ she said, much too quickly, and, suddenly nervous, knocked over the small crystal salt-cellar by her hand, and it tipped on to its side, salt spilling out in a small pile, a snowy little mountain growing on the crisp damask of the tablecloth.

There was a short silence while a waiter rushed over, brushed up the residue and replaced the saltcellar, and she couldn’t miss the searching look Darius Speed gave her, the eyes narrowed as if he hadn’t expected clumsiness from her; and normally he would have been right. Normally.

‘Tell my why you applied for this job,’ he said, a cool impartiality making the deep voice devoid of any emotion.

He mustn’t suspect, she thought desperately. He mustn’t.

‘You pay well,’ she said, and she saw him give a small nod as though he understood the language of hard currency very well. ‘Enough for me to save up and see the rest of Australia.’

‘You could have done that in one of the established restaurants—of which Perth has many—some of them with world-class reputations. And you could have learnt from one of the master chefs.’

She shook her head. ‘I’d have ended up chopping garlic in one corner of the kitchen. Working on my own gives me professional autonomy—and I like that.’

‘Do you?’ He nodded, and continued to subject her to that steady, cool stare, his eyes now the colour of pewter, shadowed by thick, dark lashes. ‘And is there anything you’d care to ask me— Kitty?’

Don’t seem too eager. He wouldn’t give the job to just anyone. This kind of man would value someone only if she valued herself. She took a sip of iced mineral water, returning his cool stare with one of her own. ‘I’m surprised that you need a fulltime chef. Being a single man, that is.’

‘You assume that I’m single, then? Been reading the papers again?’

‘Not at all,’ she shot back. ‘I made the assumption because, if you were married, then I would certainly have expected your wife to take part in the choice of chef.’

‘Because cooking is a woman’s province, perhaps?’

‘Because of equality within the relationship,’ she countered. ‘And some of the world’s greatest chefs are men, as I’m sure you know.’

‘Indeed. Very generously conceded, Kitty. And you’re right—I am single.’ He smiled, and sipped his own mineral water. ‘I’m writing a screenplay,’ he said, ‘as well as auditioning for a film I’ll be making, starting in January. I’m also researching a documentary on Rottnest Island, which the Western Australian government has asked me to make. So there will be film people in and out of the house. I keep very odd hours, because when I work I work. I also entertain people from all over the world, and I prefer to do that at home. In restaurants, there are often ...’ His eyes shot over to the other side of the room, where Ffyona Arnold was sitting, ignoring her dining companion and gazing at Darius. When she saw him look over, she gave him a hopeful smile, but he did not return it.

‘There are distractions,’ he continued surprisingly, and Kitty knew a moment’s confusion. He sounded as if he disapproved of the kind of ‘distraction’ that Ffyona Arnold represented—and yet surely, according to what Caro had told her, he would be pleased to meet a woman who would jump into bed for less than the price of dinner?

‘Sometimes I may fly in at some unearthly hour,’ he went on, ‘and require you to put a meal together for me, so the job needs a live-in cook. Does that bother you?’

The look was penetrating. She gave a nervous swallow. ‘Not at all. It’ll save rent.’

Another twist of the mouth. ‘You aren’t worried about giving up your independence?’

‘I don’t know anyone in Perth, really,’ she lied, and then, because she was afraid that she would blush and give herself away, she moved away from that particular subject. ‘The only thing I feel you ought to know is that I can’t guarantee that I’ll stay with you for any more than a year.’ Or more than a week, if she could get the script by then! ‘Would that matter to you?’

He didn’t smile. ‘It would suit me perfectly. If I may be frank—by that time you’ll probably have begun to irritate me, and I you. I have a very low boredom threshold.’ He ignored her shocked intake of breath at his blatant rudeness. ‘The job’s yours, Kitty. Do you want it?’

Her skin beneath the jade silk T-shirt felt suddenly shivery, even though the temperature in the restaurant was equable. The tips of her breasts tingled strangely, as if her reflexes were instinctively telling her to steer clear. For one moment she was tempted just to push her chair back and walk out through that door, not caring what he or the other diners thought. But then a vision of Caro imposed itself on her mind. Dear, kind Caro. Caro on the brink of tears. Her life’s work pirated by a man with no scruples.

She met the spectacular grey stare, and blinked, as if afraid that those intelligent eyes had been perceptive enough to understand her silent tussle. ‘I’d be pleased to accept,’ she said quietly.

‘Good.’ He gave a nod in the direction of the back of the restaurant, and Kitty saw a tall, slim man with brown hair rise from a discreet corner table and come towards their own.

‘This is Simon,’ said Darius Speed, ‘my secretary. I believe you’ve already spoken. He will fill you in on all the details of your employment Over dinner. Afterwards he will arrange for one of my cars to drop you at your home. Please feel free to order what you want. I have urgent business which I must attend to. Goodbye.’ Another brief, firm contact as he shook her hand.

Kitty watched while he threaded his way through the restaurant, the attention of every single female in the room drawn to his tall, muscular physique.

And then Kitty saw something else. Did Simon notice, she wondered, or was it just her?

Seconds after Darius had disappeared into the plant-filled vestibule towards the exit, someone followed him. A woman encased in clinging black satin.

It was Ffyona Arnold, the autograph-hunter— she had left her companion to follow him—a rapacious look of anticipation all over her pretty, vacant face.

CHAPTER TWO

‘CAN you take me to Dalkeith, please?’ Kitty mentioned the name of the well-known Perth suburb to the taxi-driver.

He grinned. ‘No worries. Whereabouts?’

‘Jackland Parade.’ She gave the name of the street, and the driver gave a long, low whistle.

‘Millionaires’ row?’ he queried, and looked more closely at her as he handed in her two suitcases. ‘Hit the big time, have you, love?’

Kitty flicked a thick ginger plait back over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got a job there,’ she told him.

‘Lucky you,’ he commented as he turned the key in the ignition.

Lucky? Her hands were cold and clammy. The way she felt at the moment, she was lucky she hadn’t been committed to the nearest asylum to have her brain examined.

In the week since her successful interview with Darius Speed, Kitty had had time to reflect on the wisdom of attempting her madcap scheme. The man with the quicksilver grey eyes had disturbed her in more ways than one, but mostly it had been her recognition of his keen intelligence which had filled her with dread.

In the end it had been Caro who had talked away her fears, telling her that it would be simple. She could be in and out of there in a month, maybe a week if she was lucky, with the film-script in her hand, and the eternal gratitude of her friend.

‘But what if he suspects? Or, even worse, guesses why I’m there?’

Caro had shrugged in her happy-go-lucky way. ‘How can he?’ she had quizzed. ‘You’ll be in the kitchen most of the time—you’ll hardly see him. He travels a lot, and while he’s away you find out the combination of his safe.’

‘How?’ Kitty had demanded, ever practical.

Caro had smiled. ‘You’ll think of something.’

‘Will I?’

‘Of course you will! Honestly, Kitty, you’ll be fine!’

But as the taxi waited outside electronic wrought-iron gates while a uniformed guard telephoned her name through to the house, Kitty felt like one of the Christians about to be fed to the lions. Even when they were given the all-clear, her nervousness showed no sign of abating.

They drove up to the impressive-looking two-storey white building. The gardens were extensive and beautiful, displaying much of the lush tropical flora which Kitty knew abounded in the state of Western Australia. She could see trees with bright exotic blossoms of red and mauve, standing out brilliantly against the clear blue of the sky.

She looked up at the house, her eyes registering its unpretentiousness—but, for all that, she knew that the property must be worth a cool half-million, at least.

But, to her surprise, the front door opened immediately, and it was not some uniformed minion who came out but Darius Speed himself, running lightly down the steps with all the grace and stamina of the natural athlete.

He was dressed in tennis whites: a short-sleeved T-shirt, slightly damp with sweat, and a pair of immaculate white shorts which came to mid-thigh, showing a long expanse of tanned and muscular leg. His hair was damp too, little tendrils dancing around the strong neck.

She stared up at him, momentarily transfixed. The sun was behind him—and his eyes were full of a clear, bright light which rivalled its brilliance. He looked, she thought, like the very antithesis of a blond Greek god—with his dark hair and his shadowed, mysterious face in repose.

But as he spoke her illusions fled. ‘Hello, Kitty,’ he said coolly. Then, as he saw her pull Out her purse and begin to open it, he shook his head. ‘I’ll get this,’ he said.

She watched, while pretending not to, as he walked towards the car. He had bent down, and was grinning at something the taxi-driver had said. Kitty gulped in unwilling admiration. At that moment he looked so carefree and so relaxed—the very picture of health and strength—a man at the very peak of his vitality. She began to wonder how a woman might feel to have those strong brown arms around her waist, to feel that lean, hard body pressed against——

‘Such a pensive cook,’ came a soft voice beside her, and she snapped out of her reverie in horror to find Darius at her side, a heavy suitcase carried in either hand with ease. ‘And from the look on your face you were worrying about more than what equipment you’re going to find in my kitchen?’

Hardly! And she certainly wasn’t going to tell him what she had been thinking! She fixed him with her sweetest smile. ‘I was imagining how you would react if my soufflé failed to rise,’ she lied quickly.

His eyes glittered. ‘I allow everyone one mistake, Kitty—but only one. Come, I’ll show you inside.’

She followed him up the marble steps. She must pull herself together—stop crediting him with powers of perception he couldn’t possibly have. He didn’t have the power to read her mind; he was just an ordinary man.

No, she corrected herself silently, her eyes swinging automatically to watch the well-shaped line of his buttocks, revealed in all their muscular beauty in the white shorts. Not an ordinary man at all. He had something which would always mark him out in a crowd, and it wasn’t just the outstandingly good looks, or the superb physique, or even that cool, calculating mind. He seemed to radiate some inner strength, some steely quality at the very heart of him. He looked, she thought, more than a little apprehensively, as though he did not have one vulnerable bone in his entire body ...

He led her into a large entrance hall. ‘Right,’ he said briskly. ‘That door over there is my study. I don’t care to be disturbed when I’m in there working. Not for any reason. Understand?’

She nodded, her eyes still taking in the vastness of the hall.

‘The main sitting-room is next door to the diningroom and over there——’ he pointed ‘—is the kitchen. I’ll get Simon to show you over properly later, once you’ve had a chance to settle in. I’d show you myself, but right now I’m a little tied up.’

At that moment, the door of another room opened and an incredibly pretty woman in her late twenties came out.

This was obviously what was tying him up, thought Kitty. His tennis partner. And what a stunner!

The woman was also wearing tennis whites—a short, pleated white skirt which showed off her long, evenly tanned legs. And, even though they had obviously just finished playing, she was clearly one of those women who didn’t sweat. She looked as cool as a cucumber, with not a hair of the shiny brown ponytail out of place, not the merest hint of a shiny nose, nor the tell-tale sign of smudged mascara. Even her lipstick had remained unspoiled. Kitty loved sport herself, but her pale complexion inevitably flushed pink within the first ten minutes of playing.

Darius’s partner turned her big brown eyes towards him, her hundred-megawatt smile for him alone.

He smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said. ‘My new chef has just arrived. Kitty, this is Julia Davies. Julia—Kitty Goodman.’

‘Hi,’ grinned Julia. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

She gave Kitty the once-over, but the friendliness in her face didn’t waver.

She doesn’t see me as a threat, thought Kitty suddenly. ‘Hello,’ she said, forcing herself to smile back and quell the sudden rush of regret that she hadn’t been born tall and lovely. That her gingery hair and accompanying freckles meant that breezily beautiful women like Julia considered her no threat, considered her safe to work around a man like Darius.

‘Don’t give him too many carbohydrates, will you?’ laughed Julia. ‘We don’t want him piling on the pounds.’ And she gave Darius a playful punch against a rock-hard torso which contained not a hint of spare flesh.

‘I’m just showing Kitty to her room,’ said Darius. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes.’

‘Fine. Mind if I take a shower?’

‘Go ahead.’

And that, thought Kitty, spoke volumes about the intimacy of their relationship.

‘Bye, Kitty,’ said Julia. ‘I’ll look forward to sampling your cooking!’ She gave another megawatt smile and walked off with a wiggle, disappearing into a room at the end of the long passage. To his bedroom? wondered Kitty.

There was a short pause as they watched her—Kitty was dying to ask who the confident woman who had eyed her so dismissively was, but Darius was already speaking to her.

‘Come with me and I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.’

To her surprise, he walked straight through the house and out at the other side, into a beautifully informal garden whose vast size made her blink. He weaved his way down a winding path onto which a profusion of different-coloured flowers spilled, their hues like the contents of an artist’s palette. He stopped at last in front of a building painted in an ice-cream-pink colour. It was a single storey only, and looked so cosy that it reminded Kitty immediately of an olde-worlde English cottage—she half expected to see hollyhocks and delphiniums growing around the door!

‘I’ve put you in this annexe,’ he said. ‘I thought you might prefer it. It’s completely self-contained.’

‘The servant’s quarters?’ she murmured without thinking, then immediately wished she hadn’t, for he fixed her with a sharp look.

‘I thought that you might prefer the privacy. I have house guests staying sometimes—and as you’ll be serving them with food and drink for a lot of the time I thought you’d like your own particular escape-valve.’

Her heart sank. The whole point of taking this job had been to give her access to his house. How on earth was she supposed to get to know the combination of his safe if she was situated miles away from the wretched thing? ‘But what happens if they want drinks or snacks, say, in the middle of the afternoon?’ she suggested brightly. ‘Surely it would be much easier to have me—on tap, so to speak?’

His eyes narrowed at her unfortunate phrase, and she flushed scarlet to the roots of her hair.

‘If they want anything between meals I can fix it. Or they can. I don’t want you to be at my beck and call all day—that isn’t the way I operate. You’re employed to provide breakfast, lunch and dinner. And sometimes tea mid-afternoon. And if that sounds like slave-labour, then remember—the nature of my job means I may have to go off for two or three days at a time, and you’ll be completely free when I do.’

What alternative did she have other than to smile politely? ‘That sounds very reasonable,’ she said. Too reasonable. She’d have preferred a touch of the tyrant—tyrants were easier to dislike than reasonable men.

‘It’s now almost one,’ he continued in that deep, drawling voice. ‘Don’t bother with lunch today. If you’d like to get yourself unpacked, I’ll send Simon over in about an hour—he’ll show you over the main house. You remember Simon?’ he prompted, with an indefinable gleam lighting his grey eyes.

Yes, she remembered the tall, brown-haired secretary with whom she’d shared a short and somewhat awkward meal after her bizarre ‘interview’—when he had steadfastly and neatly fielded any questions which might have given her a little more insight into the character of Darius Speed. Had he told his boss that she had seemed unusually interested in him? she wondered briefly, before discounting the thought. He probably hadn’t thought to mention it—for wouldn’t any prospective employee show a healthy interest in the man she would be working for, especially a man with the formidable reputation of Darius?

‘Thanks,’ she said, giving him what she hoped was another polite smile.

He nodded his dark head. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in. You have your own kitchen, which is fully stocked with everything I thought you’d need. Anything else, order it up through Simon. There’s a swimming-pool in the grounds—please feel free to use it.’ He began to turn away.

‘And—when would you like me to start work?’ she ventured.

He frowned distractedly, as if she had intruded on his thoughts. Glancing at the watch on his wrist, he paused. ‘Let me see— I’m working on a script all day and I’m out to the theatre tonight. I’d like some sandwiches and tea at five-thirty, and supper for four after the show—just something cold which you can leave out. Nothing too fancy. Use what’s available for tonight—you can shop tomorrow. And now,’ he added, ‘I’d better shower— I’m expecting a transatlantic call very shortly.’

She had a sudden, brief image of him showering. With Julia? Would the pretty brunette soon be slowly and sensuously rubbing lather all over that magnificent body of his ... ?

Kitty came back to the present to realise that she was studying the bronzed shafts of his muscular legs rather too closely, and she couldn’t miss the tiny flash of discernment which briefly flared in the silver eyes as he acknowledged her scrutiny. A small smile played at the corners of his lips.

‘Well, I think that’s all. I’ll see you at dinner— Kitty.’ And he walked off back down the path the way they’d come, his tennis clothes dazzlingly and starkly white against the deep, rich colours of the flowers.

Oh, lord, thought Kitty, her eyes following him with reluctant fascination. How on earth can I work for him and how can I steal from him if I’m going to start conjuring up disturbingly erotic fantasies about him on day one?

CHAPTER THREE

KITTY’S hands were trembling as she pushed open the door and walked into the annexe, but her surroundings quickly lulled her into a calmer state, for it was impossible not to appreciate the comfort of the accommodation Darius had provided.

The sitting-room was deceptively large—but then she decided that perhaps the simplicity of the furnishings added to the illusion of space. The floors were of some pale wood which shone with the gleam of regular polishing. Several rugs were scattered here and there, woven with images which resembled some of the aboriginal paintings she had spotted in various Perth shops.

On the white walls were several large paintings depicting the Australian outback, whose vibrant colours dominated the room. They were all so exquisitely executed that she stood for a moment before one, completely lost in it. She saw the vivid cobalt-blue of a cloudless sky, contrasting with the deep dry red of the terrain, out of whose dust spiky, unfamiliar plants grew. She could imagine the harshness of that bleak and beautiful landscape. A different Australia, she thought as she gazed at it with rapt attention—and a world away from the sophisticated city she had seen so far.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, she explored the rest of the cottage. There was a bathroom with both bath and shower, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and a bedroom with a double bed in it ... For one wild, unstoppable moment she imagined Darius Speed lying darkly naked against the stark white sheets. She wondered fleetingly if he made love as beautifully as he made films ...

Oh, for goodness’ sake! She was becoming obsessed with thinking about sex—she, with the sexual experience of a gnat!

What was important was that she was here, ready to put her plan into action and to do a big favour for Caro.

Kitty owed a lot to Caro. The rather eccentric sixty-five-year-old had rescued her from the deadly-dull highway snack-bar where Kitty had been working ever since she’d arrived in Western Australia on a working holiday, feeling utterly miserable and determined to forget all about Hugo. Caro had employed her as a temp in her own employment agency, Caro’s Kitchen Cookies. Caro was friendly and clucky and Kitty adored her—and if the jobs she’d been sent on weren’t up to much, well, at least they’d been thankfully brief and a whole lot better than the highway snack-bar. Kitty had shied away from permanent work, thinking that it might be too restrictive, but soon she’d begun to hanker after something which would allow her to use her culinary skills, instead of zooming round carrying a tray all day.

Then one day Caro had announced that she had the perfect permanent job—‘but I can’t possibly send you on it.’

‘Why not?’ Kitty had wanted to know.

‘Because it’s working for Darius Speed—the cheating swine!’

That’s when the whole story had come out about Darius Speed stealing Caro’s film-script.

‘I sent it to him in good faith!’ she’d quavered. ‘It was brilliant—and now I hear he’s making it into a film, with not a cent to me, or even a mention!’

Kitty had begged to go on the interview. ‘I’m going to get your script back for you, Caro,’ she’d said coolly.

‘Could you really?’ Caro’s hands had fluttered as she’d waved her cheroot in the air. ‘But you will be careful, won’t you?’ she’d twittered. ‘He can be very devious, you know.’

‘Well, I can be devious too,’ muttered Kitty aloud as she began to undo the zip of her suitcase. ‘Taking advantage of an old lady, indeed!’

She quickly hung her clothes up and filled the drawers with underwear, swimsuits and T-shirts, and checked her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing cobalt-blue leggings and a short-sleeved silk shirt of exactly the same colour. A casual outfit, and one which was entirely suitable for cooking, particularly when protected by one of the deep blue cotton smocks she usually wore for working.

She unpacked her various lotions and potions in the bathroom, before glancing at her watch. It would, in normal circumstances, she thought rather wistfully, be absolutely wonderful to have a swim in the pool he’d mentioned. But these were not normal circumstances, and it was important that she didn’t lose sight of that for a moment. Important that she stayed on her guard where Darius Speed was concerned ...

She glanced at her watch again. It had only taken her twenty short minutes to unpack, and Darius had said that Simon would be around in an hour.

Her sneaker-clad foot tapped lightly on the wooden floor and, as the minutes ticked by, she became sorely tempted to go and explore the house for herself.

Why bother waiting for Simon to come and show her around? Why not show a little initiative? She would go and explore the kitchen in the main house, decide what to cook for the evening meal, and maybe—just maybe—catch a glimpse of where he kept his safe ...

She walked back along the perfumed path and into the main house, revelling in its cool, dim interior. The floors here were marble—she’d never seen marble floors in a private house before—and there was something so ancient and classical about them that she found herself having to resist an urge to slip her canvas shoes off, to feel the polished stone cool and smooth beneath her bare feet.

The house was also quiet.

Very quiet.

She stood still for a moment, listening, her head cocked to the side like a bird which suspected that a cat lurked near by. There was not a single sound to be heard.

Kitty made up her mind instantly, reminding herself of all the maxims learnt in childhood—about no time like the present, he who hesitates is lost ... so why waste an opportunity which might not arise again for some days? Darius was in the shower, which meant that the study was free. And the study was probably where he kept his safe ...

A number of doors led off the large main hallway and she moved lightly towards the door she thought he had said was his study, pausing as she gave the gentlest of taps, which went unanswered, so, pushing it quietly open, she stepped inside, her heart sinking with disappointment as she noted that it was a light, airy sitting-room whose doors opened on to the veranda. Not a sight of a safe to be seen ...

She retraced her steps back into the hall, her eyes scanning the doors anxiously, as if she hoped that their closed exteriors might provide her with some clue. Like a small painted notice saying ‘safe’— perhaps with a convenient arrow? she thought with a trace of humour as she knocked at a second door, her heart lifting as she walked inside and saw walls lined from ceiling to floor with books. Eureka! She saw a huge high-backed chair with its back to her which presided over a vast antique desk. His study, she thought with relief.

And then, to her absolute horror, the chair slowly swung round and, facing her, the quicksilver eyes as cold as mercury itself, the mouth unsmiling, sat Darius, his dark hair in damp tendrils, a telephone receiver cradled between neck and shoulder and— oh, horror of horrors—he was wearing nothing but a short, dark towelling robe which gave her a provocative glimpse of taut, hair-roughened thigh and an equally disturbing view of a dark, muscular torso.

‘Hello, Kitty.’ The deep voice was very quiet, a strange undertone to it which filled her with instinctive foreboding. ‘Looking for something?’

She thought, desperately, that her guilt must be written all over her frozen stance. If her intentions had been innocent, she would have been able to shrug and laugh it off, but, as it was, she didn’t like the way he was looking at her one bit.

She decided quickly to brazen it out. ‘Sorry,’ she said guilelessly. ‘I was looking for the kitchen.’

‘I pointed it out to you earlier. Remember?’ he prompted sarcastically.

‘I’d—forgotten,’ she improvised quickly.

‘But that’s precisely why I instructed Simon to give you a guided tour,’ he snapped back. ‘I thought I told you to wait for him to collect you?’

‘Er—so you did,’ she said lamely as she tried to think of a reasonable-sounding excuse, but quite honestly the sight of his body, obviously stark-naked beneath the robe, had put paid to any powers of reasoning remaining intact.

‘So why didn’t you?’ he barked out at her, as though she were some kind of imbecile.

‘Because I——’ But she didn’t have a chance to formulate an answer.

‘Listen,’ he cut across her, his voice as cold as his silver-grey eyes. ‘Did you ever stop to wonder why I took so long before I interviewed you?’

‘It had crossed my mind,’ she admitted. ‘I thought you’d probably found someone else you preferred.’

‘What an attractive idea, Kitty,’ he said softly. ‘But unfortunately, unless I employed some well-established prima donna, there was no one nearly as good as you. And the reason I took so long was that I’m very fussy about who I allow in my home— and therefore I needed to write to England for your references.’

‘But I sent you my references!’ she protested.

‘Which weren’t worth the paper they were written on,’ he ground out uncompromisingly. ‘It’s a common enough trick among people working abroad to forge their testimonials.’

Kitty’s mouth fell open. In the circumstances, what right did he have to accuse her of being a cheat?

‘I was satisfied with the information I received from England,’ he continued relentlessly. ‘As I was satisfied that you were reliable enough to carry out simple instructions. When I told you to wait, you damned well should have waited!’

Kitty set her mouth into a truculent line. ‘I was using my initiative!’ She glowered at him.

The silver eyes never left hers. ‘Well, don’t.’

And at this cursory order her vague stirrings of anger bubbled right over, even as she recalled his earlier instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed in his study. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she snapped, tossing her red plaits back over her shoulders. ‘Is this room out of bounds or something?’

He said nothing for a moment, just allowed quicksilver eyes to travel over her face, resting for long seconds on her mouth with such intensity that she was afraid that she had some speck of dust on it or something, and her tongue snaked out to circle wetly round her lips.

‘Not necessarily,’ he said softly, his eyes still on her lips.

Oh, lord. He was so gorgeous. She suddenly forgot his high-handed and autocratic manner— forgot everything. Because, with his eyes homing in on her mouth like that, she felt as though he was actually kissing her, such was the potency of his magnetic stare. Tiny goose-pimples broke out beneath the thin blouse; she could feel her nipples begin to harden and scrape against the lace of her brassiere, and colour surged into her cheeks—because what if he noticed that? ‘Could you direct me to the kitchen—please?’ she asked breathlessly, desperate to get away from him and from this temporary insanity which had invaded her.

‘You’ll have to wait.’ He nodded to a chair directly opposite him, on the other side of the desk. ‘Sit down. I’m waiting for a call.’

She was reluctant to do as he asked, still afraid that those perceptive eyes would see the way her body was reacting to him, although the almost painful hardening of her breasts had already begun to subside. ‘Then if it’s confidential——’

‘I’d say so,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘Sit down.’

She had no alternative other than to obey him, looking down into her lap as she laced her fingers together—wondering how she could have been so naïvely stupid as to think she could just waltz in on her first day, grab the script, then disappear. And now she had probably alerted him, had probably made him suspicious. She looked up to find his eyes on her, and she gave him a polite half-smile, which went unanswered.

She was forced to sit there in silence and wait while he conducted what was evidently a high-powered conversation with some major studio backer in Los Angeles, and she gathered, from his cool, clipped replies, that he was refusing to back down on a particular point concerning finance. Her impression of film directors as unworldly, artistic and dreamy individuals flew right out of the window—this guy could evidently juggle figures with ease, and eat bankers for breakfast!

Eventually he replaced the receiver, and directed his attention at her again. He stood up. ‘Shall we go?’ he asked in a decidedly abrupt tone.

Kitty gulped and nodded, going through the door as he stood aside to let her pass, almost jolting from the sensation which rocked her as their arms brushed against one another, and then wondering if he must think her completely crazy, for his eyes narrowed as he stared down at her, observing the rigid movement of her arm as she pulled it away from him; but he said nothing.

He led the way down a larger corridor off the hall, before throwing open the door of the kitchen.

‘Remember now?’ he enquired, and she couldn’t miss the searching stare he gave her.

Banishing wishes that she had never agreed to come to this house, to take part in such a potentially foolish escapade, she fixed him with a brilliant smile. ‘Thanks. I won’t forget again.’

‘I’m sure you won’t,’ he drawled, then, to her utter amazement, he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and stared down at her, and at that moment reality fled from her life as though it had never before existed.

It was like all the old fairy-stories, only more so— because she had never believed in them before.

His touch was just—magic.

Cool yet warm.

Firm yet gentle.

He tipped her head back a little and she was transfixed by the blinding blaze of the silver-grey eyes, unable now to stop the trembling of her mouth as it parted, as if impelled by him to do so ... waiting ... waiting ... waiting ...

His eyes gleamed and he nodded, as if satisfied. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s very powerful. You feel it too. Don’t you?’

‘Feel—wh-what ... ?’ she stammered.

He gave a click of impatience, the gleam leaving his eyes, and as the light left them they became as cold and as impersonal as if they’d been fashioned from metal.

‘Oh, come on, Kitty,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t deny what your body accepted minutes ago. Because you can’t, can you? Your eyes are begging me to kiss you, aren’t they?’

‘N-no. They aren’t,’ she lied ineffectually.

He smiled. ‘And do you know, I’m very tempted? Very tempted indeed!’

He was teasing, playing games with her—he must be. And it hurt. Gorgeous, world-famous film directors didn’t feel tempted to kiss girls like her. ‘Try it,’ she said shakily, over-reacting by a mile, ‘and I’ll slap your face.’

He laughed. ‘That might be interesting—purely for its novelty value,’ he murmured arrogantly.

She brought her chin up as her eyes flashed angrily at him.

‘Go on, then.’ His voice had dropped to a deep, dark caress, and Kitty felt her breasts tighten with the tingle of anticipation. ‘I dare you. Slap my face.’

She stared back at him, unable to move, her mind at odds with her body as she forgot all about Caro and why she was here, forgot all about everything other than the need to know what kissing him really would be like.

And, oh, heavens, she was just about to find out as that devastating dark head dipped down towards hers and his mouth found her lips.

For a second, there was a blaze inside her heart as she realised that the man whose face had graced a thousand movie-goers’ magazine covers was actually kissing her—Kitty Goodman with the ginger hair. It was every woman’s fantasy come to brazen, beautiful life.

And then she forgot just who she was kissing; her attention and her senses were all caught up with just how he was kissing. It was a soft, slow exploration, with scarcely any pressure on her mouth to begin with and with nothing but their lips touching at all. Which all changed when he shifted his head just a fraction to give him greater access to the moist, eager interior of her mouth, and she slipped her hands up to clutch at his shoulders as his tongue flicked with sensual ease to lick at hers, as though he were slowly licking cream off the top of a pudding.

She felt that pleasurable ache as the tips of her breasts clamoured into disbelieving life, her eyelids falling helplessly over her eyes, so, so tempted to move her hands down from his shoulders, to slip them inside his towelling robe and to touch and caress his bare chest ...

And then he stopped kissing her, and stood staring down at her thoughtfully as she fought to drag some air into her starved lungs. To her horror she discovered that her desires had become actions and that her palms were lying against the hard nakedness of his chest, fingers fanned out over his nipples in as provocatively inviting and sexually possessive a gesture as it was possible to make.

‘Oh, God!’ she cried, wrenching her hands away with lightning speed.

A slow smile curved his mouth. ‘I’m still waiting,’ he murmured softly.

‘W-waiting for what?’ Not to make love to her here, surely?

‘Why, for you to slap my face,’ he concluded arrogantly.

She was stung, shocked, ashamed; a red mist of fury swam before her eyes, and she swung her hand up to hit him, but he was too quick for her, easily capturing her small wrist in his hand.

‘Not now, Kitty,’ he admonished sardonically. ‘That’s what’s known as shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted, wouldn’t you say?’ And he waved his hand in the direction of a state-of-the-art cooker, and gave her an amused smile. ‘I’ll leave you to your cooking. I don’t know about you, but I seem to have worked up the most enormous appetite.’