8 Magnificent Millionaires

His Live-in Mistress
Maggie Cox
The Spanish Billionaire’s Mistress
Susan Stephens
The Millionaire’s Runaway Bride
Catherine George
The Millionaire’s Secret Mistress
Kathryn Ross
Marrying Her Billionaire Boss
Myrna Mackenzie
Billionaire On Her Doorstep
Ally Blake
What the Millionaire Wants…
Metsy Hingle
The Billionaire Boss’s Bride
Cathy Williams

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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His Live-in Mistress

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

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

AS HER new boots crunched against the thick snow that covered the sweeping yew-lined walk leading to the house Liadan was struck by the beauty and grandeur of the dramatic, imposing edifice that rose up before her. She stopped for a moment to take it in. Draped in a glistening white mantle of snow, its forbidding stone exterior with four rows of perfectly symmetrical eighteenth-century windows gazed down imperiously at her approach, as if questioning her right to be there. For the first time since she’d decided to answer the ad she’d circled so hopefully in the local paper, Liadan experienced a small but impossible-to-ignore shiver of doubt.

Was she doing the right thing? Was she even capable of undertaking the role of housekeeper in such a large and awe-inspiring dwelling? This was vastly different from her parents’ mid-size but manageable little hotel in Dorset.

Sighing a breath that immediately turned to steam in the cold, Liadan tried hard to banish her doubts and instead concentrated on putting her best foot forward and continuing her journey towards the house with a much more optimistic gait.

When she lifted the huge iron knocker, letting it fall twice against the grand double-doored entrance, the sound intruded on the chill frozen air like a drunken visitor blundering in on a wake. A flock of birds calmly nesting in a nearby denuded oak flew into the air in an indignant flurry of surprise, their combined chirruping echoing eerily in the dense winter landscape. Wrapping her orange wool scarf more securely around the collar of her long tweed coat, Liadan couldn’t help biting down on her lip as her imagination briefly ran wild, and she wondered if some haughty grey-haired butler would open the door and arrogantly instruct her to go round to the tradesman’s entrance. Her sense of humour surfacing, she allowed herself a tentative smile at the thought.

In fact the person who answered was a slim brunette, probably in her early forties, dressed attractively in jeans and a red polo-necked sweater. The woman extended her hand in welcome without hesitation.

‘You must be Liadan? Hello there, I’m Kate Broomfield. We spoke on the phone.’

The friendly voice she recalled from her telephone inquiry just two days ago didn’t disappoint now that Liadan came face to face with its owner, and her relief was palpable.

‘Pleased to meet you. Gosh, it’s cold out there!’ She grasped Kate’s outstretched hand firmly with equal warmth. Relaxing, Liadan let her blue-eyed gaze wander round the large, imposing entrance hall she was invited into, her heartbeat quickening at the sight of the huge lofty ceilings with their grand antique brass chandeliers and candle sconces on the walls.

‘I didn’t see a car. Where did you park?’ Kate enquired, watching as the younger woman removed her orange woollen gloves and slipped open the top button of her coat. The hall was surprisingly warm for such a vast area.

‘I didn’t come by car. I walked up from the village.’

‘You’re brave in this weather! That’s a long walk.’ Kate smiled, her brown eyes approving. ‘But of course you’re a local girl, aren’t you? Though you do realise this is a living-in position? Mr Jacobs insists on that.’

‘I know. It’s not a problem.’ For a moment Liadan tried to absorb the full implications of living in such a grand if somewhat remote house, her heart sinking a little at the idea of leaving her cosy little cottage behind. But then that was the beauty of being local. On her afternoons off she could go back home and see to anything that needed doing in her absence. Maybe after a while, when she got to know her employer better, he might even let her have the odd night off so that she could sleep in her own perfectly comfortable bed and play her piano? Not to mention make a fuss of her cat, Izzy. As it was, she would miss not being able to do all those things whenever she felt like it. But as long as her neighbour Jack fed the cat and gave her a little attention now and again to make up for Liadan not being there, she would manage just fine.

Right now, all that was supposition. She hadn’t secured the job yet and might not if she didn’t look sharp. The ad had specified someone between the ages of thirty-five and fifty, and Liadan was twenty-seven. Kate had told her not to worry too much about that. If she proved to be the right person for the job, Mr Jacobs would waive the age restriction, in Kate’s opinion.

‘Want a cup of coffee before I take you in to meet Adrian?’

‘Adrian?’

‘Mr Jacobs. Initially he’ll probably insist you address him more formally, but after a while no doubt you’ll be calling him Adrian too.’

As much as she loved the idea of a warming drink to thaw her out, Liadan felt she’d much rather get the interview over and done with first. He might take one look at her and decide she was far too young for the job of housekeeper of such a grand old house, she thought anxiously. But she had grown up helping her parents run a very successful small hotel and she was no stranger to hard work and long back-breaking hours—especially after her father had died and it had been just her and her mother.

‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather meet Mr Jacobs first. Have you had many other applicants for the job?’

‘We’ve seen two before you but they were both completely wrong. Follow me. He’s doing paperwork this morning so he won’t be in the best of moods, I warn you. But don’t let that put you off. He’s a fair employer and the pay is good, as no doubt you’ve noticed.’

Liadan had. It was the main reason she had applied for the job in the first place. That and the fact it was actually local to where she lived. But she couldn’t help wondering what had been so wrong about her two predecessors…

Smiling reassuringly, Kate rapped smartly on the set of dark oak double doors at the end of a cavernous hallway carpeted in faded red and gold, then swept in ahead of Liadan as a deep voice answered, ‘Come!’

Her heart tripping as Kate announced her, Liadan followed more slowly behind the brunette. Her gaze settled with a little shiver of shock on the man seated behind an old-fashioned writing bureau, his long jeans-clad legs stuck out in front of him as he perused what looked to be a letter. When he glanced up to examine her as she stood beside Kate, the dark, almost black eyes were about as cold and as frozen as Liadan’s toes inside her boots. Somehow, meeting those eyes, Liadan no longer felt so confident about applying for this job. Adrian Jacobs had a gaze that would freeze out the sun, and that had to be worrying.

‘So you are Miss Willow?’ There was a slight, amused tug of his well-shaped but stern mouth that made Liadan’s stomach roll over. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

Her shoulders stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you make it up? Is it some kind of pseudonym or something?’

‘No, I didn’t make it up and it’s not a pseudonym. My name is my name and that’s all I can tell you.’ Just who did he think he was, making fun of her name? Liadan was experiencing some very strong doubts about the interview progressing much further after such a prickly and unpromising start. But she forced herself to stay calm and decided the best approach was not to take his comment personally. ‘At school they used to call me “willow tree”. There were some children who had to suffer far worse nicknames than that, so I guess I got off lightly.’

‘Hmm.’ Glancing back at his letter, he put it down on the desk with a sigh, rubbing at his temples as he did so. Then, as if coming to a decision, he turned to face her more squarely. Once again Liadan’s heart missed a beat. His nose was too big, his eyes hooded and his mouth far too severe to suggest that it ever smiled much. And yet with his thick black hair streaked with fine grey strands here and there and the undoubted hint of muscle beneath his dark sweater, his sheer God-given maleness suggested an impression of great strength and indomitability that was quite awesome.

‘You seem a little young to be seeking employment as a housekeeper. How old are you exactly, Miss Willow?’

Was her age going to be a strike against her…as well as her name, apparently? Flicking open a second and third button on her coat, Liadan told herself to remain calm. With a big fire blazing in the huge stone fireplace, the heat was definitely beginning to permeate her several layers of winter clothing. ‘I’m twenty-seven but please don’t let that put you off, Mr Jacobs. I’ve had several years of experience in housekeeping, helping my parents run a busy hotel in Dorset. Hard work doesn’t faze me and I’ve done most things, from cooking three-course meals to mending a fuse and plumbing in a washing machine. Most of all, I’m cheerful to be around and I’m very willing.’

‘Willing?’ Mr Jacobs’ darkly forbidding brows came together in a sardonic little frown.

Colouring, Liadan smiled. ‘Helpful. I meant helpful.’

‘Of course you did. What about a boyfriend, Miss Willow? Do you have one and won’t he miss you if you come to work here?’

Guessing that he would probably laugh out loud if she told him that her year-long engagement to Michael Marston had broken off because he’d decided to join the priesthood, Liadan shook her head slowly, garnering every ounce of courage she possessed to ride this particular storm.

‘No, Mr Jacobs. I don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘So there’s no problem with you living in?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Liadan lives in the village, Adrian,’ Kate piped up. ‘She’s a local girl.’

‘She’s too young and probably won’t last the week.’ His assessment was swiftly damning, and Liadan’s hackles rose with indignation at such a scathing dismissal. Biting her lip, she was nonetheless determined to hold her ground.

‘Mr Jacobs, if you’ll just hear me out, I—’

‘I don’t employ any other staff in the house, Miss Willow. Could you handle the isolation?’

Isolation didn’t faze Liadan. Nor did loneliness. A person could survive both of those states and still have a reasonably fulfilling life. Besides, she liked her own company. She’d never found being on her own a punishment as some of her friends did.

‘I live alone anyway. I’m used to my own company,’ she answered him.

‘Good. After the two disappointing alternatives I interviewed earlier, perhaps you’re more suitable than you look. So how soon can you start? Kate is leaving for London tomorrow and I need to have someone in place before she goes.’

Was he offering her the job? Blinking at him, Liadan stared in disbelief. After his previous comment about her being too young she’d more or less convinced herself that he would show her the door. ‘Um, as soon as you need me to, I should think,’ she replied a little breathlessly.

‘What about references—do you have any?’

She started to delve into her bag for the two letters of recommendation she’d brought. One from her mother, bless her, in her former capacity as hotel proprietor; the other from Moonbeams, the little esoteric shop where she had worked for the past three years until it had gone bust six weeks ago.

Adrian put up his hand as if to stop her. ‘Leave them with Kate. She’ll show you to your room, then give you a tour of the house and a list of daily duties. I desire trust and discretion at all times, Miss Willow. I don’t like being disturbed unduly, but I do expect you to be on call whenever I need you. You’ll have one afternoon off a week as well as every other weekend off. The remuneration I’m sure you already know. That’s all. I’ll leave her in your capable hands, Kate. And how about some coffee when you’re ready?’

‘I’ll bring you some when I’ve shown Liadan her room.’ Kate smiled at her.

‘Good.’ Head down, he was already preoccupied with the contents of his letter before the two women reached the door.

Kate told her he was a writer. A very successful author of crime thrillers, writing under the pen name of Alexander Jacobsen. Once a highly successful journalist reporting on international conflicts all around the globe, he’d had the respect of his peers and the public alike during his career in news. Liadan experienced a shock wave of recognition at the news. Somewhere in the misty annals of her mind, she’d vaguely heard of Adrian Jacobs, but Alexander Jacobsen was the name that resonated. His hard-hitting crime novels always got to number one on the bestseller lists. Although that particular genre definitely did not appeal to her taste, her brother Callum had lent her a couple one Christmas and she had been unable to put them down, they were so gripping. If rather dark. Was that a legacy from some of the terrible atrocities he must have witnessed in his previous career? The thought made her shudder.

‘Occasionally we get the odd reporter or two trying to infiltrate their way into the house,’ Kate continued, ‘but one thing you should be aware of is that Adrian absolutely never, under no circumstances, gives interviews. I would ask that you respect his privacy and don’t divulge any personal information to anyone, and certainly nobody from the village. He’s been gossiped about enough in the past and he doesn’t need the heartache. Do a good job and obey those rules and you two will get on like a house on fire.’

That was the point where Liadan parted company with Kate’s views. One only had to spend a couple of minutes in the same room with the man to realise he was not exactly brimming over with the warmth of human kindness. Instinctively Liadan knew their relationship would be a challenging one. Still, that didn’t bother her too much. She was here to do a job, a job that would pay her more than enough money to live on and maintain her beloved little cottage in the village. More than that, she dared not hope for.

Once upon a time she had longed to meet a wonderful man and have children, but now that longing had been undeniably tarnished. Having spent an intense eighteen months in a relationship with a man whose spiritual conflicts had precluded him from having an intimate relationship with his fiancée, and who’d viewed her work in an esoteric bookshop as close to ‘communing with the devil’, she was in no hurry to repeat the exercise. Being with Michael had all but sucked Liadan dry emotionally. She had mistaken initially strong feelings of friendship for love, and no sacrifice she’d made had been enough as far as Michael had been concerned.

But that was then. Right now all she wanted to do was put the past firmly behind her and carve out a new destiny for herself.

The following morning as she unpacked and hung her clothes in the big oak wardrobe in her room, she paused to glance out of the window at the picturesque winter scene before her. The snow had completely passed Christmas by but now, in early January, the heavens had suddenly opened and covered everything in a perfect coating of white frosting. Briefly wondering how her new employer had spent the holiday season—had he celebrated at home with friends and family?—Liadan reflected on her own solitary Christmas, just herself and Izzy. Granted, it had been by choice. She hadn’t felt like flying out to Spain to join her mother and her new man, and after the traumatic break-up with Michael had not wanted to inflict her less-than-cheerful mood on her brother or her friends. No. She had definitely done the right thing spending the season on her own.

‘Liadan, can you come down to the kitchen as soon as you’ve finished unpacking?’

Opening the door, she found Kate Broomfield on the other side of it, her cheeks pink as if she’d been rushing. ‘Of course.’

‘I want to go over everything with you. I’ve made lists but you might want to make some notes of your own as back-up. We’ll have a cup of tea and a chat and I’ll fill you in on anything you want to know. Ten minutes’ time okay with you?’ Peering over Liadan’s shoulder, she noted the neatly folded clothing on the big brass bed and the opened doors of the large oak wardrobe.

Liadan nodded. ‘I’ve nearly finished.’

‘Good. Sorry everything’s such a mad rush but I’m due to catch a train in just under two hours. I’ve been telling Adrian he needed to interview people for the past three months but would he listen? That’s Adrian for you! Once he’s in work mode he’s on another planet. Anyway, you’re here now, and, if you ask me, he’s definitely made the right choice. Somebody young like you will be a breath of fresh air for him. See you in a tick, then.’ And with that, she turned and hurried down the corridor.

Watching Kate depart just a short while later, Liadan felt as nervous as a new mother bringing her baby home from the hospital for the first time. From now on the welfare of this amazing house and its master was her responsibility. The thought made her stomach plummet and for a long moment she seriously pondered if she’d taken on much more than she was capable of handling. She hadn’t set eyes on Adrian Jacobs since her interview yesterday and, as much as she’d like to, couldn’t put off seeing him any longer. He and Kate had presumably said their goodbyes privately before Kate had come to find Liadan to tell her she was going. Now, standing alone in the huge entrance hall, the house suddenly covered in a blanket of silence since the other woman’s cheery goodbye, Liadan glanced down at her watch and psyched herself up to take her new employer a cup of coffee. At least it would give her an excuse to break the ice a little with him since her abrupt interview yesterday. Making up her mind to do just that, she went to the kitchen, thankful for the warmth that greeted her as she entered, and, placing the kettle on the Aga, sought out a matching cup and saucer.

Minutes later, cup of coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits arranged on a tray, Liadan took a deep breath outside the doors of Adrian’s study and knocked twice, smartly. At the terse, ‘Come!’ she pushed open the door and went inside.

Paper was strewn all around the floor at his feet. His black hair looked as if he had been dragging his fingers through it for the past half an hour at least, and her new employer’s darkening expression leached every ounce of confidence from Liadan’s bones and left her legs feeling as weak as a newborn lamb’s.

‘What is it?’

Trying to ignore the thumping of her heart, Liadan made herself smile and walk towards him. ‘I thought you might like some coffee,’ she said brightly, hoping he wouldn’t register the slight quaver in her voice.

‘Put the tray down on top of the piano and for God’s sake don’t put your feet anywhere near my papers!’

Adrian watched his new housekeeper do as he commanded. The rather old-fashioned long tweed skirt that adorned her slim figure was surprisingly complimentary to the thick wool orange, red and brown cowl-necked sweater she’d matched it with. Now she was free of the encumbrance of her winter coat and thick scarf, he registered that her hair was the same fiery red-gold as autumn leaves and it rippled down past her shoulders to her waist in eye-catching waves. Somewhere in Adrian’s subconscious a deliberately buried memory tugged, and his stomach clenched tight in reflex as pain washed over him.

‘Do you always wear your hair loose like that?’ he asked gruffly.

Her hands gripping the edges of the tray as she settled it carefully on top of the gleaming ebony surface of the beautiful grand piano, Liadan turned her head in surprise. ‘Mostly’ she admitted, with a little shrug. ‘Except when I’m working, of course.’

‘Aren’t you working now, Miss Willow? Or has that particular little fact somehow escaped you?’

Seeing the faint flush beneath her pale cheeks, Adrian felt equal measures of frustration and annoyance that the girl was so pretty. With her big blue eyes and china doll face she was a heartbreaker, all right. What had he been thinking of, offering this fragile-looking beauty the job that was most essential to his own well-being? He needed someone reliable, trustworthy and efficient, like Kate, not someone who looked as if she’d be crushed by just the sound of a harshly raised voice.

Damn it all to hell and back! Why had Kate left him in the lurch in the middle of his most ambitious project to date? He didn’t want to be plagued with questions and inquiries from someone still wet behind the ears when he was working. After four and a half years, Kate knew practically all of his little foibles and idiosyncrasies, including his preferences when it came to the way he liked to work—not to mention food, music and reading material: the four essentials to make his life run smoothly, as far as Adrian was concerned. He didn’t have time to break in a new housekeeper.

‘I’ll go up to my room and tie it back.’ Liadan stepped back stiffly from the piano and turned towards him. The flush on her cheeks was no longer in evidence and her chin was raised a little, as if determined he wasn’t going to bait her. She was annoyed, and, if his own present level of irritation continued, Adrian knew he would have only himself to blame when the girl threw in the towel and left him high and dry. At this moment, the prospect didn’t seem too worrying.

‘Before I go, I wondered if you had a preference for dinner? Kate’s left me a list of options.’

‘If she’s left you a list of options, then pick one for me, Miss Willow. I don’t have time to immerse myself in menu discussions when I’m in the middle of work.’

‘Well, I—’

‘If that’s all you wanted to know, I trust you can now leave me in peace so that I can get on?’

Liadan wondered how she made it to the door without giving him a piece of her mind. The man had no manners as far as she could see, his superior, self-important tone rankled, and if she didn’t need this job so badly in order to keep her little house she wouldn’t hesitate to let him know in detail just what he could do with it! He hadn’t even thanked her for the coffee, let alone asked her if she was settling in all right.

Two hours later, having completed a thorough vacuuming of the upstairs rooms on the first floor, excluding the room that Kate had pointed out as Adrian’s—apparently that was to be cleaned once a week on a Thursday morning when Adrian generally went into town—Liadan returned to the kitchen to browse the recipe books Kate had left. Sipping a cup of camomile tea, her concentration on the list of ingredients needed to make the dish she had selected, she didn’t realise Adrian had stepped into the room until he spoke.

‘Taking a break already, Miss Willow?’

For a moment she stared into those chilly dark eyes in mute astonishment, then, when she’d gathered her wits, she pushed back a coiling strand of red-gold hair that had escaped from her hastily erected bun and frowned. ‘I’m organising what I need for tonight’s dinner, Mr Jacobs. Isn’t that what you hired me for?’

‘As long as you’re not being idle. This is a big house and it takes a lot of looking after. I take a lot of looking after.’

Was he being facetious? Liadan really couldn’t tell. Especially when his expression was about as impenetrable as the vaults of the Bank of England. Releasing a small sigh, she prayed he wasn’t always going to be this difficult, this provoking. Had the affable and dependable Kate been subject to his arrogant moods immediately when she started to work for him? If she had, the woman surely deserved some kind of endurance medal for her troubles.

‘What is it you want, Mr Jacobs? If you’ll just tell me I’ll see if I can help.’

What Adrian could have done with was a long hot bath followed by a massage. He’d been up most of the night writing, his shoulders ached, his head throbbed and he was irritated and angry at Kate’s desertion. And all because the silly woman had fallen for some probably extremely dull professor of history her father had introduced her to during the summer holidays. He’d clearly misjudged her character, because he would have sworn she wasn’t the type to fall head over heels in love like some giddy sixteen-year-old.

Reining in his thoughts on the matter, Adrian met Liadan’s apprehensive blue gaze with a deep frown. He almost had the urge to ask her to oblige him with a massage just for the hell of it. She’d probably turn tail and run out of there so fast her feet would leave a trail of smoke in her wake. He would have smiled at the thought if the consequences of such an action wouldn’t leave him in the direst straits possible.

‘Right now I need to walk and think. Did Kate show you around the grounds when she took you on her little tour?’

‘She would have done but she was in a hurry to catch her train.’ Rising to her feet, Liadan folded her arms across her thick wool sweater for protection. Adrian Jacobs made her uneasy. He had a way of looking at her that made her feel as if he knew everything and she knew nothing—a trait that hardly boded well for a smooth association.

‘Then go and put your coat on and come and join me. I’ll point out a couple of things of interest but otherwise I’d prefer not to have any conversation. If you can manage to stay quiet I think I could tolerate some company for half an hour.’

Embarrassed heat scorching her cheeks, Liadan glanced down at the clean pine table with her thoughts rioting, wondering how she managed to refrain from picking up her cup of camomile tea and throwing it at him. Of all the unbelievably rude, insufferable—‘I’d rather stay here, if you don’t mind. I really need to get my ingredients together to cook dinner.’

Jerking his head in annoyance, Adrian held Liadan riveted to the spot with the force of his steely-eyed stare. ‘Go and get your coat, Miss Willow. When I said I could tolerate some company, I wasn’t giving you the option of a refusal.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE air was so cold Liadan’s breath practically turned to ice as soon as it left her lips. With her coat collar turned up high over her thick woollen scarf, she trailed behind Adrian as he strode ahead, his shoes crunching into the deep impacted snow and his gloveless hands buried deep inside the pockets of his long black coat. The sky was so white it almost matched the snow in brightness and Liadan wished she had her sunglasses to fend off the glare. Shielding her gaze with her gloved hand, she was deeply stirred by the magical landscape that revealed itself to her. Once she could simply accept that Adrian Jacobs wasn’t going to be the most sociable or approachable boss she could hope for, then she could actually start to enjoy the wintry beauty of her incredible surroundings and take pleasure in it, she decided.

‘That tower over there is two hundred and fifty years old and the clipped Holm oaks survive from the original garden. Just beyond the oaks there’s an orangery and an ornamental stream.’

Adrian waited for Liadan to catch up with him as he turned and spoke, his breath mimicking little puffs of locomotive steam in the frosty afternoon air. Surprised by his unexpected solicitude, Liadan duly quickened her stride, her boots plunging deep into the snow as she struggled to find some kind of rhythm, all the while far too conscious of his steady dark gaze on her efforts.

‘Gardens like this must take a lot of looking after,’ she breathed as she drew level. ‘You must have a team of gardeners, surely?’

His dark eyes narrowed. ‘Just George and his son Steven. They’re here most days. You’ll probably see them around. I don’t tolerate too many people on my property, Miss Willow. On the whole, I find people demand far more than I wish to give.’

‘But this is such a beautiful place. Don’t you ever feel like sharing it?’ The question was out before Liadan gave herself a chance to consider the wisdom of speaking such thoughts out loud. It hung suspended in the frozen air, making her squirm inside when it appeared that Adrian had not the slightest intention of answering her. But he didn’t turn away and continue striding ahead as she expected. Instead, a deep scowl etching his brow, he folded his arms across his chest and stared at her.

‘The answer to your question is no, Miss Willow. I expressly don’t feel like sharing my home with anyone. I live here because I actively enjoy the isolation. My uncle lived here on his own for twenty-five years after his wife died. Accidents or illness permitting, I plan to do the same.’

Well, she’d wanted an answer and she’d got one. Did he have any idea how cold and lonely a proposition his words suggested? What had happened to the man that he preferred to live his life away from the rest of humanity, like some kind of eccentric, wealthy recluse?

‘So you inherited the house from your uncle?’ she asked.

‘You were wondering how I could possibly afford to live in such grandeur on the pay of a jobbing writer,’ Adrian drawled scathingly.

Liadan couldn’t help but smile. ‘I know you’re a very successful author of crime novels, Mr Jacobs. It’s rare that your books aren’t on the best-seller lists.’

‘You’ve read my work?’ A new expression stole into those impenetrable dark eyes of his. Surprise? Caution? Disbelief? Perhaps all three? Liadan couldn’t be certain.

‘My brother Callum is a fan. He lent me a couple of your books one Christmas when I had nothing else to read.’ Colouring slightly at the admission and painfully aware that she could have chosen her words more carefully, she pressed on regardless before he could interrupt her. ‘They were very intriguing.’

‘But?’

To her consternation she saw that Adrian was smiling—well, for a second or two it seemed that the corners of his stern mouth lifted a little. Ducking her chin down into the warmth of her orange scarf, Liadan bravely met his questioning gaze. ‘They were so…so dark and spine-chilling. And the endings were unredeemingly bleak.’

‘So you were looking for some kind of redemption in my stories, were you? Some kind of light at the end of the tunnel to reassure you that really life couldn’t be as bad as all that, and all’s well that ends well?’

Her toes curling stiffly inside her boots, Liadan was beginning to wish she’d said nothing. Adrian’s scornful tone made her opinions sound naïve and somehow uneducated, and just for a moment she hated him for that.

‘Life isn’t all bad, no matter what you say. Everyone has their tough times but we learn from them, don’t we? We learn from them and move on. And things always get better as long as we don’t give up, don’t you agree?’

Her blue eyes sparkled a little defiantly, her words stirring such a surprising feeling of rage inside Adrian’s chest that he spun away from her before he said things he would probably only regret later. So the earnest Miss Willow thought that life was full of redeeming qualities, did she? How long before fate snatched the blinkers from her eyes and dealt her a crushing blow, one of the magnitude that he had suffered, to disabuse her of such an opinion?

As he strode far ahead, instinctively knowing she would have trouble keeping up with him, Adrian cursed himself for having the very thought that she might ever suffer such a tragedy.

The dining room was cold and cheerless, and as she laid a place setting for one at the head of the long oak refectory table that evening Liadan glanced distractedly at the empty fireplace, cursing herself for not thinking of laying a fire earlier. Even though the three radiators were switched to a high heat, the warmth they generated barely made an impact on the huge, draughty room. Those stately Georgian windows were the culprits. With their single-paned glass that the wind seemed to rattle through, no wonder the room remained chilled. Rubbing her hands together briskly to make them warmer, Liadan turned on her heel to return to the big bright kitchen, which would be cosily warm and full of fragrant cooking smells from the lamb casserole she’d put in the oven two hours ago. Distracted, she walked straight into a wall of steel with strong arms that immediately reached out to steady her as her eyes flew wide in shock.

‘Mr Jacobs! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.’

‘Where’s the fire?’

Flustered, Liadan stepped back in dismay, glancing over her shoulder at the empty grate, trying to convince herself that contact with his body hadn’t sent shock waves of acute awareness flooding through her that made all her nerve endings sizzle. ‘I’m afraid I forgot to lay it. I was so busy organising dinner I—’

‘The question wasn’t literal. I wondered where you were rushing off to in such a hurry.’ A glint of amusement lurked in the dark depths of his fascinating eyes. Adrian’s acute study of her was agonising, making her blood heat to an alarming degree.

‘I was—I was anxious to see to dinner. Are you sure you want to eat in here? It’s much warmer in the kitchen if you don’t mind the cooking smells.’

‘I always have my evening meal in the dining room—unless of course I’m working. Then I have it in my study.’

About to boldly suggest he do something radical and break the habit of a lifetime, Liadan clamped her mouth closed just in time and said nothing. So as well as dour and unfriendly he was a creature of habit too? The observation surprised her. In her mind, people who feared change feared life. But Adrian had reported back from some of the most inhospitable environs in the world—in some of the most dangerous situations. It didn’t seem likely that a little thing like changing his dinnertime routine would faze him. Still, it annoyed her not to know the reason why he seemed such a stickler for routine.

‘I’m just sorry it’s so cold in here.’ Subconsciously illustrating the fact by rubbing her hands up and down her arms in her thick wool sweater, Liadan ventured a smile.

‘I think I have enough flesh covering my bones not to be too bothered by the lowered temperatures, Miss Willow.’

Although his manner was teasing, there was no humour reflected in his hypnotically compelling face. Confronted with yet another reminder of that disturbingly hard male body, the muscles in his arms like ropes of steel if his earlier grip had been any indication, Liadan quickly averted her gaze in case her fascinated expression gave her away.

‘Well, then…I’ll bring in your meal if you’d like to sit down.’

‘Bring some wine too. I trust Kate left you instructions as to my preferences?’

A dark full-bodied red with dinner. Liadan didn’t know why the description should bother her so, but right at that moment it did.

‘Right,’ she said, hovering at the door. Paying her no further attention, Adrian moved to the head of the table and sat down.

Her perfume lingered when she’d gone. Not overpowering, but light and sweet where it drifted on the air like May blossom. Breathing it in and feeling its unsettling effect, Adrian picked up his empty wineglass and flicked it restlessly with his nail. Kate hadn’t worn perfume—at least, not that he remembered. Could he enforce a rule that the wearing of perfume was banned whenever he was around, on the grounds that it was far too distracting for his peace of mind? He could just imagine what his pretty new housekeeper would think about that. No doubt she already saw him as a younger version of Scrooge. But why should he worry when, if his initial assumption proved to be right, she wouldn’t even last the week? Irritably he put down the wineglass. Then folding his arms across his chest, he leant back against the high-backed dining chair and briefly shut his eyes.

Nicole had always worn perfume. Even in the most unsuitable places, including the jungle. She used to laugh that a girl had standards to maintain and should never forget her femininity…The thought stole up on him like a thief in the night, searing his chest like a firebrand, and he sat bolt upright, grasping the edges of the table for support. That was twice in one day he’d thought about Nicole—the woman he’d planned to marry, fellow journalist and love of his life. Months had gone by without him allowing such thoughts access to even the merest dusty corner of his mind, and now twice in the space of less than twelve hours her memory had hit him hard, like a fierce blow slamming into his ribcage that doubled him up in agony. His mind’s eye saw her: glorious red-gold hair splayed out on that sun-baked concrete, blood staining the silken strands like some vile desecration; her beautiful green eyes staring up at Adrian in confusion and pain as she drew her last few breaths on this earth.

The news team had been warned about a possible attack on the embassy for weeks leading up to the terrorist bomb that had blown it to smithereens. But on that baking-hot day, after they’d travelled for three days to get there through notorious bandit country, Adrian’s belief in his own invincibility had been sky-high. So much so that he’d convinced the other, less confident members of his crew that, as long as they kept their wits about them at all times, all would be well. Seconds before they started to walk into the embassy, he’d been sharing a joke with Nicole about the unappetising rations they’d endured the last few days, when Mark, one of the older, more experienced cameramen on the team, had called him back to the Jeep to fetch the micro-cassette recorder he had left behind. Just as Adrian had reached the hot, mud-splattered vehicle all hell had broken loose, in an ear-splitting explosion that had sounded like the end of the world. Mark had shoved him roughly to the ground to give him some cover and Adrian had stared helplessly across to the sidewalk to see Nicole lying there…

‘I wonder if any more snow will fall during the night.’

‘What?’ Staring distractedly up into Liadan’s guileless blue gaze, Adrian forced his attention abruptly back to the present. Watching her small, pale hand steadily pour the ruby-red wine into his empty glass, he stole a second or two to wipe away the perspiration that he knew beaded his brow.

‘I said, I wonder if it will snow again tonight?’ Smiling, she put down the bottle, then adjusted his place-mat so that it sat more squarely on the table.

‘I have many interests but predicting the weather isn’t one of them.’

In less than a second, his caustic comment had wiped the smile from her face as though it had never been. Seeing the hurt in her eyes, Adrian took a deep slug of wine, remaining stubbornly silent as she mumbled, ‘Excuse me,’ and retreated from the room without another word.

It was with relief that Liadan turned down the perfectly white linen and pretty red and white quilt on her bed that night. Shivering as she removed her robe, she slid between the ice-cool sheets, making a mental note to go in search of a hot-water bottle the next morning, then pulled up the covers and sat back against the plumped up pillows with a pent-up sigh that she felt she’d been holding in all day. It had been a trying evening and one she wanted swiftly to forget. Adrian was right. Maybe she wouldn’t last the week after all? He was certainly pushing her towards that inevitable conclusion with his morose, uncommunicative behaviour.

Who could blame her if she quit tomorrow, under the circumstances? Clearly the efficient Kate Broomfield had had a substantial advantage when it came to dealing with Adrian Jacobs. She’d had the experience and the wisdom of maturity on her side to help her cope. If not that, then the woman had to have possessed something special to endure four and half years at the beck and call of a man who didn’t seem to view the rest of the human race as even remotely worthy of his attention.

Blinking at the clock on the nightstand, wishing she had more than just five short hours in which to get some sleep before rising at dawn to light the fire in Adrian’s study and make breakfast, Liadan had to admit that her shorter working hours at the shop had perhaps made her a little soft. Now she would have to get used to rising at the crack of sparrows once again—just as she and her mother had done when they’d run the hotel together.

Thoughts of the family home brought thoughts of her father and, not willing to go down that melancholy road at this moment when she was already feeling vulnerable, Liadan determinedly pushed the thought away to save it for another time when she was more able to handle it. She wished that Izzy were here with her, curled up on her lap, her soft, mesmerising purr the only sound to distract her racing thoughts, instead of the unfamiliar creaks and groans of a venerable old house settling down for the night.

In the gentle glow of the lamplight, Liadan guided her gaze to systematically check every dark corner of the bedroom, which was too large and impersonal for her taste and reminded her of a room in a museum. Satisfied that there was nothing to spook her save her own too wild imagination, she promised herself that when next she got home she would fetch some things to make it more homely. There was a charming picture of a cottage garden that hung in her bedroom that always gave her comfort. Perhaps if she brought it back with her it might act as some kind of lucky charm? Right now she could do with some positive influences. She wasn’t the sort who gave up easily but, if she should lose this job, such an opportunity to work so close to home and make some decent money to live on wasn’t likely to show up again soon, no matter how optimistic she was.

There were two viable options as far as she could see. One was to make the best of a difficult situation, sit it out and pray that Adrian Jacobs had a more agreeable side than he had displayed so far, which would reveal itself to her in the fullness of time. The second was to try and make herself as indispensable as she could to her new employer—as indispensable as Kate had been, if that was even remotely possible.

Her eyes gritty with lack of sleep, Liadan was on her knees in the study making up the fire in the impressive marble grate when Adrian came into the room. His appearance disturbed her more than she cared to admit, and not just because she was unsure that she was up to the job of being his housekeeper. With that thick black hair streaked with grey touching his collar, broadly muscular shoulders and a visage that was far more sexy than handsome, he had an aura of power and authority about him that would make a person sit up and take notice, whether they wanted to or not. No doubt it had come in very handy in all those threatening terrains he had reported from, back when he was a journalist, Liadan mused. But such authority first thing in the morning made her feel at a distinct disadvantage. She knew she wasn’t at her best after an almost completely sleepless night and she had only herself to blame. She’d let her anxiety about the job, about Adrian and about being attracted to emotionally unavailable men like Michael nearly drive her crazy.

‘Good morning.’

Her heart almost stopped at his greeting, her thoughts reflecting how good he looked in black, how imposing and how…ticked off.

‘Mr Jacobs, I was just about to—’

‘The fire should have been lit in here at least half an hour ago, Miss Willow. I thought Kate made my routine clear? And where is my coffee? I went into the kitchen but unless my eyesight is failing me I saw no evidence of any being made, not a drop. Care to explain why?’

Hearing the unsettled throb of her own heartbeat in her ears, Liadan sat back on her haunches and nervously pushed her fringe from her eyes.

‘Kate told me she usually gets up around five-thirty, Mr Jacobs, which I did. If it’s taking me a little longer to build up the fire it’s just that I’m a bit out of practice. Bear with me and you’ll have your fire and your coffee in just a few more minutes’ time.’

Amazed at her own ability to appear outwardly calm when inside she was seething at his criticism, Liadan turned her back on him once more to continue with the task in hand. She leant forward to set a match to the tinder, her hand shaking, her face growing hotter by the second at the idea that Adrian’s eyes were burning into the back of her head. She knew she was a good and reliable worker but somehow, from the minute she’d started to work for this man, she had managed to appear anything but. Still, she was resolved to see it through no matter how tough it got, and she vowed to talk to him just as soon as she got the chance to try and set a few things straight before the situation went from bad to worse. It wasn’t unreasonable of him to expect certain standards, but, in Liadan’s book, it was unreasonable to speak to an employee in such an arrogant, rude and high-handed way that it made them feel like leaving. What was wrong with the man, for goodness’ sake? Was he this hostile to everyone or had something about her personally rubbed him up the wrong way?

‘I’ll put the coffee on myself while you see to the fire,’ he said from behind her. ‘But don’t take too long. I’d like my breakfast before I start work and I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.’

As he went out of the door Adrian could have sworn he heard Liadan mutter something heartfelt beneath her breath and he knew he probably deserved whatever insult she was currently castigating him with. If Kate knew how he was behaving towards his new housekeeper she’d read him the Riot Act, but didn’t he have a right to expect good service when he’d made it perfectly clear that that was what he was looking for? As he walked back along the corridor to the kitchen he fought down a fresh resurgence of annoyance at Kate’s desertion and told himself it was her fault entirely if his manner wasn’t all that it should be. As for Liadan Willow—he’d better learn to keep his temper under strict control where she was concerned or he would quickly find himself without a housekeeper. It was that soft silken mass of red-gold hair of hers that was causing all the trouble. It reminded him of the one woman he had truly loved, stirring desperately agonising feelings of recrimination and regret about what had happened that dreadful day that would be with him for the rest of his life…

But his book was nearly finished. He couldn’t risk being abandoned by his housekeeper now when he was at such a crucial point, so he would endeavour to be more civil towards her. Just two more weeks, he estimated, and the thing would be done. Perhaps then his mind would allow him a brief period of peace from the demons of creativity that drove him and he could think about something else besides work. But as he stood spooning dark roast coffee grounds into the percolator Adrian wondered with pain what else he had worth thinking about in his life besides work.

‘Thanks for breakfast. I’m going to my study now, so please take any calls, would you? Just take messages for now and tell them I’ll get back to them later.’

Pausing from stacking a newly washed plate on the drainer, Liadan turned to acknowledge him. Had she really heard him say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ in one breath? At least she hadn’t messed up the breakfast. She’d served him up eggs and bacon and tomatoes done to perfection, she’d kept the toast hot and the coffee strong as he liked it and the food had certainly seemed to lighten his mood.

‘Okay.’

‘Oh, and Liadan?’

She went still as a statue at his unexpected use of her name. ‘Yes?’

‘I need you to go and find George Ferrers, my head gardener. Tell him I’d like a meeting at nine sharp.’

‘But where will I…?’

He’d gone from the room before she had a chance to finish her question. Throwing the dishcloth back into the sink full of hot, sudsy water, Liadan took a moment to gather her thoughts. She gazed out of the window, and experienced a sudden deep longing for the camaraderie and warmth of Moonbeams, the charmingly pretty little shop where she had worked for the past three years with two of the nicest workmates you could wish to find. It was evident so far that working for Adrian Jacobs would not be such a joy.

Wrapped up warm in her long tweed coat, her orange mohair scarf looped snugly round her neck, Liadan filled her lungs joyfully with deep breaths of crisp morning air as she strode out purposefully in search of George Ferrers. Instinctively she headed towards two large greenhouses she’d glimpsed yesterday on her brief tour of the gardens with Adrian. There was too much snow for anyone to do much in the garden, she decided, so it stood to reason if there were greenhouses, that was where she’d find the man she was looking for.

She put her head round the door of the first building, and her spirits lifted when she saw a tall, older man garbed in old trousers, wellingtons, a thick Arran sweater and a sheepskin jacket patting earth down into a huge earthenware pot. He tipped his cap back on his head when Liadan called out, ‘Hello,’ waiting silently for her to join him.

‘You must be George,’ she said smilingly, holding out her hand. He had a kind face, one you could trust, she silently assessed. ‘I’m Liadan Willow. Mr Jacobs’ new housekeeper.’

‘If that’s the case, then things are looking up around here in a big way,’ drawled an interested male voice from behind her.

CHAPTER THREE

THE owner of the voice was tall and handsome, with jet-black hair and a diamond stud glistening in one ear-lobe. As he walked towards Liadan, his scruffy jeans hanging low on his hips, she noted with irritation that he had a deliberate swagger about him, telling her instantly that he imagined himself God’s gift to women. She didn’t normally take immediate dislikes, but she did to this man.

‘And you are?’

‘Steven. Steven Ferrers. George here is my dad.’

Deliberately redirecting her gaze to the older man, Liadan didn’t miss the flash of disapproval in his light blue eyes over her shoulder at his son. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Willow?’

‘Mr Jacobs would like to see you at nine o’clock sharp, if that’s okay? He asked me to come and tell you.’

‘I expect it’ll be about the snow piled up at the back door. Steven here was just about to get on to it, weren’t you, son?’

‘When I’ve finished the other hundred odd jobs I’ve already been ordered to do.’ Not bothering to temper his obvious resentment, Steven leant back against a table full of trays of seedlings, making no secret of the fact that he was studying Liadan’s figure with an insolence that made her furious. Biting back her indignation, Liadan found herself urgently needing to be back inside the house, ensconced in the warmth and safety of the kitchen, and tackling the list of jobs she had ahead of her for the day. Something about Steven Ferrers put her on edge and she decided that in future she would endeavour to keep contact with him to a strict minimum.

‘Bit of a slave-driver, our Mr Jacobs. Don’t you be letting him wear you out with all that housework, Miss Willow. Those pretty hands of yours were meant for finer things than pushing a vacuum cleaner around.’

Considering that her hands were still firmly inside her bright orange gloves, Liadan failed to see how he could judge them and was irked that a man she had only seconds before clapped eyes on made so free with his comments. George too, it seemed, had had his patience stretched beyond endurance. ‘That’s enough, Steven! Have you forgotten who pays your wages round here? You treat Mr Jacobs and anyone who works for him with respect, you hear?’

Turning to Liadan, he scratched his head briefly beneath his cap and shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. ‘I apologise for my son’s behaviour, Miss Willow. He meant no harm, I’m sure, but he gets a little carried away sometimes. Please don’t take offence.’

Feeling for the man’s embarrassment, Liadan didn’t hesitate to give him a reassuring smile. ‘None taken, Mr Ferrers. Well…I’d better be getting back to the house. Work to do.’

‘Be seeing you around, Miss Willow.’ With a smirk on his face that Liadan longed to obliterate with a sharp slap, Steven Ferrers deliberately dropped his gaze to her chest before she turned and walked away. A shiver skating down her spine, she hurried out of the greenhouse, not pausing to glance back even once before reaching the steps of the main house.

‘Come in and be quick about it!’

Her spine knotting with tension and her palms prickly with heat, Liadan pushed open the door of the study and entered the room with the tray of sandwiches and coffee she had brought for Adrian’s lunch. If she’d hoped that the five-star breakfast she’d served him this morning had mellowed his mood, then she was obviously going to be disappointed judging by the scowl on his face. She’d taken such care with the sandwiches she’d made, too, cutting the bread into perfect triangles and decorating them with sprigs of parsley and slices of tomato. But he barely acknowledged her presence, too preoccupied with the papers strewn across his writing table, his black hair obviously ruffled by his restless fingers as he worked. ‘Leave the tray on the piano,’ he barked, and continued to work as though she were already gone.

Was she so wrong to expect some common courtesies from him, such as please and thank you? Liadan didn’t think so. It seriously bothered her that he seemed to imagine that he was somehow outside the realms of what was considered polite for everyone else. But even though she was deeply annoyed by his ill manners, she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t aware of the distinct chill in the air and it wasn’t just Adrian’s icy demeanour that was the cause. The fire had all but gone out, leaving just the barest red glow in its dying embers. In all conscience, Liadan couldn’t walk away without doing something about it.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Adrian snapped as she swept past his chair instead of heading for the door.

‘I thought I’d fix the fire. It’s nearly out and it’s chilly in here. I’ll try not to disturb you.’

Didn’t she know that that was impossible? Adrian thought with profound irritation. She was wearing that fragrance again, the one that seemed to wind itself round his senses and interrupt his train of thought like some kind of confounded will-o’-the-wisp. It seemed to mock and tease him, and tempt him to become far more aware than was wise of the woman who wore it. As if compelled, he lifted his gaze helplessly to her hair, noting the soft but precarious bun she’d fashioned, with a few silky red-gold tendrils floating loose to frame her lovely face. She really had the prettiest cornflower-blue eyes he’d ever seen, Adrian realised. What had he been thinking of, hiring such a looker for his housekeeper? He’d told himself hiring her had been the path of least resistance—Kate was leaving and he couldn’t interrupt his work to ring round agencies to find other people to interview. She’d said she was hardworking and for some reason Adrian had believed her. She didn’t look the type whose lips would lie easily. But now he couldn’t help wondering if he’d made a serious mistake in taking her on.

It had been four and a half years since his disastrous short-lived affair with Petra Collins—the one that had hit the tabloid headlines and hastened his decision to retreat from the world for a while. But clearly, if the way his libido was acting up around Liadan was any indication, he had been without a woman for too long.

‘Leave it.’

‘Why?’ Her heart racing, because suddenly she seemed to have his full and disturbing attention and she was ill-prepared for it, Liadan came to an abrupt standstill.

‘Because I’m working and I don’t want to be disturbed any more than is strictly necessary! I can’t have you clattering about in here while I’m trying to concentrate.’

‘Clattering about?’ Her cheeks growing pinker by the second as indignation cramped her throat, Liadan stared. ‘I was concerned for your comfort, that’s all. I wasn’t trying to make a nuisance of myself. Have you any idea what the temperature is outside?’

‘When I want a weather report I’ll switch on the news.’

Tearing her gaze from his stony expression, Liadan headed straight for the double doors, her heart pounding so hard inside her chest that for a moment she was hardly aware of where she was, let alone her destination. ‘Fine!’ she burst out before she left. ‘Freeze to death for all I care!’

Back in the kitchen, her appetite gone, she pushed away the small decorative sideplate with her sandwiches on to stare miserably down at the small bumps and grooves on the big pine table, willing herself to calm down. Just who did he think he was, speaking to her like that? They weren’t back in the Middle Ages as far as she knew and she wasn’t some serf to be bossed about at will, as if her life were not her own! It would serve him right if she walked out right this minute. See how he would cope if he had to do his own cooking and cleaning and make up fires! If there were any justice in the world he’d starve and get hypothermia very quickly…

She took her frustration out on the table and thumped it. Why did she have to recall just then that Michael had disliked it immensely when she lost her temper? It had pointed to a wild nature, in his opinion, one that he wasn’t altogether certain he could handle. Liadan groaned. Michael had been wary of anything emotional that might tip the precarious balance of an existence where order and restraint were paramount, so obviously losing one’s temper was a complete no-no. When he’d finally admitted he couldn’t commit to Liadan because his faith was calling him in another direction, one that she couldn’t be a part of, she’d been relieved but angry too. She’d long realised that the relationship hadn’t been going anywhere but she’d stupidly put her own life on hold for eighteen months while Michael had wrestled with his own decisions about the future.

And then two months after the break-up—to add insult to injury—Liadan had learned that she no longer had a job because her employer had gone bankrupt. Now it looked as if she’d be unemployed again very soon…

‘Liadan.’

Glancing up at her name, she rested her wary gaze on Adrian’s tall, imposing figure in the doorway.

‘What?’ She steeled herself to hear the worst. Without a doubt he was going to give her her marching orders. The only consolation was that she would see her cat sooner than she’d anticipated and be able to make a fuss of her tonight. Oh, well…‘always look for the gift,’ as Jennie, the owner of Moonbeams, had wisely counselled on more than one occasion.

‘I’d be grateful if you’d come back into the study and make up the fire. You’re right. It’s bloody cold in there and even I can’t type with frozen fingers.’ He was smiling and suddenly Liadan found her breathing and her power of speech seriously impeded. Having the power of that smile trained on her was like diving for seashells and coming up with diamonds. Did the man have any idea how much that simple act humanised him? It made him seem much less like the coldly distant character she was getting used to and so much…dared she say it? Warmer.

‘You’re not going to fire me?’

‘Now why would you think that?’ Apparently bemused, Adrian leant his shoulder against the doorjamb as if the imperative to get back to work was no longer relevant.

‘Because I lost my temper.’ She heaved a sigh and Adrian’s already engaged glance was drawn to the shapely swell of her breasts beneath her black ribbed sweater. Because her waist was so small, it highlighted her well-endowed chest, and, before he knew what he was about, Adrian imagined those same shapely breasts filling his palms. He imagined his thumbs brushing sensuously across her nipples, urging them to tight, hard, sexy peaks, and suddenly his vivid daydreaming led him into deep hot water when he found himself irrevocably and heavily aroused.

‘As far as I’m aware that’s hardly a sacking offence—particularly when I provoked it.’ His desire had made his voice unwittingly smoky.

Unable to tear her gaze from his, Liadan urged herself to her feet, willing herself to wake up from the trance she seemed to be in.

‘I’ll go and see to the fire, then.’

Alarmed by the sudden, dangerously provocative turn of his thoughts, Adrian dropped his glance guiltily to the table, seeing the small plate of sandwiches she had made. ‘Eat your lunch first. A few more minutes won’t make much difference. Thank you, Liadan.’ And with that, he was gone from the doorway before she even had a chance to reply.

Closing the curtains in her room, Liadan went suddenly rigid when she spied torchlight moving stealthily down the front steps towards the gardens. Adrian? She squinted hard to try and see. What was he doing out at this hour? The small old-fashioned clock on her mantelpiece had just struck midnight so it was a bit late for going for a walk, wasn’t it? Shivering in her velour robe because the heating had gone off for the night, she quickly moved away from the window and glanced disconsolately at the thick, hard-backed biography on her bed. Right now, reading held no appeal whatsoever and she didn’t feel much like sleeping, either. Astonishing when she considered how dog-tired she had been this morning. For some reason her whole body was restless, thrumming with energy and the need to expend it somehow.

If she was honest, she had been feeling that way since Adrian had smiled at her at lunchtime. His changes of mood were disconcerting and she didn’t know whether to allow herself to believe he did possess a more amenable side after all, or whether he’d simply decided to make an effort in case Liadan decided staying wasn’t worth the trouble. His work was obviously all-consuming—he wouldn’t want to have to break off from it to start searching for a replacement housekeeper, no matter how disappointing his present one seemed. And yet…When all was said and done the man was definitely an enigma, and the main reason that Liadan couldn’t sleep was that she was becoming more curious about her ill-tempered, good-looking employer than was probably wise.

Walking through the gardens, his feet sliding and crunching on the snow-covered earth, Adrian finally felt he could breathe unencumbered once more. It didn’t matter how big the house was or how many rooms it had—at times like these he simply needed the unconfined space of the outside. Only then would the prickling discomfort in his chest ease and his ensuing panic start to subside. It had been that way ever since Nicole’s death and after eight years he wasn’t holding out much hope for a change. What made him furious was that he didn’t seem to have any control over his claustrophobia. It wasn’t as if he spent every day dwelling on the terrible event that had indelibly shaped his future, but still the condition seemed to descend on him out of the blue. His psychologist friend, Andrew, had told him he mustn’t blame himself and had tried to teach him strategies for coping. But Adrian hadn’t wanted strategies, or advice—no matter how well meant. He simply wanted the ability to turn back time: to sit in the Jeep for a few minutes longer with Nicole on that mercilessly hot day and prevent her from going anywhere near the embassy gates.

Turning in the dark to stare at the huge house in front of him, with just one or two lights on downstairs and one shining from the first floor—Liadan’s room—Adrian knew he didn’t really want to stay here for the rest of his life. However long that was. On this freezing winter’s night, when the only sound to disturb the silence was the distant, repetitive hooting of an owl, Adrian yearned for warmer climes and the hot tropical nights of Kenya, his boyhood home. Instead of owls hooting, he suddenly longed for the sound of rasping cicadas and the short, warm rains that fell from October to December. Anything but this dead, lifeless snow that made him feel as though he were encased in a tomb…

‘Can I help you?’

Dropping her basket of laundry in the hall behind her, Liadan pushed some hair out of her eyes, smoothed a hand down her jeans and smiled pleasantly at the smartly dressed blonde who stood on the doorstep.

‘I’d like to see Adrian, if I may?’

The woman was clearly about to step inside without being invited, her too-heady perfume was as pushy as she was, and as Liadan’s eyes locked on her brittle blue gaze she suddenly recalled Kate’s dire warning about reporters trying to inveigle their way in to get interviews with Adrian. Resolved to do everything in her power to prevent any unwanted invasion of her boss’s privacy, Liadan quickly stood in front of the woman to block her entrance, her heart missing a beat at this unexpected confrontation.

‘Do you have an appointment with Mr Jacobs?’

‘He’ll see me. My name is Cheryl Kendall. Tell him I’ve had some new information about his affair with Petra Collins. Tell him I’m going to go ahead and print it unless he gives me an interview.’

Two reactions hit Liadan simultaneously. First, how much she despised the woman’s blackmailing tactics, and second, the name Petra Collins. Five years ago she had been one of the hottest properties in Hollywood, a beautiful raven-haired actress with a widely publicised taste for high living and seriously wealthy men. It was well known that since then her career hadn’t prospered. Her last film had been three years ago, and that had been a resounding flop at the box office. If the papers were to be believed, the latest news was that she was in some fancy drying-out clinic in California, getting help for her alcoholism. Liadan didn’t read the papers much herself but her friends Jennie and Mel were avid consumers of the gossip columns.

‘I’ll tell him no such thing! Now, please just go. Mr Jacobs is working and he doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s—’

‘It’s okay, Liadan. I’ll speak with Ms Kendall.’

She spun round in surprise at his voice, and her limbs went strangely weak at the sight of her employer. He was dressed in his usual black; the silver in his hair seemed even more eye-catching against his otherwise sable locks and his eyes were very dark and grave. Weary, almost. The wave of sympathy that rushed through Liadan couldn’t be tamped.

‘I’ll give you five minutes, ten at the most. Come into my study.’ His voice curt, Adrian waited briefly for Cheryl Kendall to step inside before striding ahead of her down the corridor.

The stop-start hum of the dryer resounding in her ears, Liadan folded the pile of clothing she had already dried on top of the washing machine, her movements automatic and efficient even as her mind was distracted. Both curious and concerned about the conversation that was going on upstairs right now in Adrian’s study, she prayed that Cheryl Kendall’s paper or magazine, whatever it was, was not going to print anything injurious or wounding to him. How had Adrian come to meet the famous actress in the first place, and why had their affair ended? Had Petra found him as cold as he appeared? Had she ever managed to get past some of those impenetrable layers that Adrian so obviously protected himself with?

The thought made Liadan stop what she was doing and stare unseeingly ahead. How had she known that? Adrian Jacobs had been deeply wounded—maybe beyond repair—and now strove to do everything in his power to prevent himself from ever being so badly hurt again. One only had to read his books to know that he was a man who had delved deeply into the realms of his own shadow. You’d have to have spent a lot of time exploring the darker side of the human psyche to come up with some of the twisted and terrifying plots that Adrian came up with in his work. And Liadan’s summing-up of what she’d read had been right. There were no redeeming solutions for the human condition in his stories. Not even the merest flicker of light.

‘Liadan? Where are you?’

Hearing him call her name, Liadan put her hands up to quell the sudden rush of heat in her cheeks, took a moment to compose herself, then ran up the back stairs into the open hallway to find him waiting for her.

‘I’m here. What’s wrong?’

For a brief second, Adrian almost forgot what he’d called her for. Again, that gentle perfume reminded him of May blossoms, and the sudden sight of her—all flushed cheeks and big blue eyes and pretty red-gold hair seizing an unexpected chance at liberty from its bun—made him think impossibly of spring. Of hope renewed and life restored after the dead of winter…For a moment the tightening in his throat made it impossible to speak.

‘Nothing’s wrong. What, did you think I’d be intimidated by some pushy little journo wearing too much make-up with an inflated sense of her own importance? You clearly don’t know the newspaper game like I do.’

‘Oh.’ Feeling the full disturbing force of his gaze, Liadan linked her hands together in front of her, then in the next second unlinked them and folded her arms self-consciously across her chest. Those deep, dark eyes of his were profoundly unsettling. They made Liadan far too aware of her own femininity in a way that no other man had made her feel before. Yet when he glanced away again, clearly too aloof to have stirred such an intimate response, it was as if she’d dreamt the whole thing and her feelings had seriously misled her. ‘You’re all right, then?’

He grimaced. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Come into my study, will you? I need your help.’

The sight that met her on entering Adrian’s room had Liadan’s blue eyes widening in shock. Practically every inch of floor space was covered in loose pages of manuscript, a chair was upturned and the broken remains of what was once a charming blue and white porcelain coffee cup littered the rug by the piano.

‘You can see why I need help,’ Adrian said dryly.

‘What happened?’ Getting down on her knees to recover some of the loose pages, Liadan sensed Adrian start to do the same behind her, the warm, woody drift of his cologne catching her unawares and making her stomach turn hollow.

‘My temper happened. People like Ms Kendall have a way of bringing out the worst in me.’

‘I can see that.’ Reaching forward to grab a further wad of papers, Liadan sensed Adrian grow still. ‘What’s the matter?’ Turning her head, she saw a tic in the side of his jaw and his eyes turn dark as molasses.

‘Why don’t you start on the other side of the room?’ he said lightly, the beginnings of a very wry smile tugging at the edges of his usually severe mouth.

‘Why?’

‘Take it from me, your current position is far too distracting, and I’m only human.’

Feeling her face flame red-hot, to her shame Liadan quickly understood what he meant. She’d been wriggling around on the floor retrieving papers with her bottom stuck up in the air, and with not one notion that Adrian was behind her appreciating the view…

Getting quickly to her feet she beat a swift retreat to the other side of the large room. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise, Miss Willow. It’s the best thing that’s happened to me all day.’

Concluding it was probably wise not to say anything for the next few minutes in case she embarrassed herself even further, Liadan concentrated on the task in hand, her mind racing, wishing she could erase what had just happened and start all over again.

‘I have to commend your lack of curiosity, Liadan,’ Adrian drawled. ‘You didn’t ask what Ms Kendall was threatening to print about me and Petra Collins.’

‘It’s none of my business.’ Straightening the pages in her hands, Liadan chose to keep her gaze on the neat, uniform type rather than direct it at Adrian.

‘They’re threatening to print that Petra was expecting my child—that I made her have an abortion.’

Swallowing hard, Liadan finally looked up. She met Adrian’s steady dark gaze without a flinch. ‘What do you expect me to say to that?’

‘It’s a rare woman in my experience who has no curiosity.’

‘Your personal business is your business, Mr Jacobs. I’m only your employee.’

‘What if I choose to confide in you, Liadan? Would that be too big a burden for those slender shoulders of yours? And by the way…my name is Adrian.’

Feeling heat overwhelm her like the rising steam from water being poured onto hot coals, Liadan lowered the papers to her lap and told herself that she was imagining this whole unbelievable scenario. Why on earth would a man like Adrian Jacobs confide in a woman he had known barely a scant three days when Kate had warned her that he was a closed book, a taciturn loner who wanted the least possible contact with the rest of the human race?

‘If you want someone to talk to, then of course I’m willing to listen. You have my word what you say will go no further than this room.’

‘I think I already know that, Liadan. That’s why I’m going to tell you.’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘I WAS introduced to her at dinner at the Dorchester in London by a mutual friend who happens to be a film director.’ Straightening to his full height, Adrian paused as if carefully weighing the words he was about to speak. A sudden ferocious gust of wind rattled the windowpane, startling them both with an eerie whistling sound that sent a chill racing down Liadan’s spine. On the mantel, the ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder to her suddenly hypersensitive hearing.

Drawing his fingers through his hair almost wearily, Adrian sighed. ‘To cut a long story short…we had a fling, a brief sexual liaison that didn’t last longer than a couple of weeks. It was stupid of me. I should never have got involved with Petra even for a second. The woman was unstable—irrational. The pressure of superstardom had seriously started to unravel her. We made love, yes, but I took precautions. There was no way that the baby she was supposedly expecting could be mine—if there was ever a baby at all.’

‘But someone is saying that there was?’

As if suddenly noticing that she was there, Adrian frowned in surprise as his glance swept over her calm, pretty face. Strangely, it seemed to anchor his thoughts somehow and he felt oddly reassured by her presence.

‘Someone?’ He laughed harshly. ‘Petra’s publicity machine, don’t you mean? Apparently they seem to think that because my star is on the rise, I could provide a whole lot of free advertising to get Petra Collins’ name back in the headlines. That’s all this whole farcical abortion business is about. I never even saw her again after the two weeks we were together were over. She certainly never contacted me to tell me she was pregnant, never mind me “forcing” her to have an abortion!’

‘They’re not going to print those lies, are they?’ Liadan spoke in hushed tones, mindful of jarring any further unhappy, unwanted memories.

‘Out of the goodness of their hearts they’re prepared to buy my side of the story to counter the claims Petra Collins’ people want to make public. Damage limitation, they call it.’

‘And…have you decided what you’re going to do?’

His expression turned suddenly savage. ‘I told them to go to hell.’

Her blue eyes taking silent inventory of the mess before her, Liadan concluded that that must have been when he had gone ballistic. And who could blame him? It was sickening that Petra Collins and her publicity machine could dream of slandering Adrian’s reputation just to put her back into the spotlight. She secretly hoped that he had put the fear of God into the brittle Cheryl Kendall before she’d left so that the reporter would seriously think twice before darkening his doorstep again.

‘All I want is to be left alone to work in peace. Why is that so bloody hard?’

Clutching the papers in her hand, Liadan got slowly to her feet. ‘Don’t let them get to you, Mr Jacobs…Adrian. I believe that people always get their comeuppance. What goes around comes around.’

To her shock Adrian’s expression grew even darker, his eyes lost in the pain of some deep inner anguish. ‘For God’s sake don’t tell me that, Liadan! I’m in enough trouble as it is without being reminded that there’s always a price to pay for past misdeeds.’

‘All of us have skeletons in our closet,’ she quickly asserted. ‘And I’m no saint. I’ve got my share of regrets about the past, but I truly believe there’s redemption for everyone in the end.’

‘Do you?’ He was suddenly at her side, his gaze intensely roving her face as if he could somehow extract from her the solution he so desperately seemed to be seeking. Her mouth went dry at his closeness.

‘You probably think I’m very naïve to hold such a belief.’

‘I have to confess your innocence intrigues me. I do believe that we reap what we sow, but as for redemption?’ His hard jaw tightened as if he were struggling to get a purchase on feelings that threatened to drag him under into an abyss that held nothing but terror. ‘From who or what? Some imagined force for good that exists in the world to save our souls? I don’t think so. Look around you. Even you surely can’t avoid noticing that fear and darkness holds most of us in its grip—no matter how hard we might wish things were different.’

Before she could utter another word in her defence, Adrian swung away from her and marched to the door. ‘If you could gather up the rest of my papers and put them together into some kind of sane order, I’d be in your debt. I suddenly feel the need for some fresh air.’

It was ridiculous, but Liadan felt devastated that Adrian seemed to believe he didn’t deserve to be forgiven for whatever past misdeeds he was overshadowed by. Whatever it was, whatever terrible thing had happened, whatever ghosts he couldn’t seem to lay to rest, he surely didn’t deserve to be tortured by it for the rest of his life? To shut himself away in this beautiful mausoleum of a house with no contact from anyone but the people who worked for him might help him produce best-selling novels with dark themes that helped fuel people’s fears, but was that a good enough reason not to move on with his life and look for something a little more hopeful?

Guiltily shaking herself out of her reverie, she quickly gathered up the rest of the strewn manuscript, stood the upturned chair back in its proper place and painstakingly picked up every shattered piece of broken crockery. Then she spent the next hour collating all the pages of Adrian’s script and putting them in a neat, orderly pile on top of his writing desk. Hoping that her efforts might induce him to feel a little calmer on his return, Liadan made to leave the room. Inadvertently glancing at the piano on her way out, she flexed her fingers longingly, then let herself out of the study to return to the utility room and get on with her chores.

‘Hello, George. Looks like the snow is finally melting.’

Clapping her hands together briskly in her warm woollen gloves, Liadan let her gaze roam briefly around the large greenhouse, then back again to the head gardener, who was examining seed trays with a frown.

‘And everything up to its eyes in muck and bullets,’ George replied dourly, before turning to give her his full attention.

‘It’s pretty while it lasts but I can see why it’s not exactly welcome. It can’t be easy taking care of gardens this large,’ Liadan commented sympathetically.

‘It’s not normally a problem. Been looking after this place most of my working life. Took care of these gardens for Mr Jacobs’ uncle. I was just a young lad when I started here. You wait till you see them in spring, Miss Willow. You’ll see a sight for sore eyes then!’

Feeling a genuine fondness developing for the older man as well as huge respect for his obvious skill and dedication in taking care of the gardens, Liadan let down her guard and started to relax. Whether she would still be here in the spring was another story entirely, but it shouldn’t stop her getting to know George a little better. With Adrian locked away in his study most of the time working and more or less on her own in the house, she wouldn’t mind someone else to talk to now and then.

‘I can’t wait. George, I wondered if you had any flowers I could have to put in the house? The place needs cheering up a bit, in my opinion.’

‘You asked Mr Jacobs about that, lass?’ Frowning, George’s light blue eyes were suddenly wary.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Mr Jacobs don’t usually like flowers in the house, lass. He said they remind him too much of funerals.’

Digesting this new knowledge with a little flutter of disquiet in her chest, Liadan shrugged good-naturedly. ‘Nothing’s set in stone, though, is it? I just thought a few nice blooms for the drawing room and the hall and maybe a pot of something I could take care of in my room. Hyacinths, perhaps?’

‘I’ll sort you out something just as soon as I’ve seen to these trays. Come back in a couple of hours, will you?’

‘Thanks, George.’

‘You settling in okay up at the house?’

Her smile was as sunny and as soothing as a summer garden and George found himself unreservedly warming to Adrian’s new young housekeeper.

‘I’m starting to get used to it. I don’t mind saying that I was quite intimidated at first.’

‘Don’t let Mr Jacobs worry you, lass. His bark is far worse than his bite, I can tell you. Very much like his uncle, he is, and he was a good man too. Never had a cross word from him in my life.’

‘Thank you. That’s very…reassuring. I’ll come back in a couple of hours, then.’ As she made her way along the slippery and wet paths that led back to the house Liadan found herself puzzling as to why Adrian would assert that flowers only reminded him of funerals. She got the feeling it had to do with whatever was tormenting him about his past, and her stomach turned over at the thought. Had someone close to him died? Someone he couldn’t forget? His wife, maybe?

‘Liadan!’

She swivelled at her name, her gaze seeking out who had called her. When she saw Steven Ferrers hurrying towards her, a garden rake hoisted in one hand and his long dark hair flying, she felt every muscle in her body contract warily. What did he want?

‘I’m glad I caught you.’ As he drew near his glance was piercing and far too familiar. Liadan wished she’d got back to the house before he’d seen her, but tried hard to conceal her irritation. George Ferrers was a sweetie but his son was not in the same league as his father. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Ferrers?’

‘Oh, come on!’ Grinning in disbelief, he swept his gaze down her figure in her long tweed coat and up again to the riot of red-gold curls that the wind had blown free of her bun. ‘We don’t need to stand on ceremony, do we? My name’s Steven. We’re both young, both stuck out here in the middle of bloody nowhere, and it’s going to be a long winter, sweetheart. What say you and me have a bit of fun? There’s a bit of a get-together tonight down at the village hall—some football mates of mine and their girls. I’m sure you could get the evening off if you fluttered those pretty eyelashes of yours at Mr Jacobs.’

The whole idea was so preposterous that Liadan was genuinely astounded. When God had been handing out bare-faced cheek, Steven Ferrers certainly hadn’t been lingering at the back of the queue. Flutter her eyelashes at Adrian Jacobs indeed! She could just imagine where that would get her. Then she remembered his dark eyes turning unsettlingly smoky during that incident in his study when he’d asked her to help to pick up his papers. Her heartbeat seemed to quicken and her breath grow suddenly shallow.

‘I think I ought to make one thing clear right now, Steven. I’m not looking to have a “bit of fun” with anyone. I’m here to do a job, and that’s all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work.’ Liadan was about to turn away, and her blue eyes flew wide in alarm when Steven grabbed her arm none too gently, glaring at her with a hard, almost threatening glance that made her blood run cold. ‘Think yourself too good for the likes of me, do you, angel? You’ll be glad enough of some normal male company after a week working for him up there! He’s not interested in women, darling, no matter how pretty. He’s got too much ice in his veins for that. You read his books? The only women he’s interested in are corpses! Spooky, wouldn’t you say?’

Pulling her arm free, Liadan felt as if her bones had suddenly turned as soggy as wet noodles. The hand she withdrew was visibly shaking in its protective bright orange glove. ‘Don’t you ever lay so much as a finger on me again, do you hear? If you do I’ll speak to the police! I won’t even hesitate—do you hear?’

It wasn’t an idle threat, either. Her friend Mel’s father was the local chief constable for the area. The thought comforted her. Alone in this out-of-the-way place, with Adrian too absorbed in his work to have an inkling what was going on should there be some kind of threat, she wanted to make sure that Steven knew she was no easy target for his mischief.

‘I thought you looked like a frigid, stuck-up bitch when I first set eyes on you! Your threats don’t frighten me, sweetheart. Police, my eye!’ As he turned and stamped back up the path towards the greenhouses Liadan let out a long, ragged breath and pressed her gloved hands to the raging heat in her face. She’d sensed that Steven Ferrers would be trouble the moment she’d set eyes on him. She wished her damned intuition had been wrong for once.

Adrian stepped back from the window, unable to suppress the strange sense of betrayal that ebbed through him at the sight of Liadan talking to an animated Steven Ferrers. After he had broken one of his own cardinal rules yesterday and revealed to her information that normally MI5 and the CIA wouldn’t be able to drag out of him, Adrian found himself speculating whether he could trust her after all. Young Ferrers was a cocky so-and-so, and definitely not someone to place your trust in. If Liadan didn’t have the wits to deduce that for herself, then both of them were in trouble.

Adrian had only employed Steven out of deference to George; he was well aware of the younger man’s employment history. It was unusual if he managed to hold down a job for more than a couple of weeks, according to his records. Clearly allergic to work, he sought out every opportunity to disappear for a smoke and Adrian knew that George had covered for him on numerous occasions when Steven had hopped off home early. Right now he was holding onto his job by a wing and a prayer. That said…what did he want with Liadan? Sighing, Adrian silently answered his own question. Liadan was young, beautiful and available—just by virtue of the fact that she was living and working in Adrian’s house. To Steven Ferrers she was doubtless easy pickings.

Irritation growing into disquieting, gnawing rage, Adrian swore and turned back to his computer.

‘What are they doing in here? I never have flowers in the house…ever! Didn’t Kate tell you?’

Her whole body tensing, Liadan turned from dusting the beautiful gold carriage clock on the marble mantelpiece and tried to smile. It was all very well coolly trotting out ‘nothing’s set in stone, though, is it?’ to George Ferrers, but now, faced with what she had done in the light of Adrian’s apparent loathing, she couldn’t help feeling she’d made a bad decision. Judging by the furious scowl across his deeply compelling features, a very bad decision.

‘They bring sunshine into the house and light up the room…don’t you think?’ In the face of his obvious hostility, Liadan’s words sounded ineffectual and feeble, like trying to irrigate miles of desert with a watering can. No matter how passionate she was on the subject, she knew she would never convince him that the vivid yellow flowers that filled the beautiful glass vases on either side of the fireplace should stay.

‘Get rid of them!’ Turning his back, Adrian paused in the doorway, clearly too overwhelmed with anger to even face her. Gazing at the tense stance of those impressively broad shoulders beneath his black cashmere sweater, Liadan concluded it must take a massive amount of mental discipline to contain that much fury and emotion twenty-four hours a day. Didn’t he ever get tired of being so angry?

‘I’m sorry you don’t like them. I’ll remove them to my room.’

‘What were you doing talking to Steven Ferrers?’ Like a whiplash he had spun round to face her again, his dark eyes openly hostile and suspicious.

Because he was confrontational and she was genuinely upset about having to remove the flowers, Liadan raised her chin defiantly.

‘Is that against the rules too?’

‘When you live under my roof, Liadan, you obey my rules. I’m not interested in whether you like them or not.’

Biting down on her lip, Liadan held onto her own temper by a thread. It didn’t matter that she wished Steven Ferrers wouldn’t come within ten feet of her, never mind talk to her! What did matter was that she objected to being spoken to like a badly behaved child.

‘So what are you saying? That I’m not to converse with the two other members of your staff, ever? That could make things slightly awkward.’ Her cornflower blue eyes were glittering, and another emotion besides irritation swept through Adrian as he studied her. Even when she was furious—and he could see that she was—with that tumbling red-gold hair that refused to stay bound and her eye-catching figure in jeans and a white ribbed sweater, she undeniably stirred his blood. Sucking in a deep breath, Adrian strained every muscle in his body to try and tamp down the power of his desire.

‘It’s Steven I want you to keep away from, as much as possible. George is a good man—you have nothing to fear from him.’

Her heart knocking against her ribs, a vivid image stealing into her mind of Steven Ferrers’ face hovering angrily too close to her own—so close that she could smell the tobacco on his breath—Liadan blinked in surprise. ‘You’re saying I do have something to fear where Steven is concerned?’

‘Just keep away from him. I don’t want him bothering you.’ He met her eyes with an intense glance that sent a little zing of heat dancing through her blood, but Liadan told herself she must have imagined the distinct note of concern in Adrian’s voice. The only concern he had was to be obeyed to the letter, she thought crossly. Yesterday, when he had confided in her about Petra Collins, now seemed like something she had dreamt—because today he was suddenly a very different man. Today he was definitely the Lord and Master of all he surveyed, and Liadan very much his lowly employee. No doubt he had regretted telling her so much and now sought to establish the proper distance to their relationship, lest she should try and take advantage.

She shouldn’t feel so upset at the idea, but strangely she did. She was alone out here, in this big, aloof house, with a man who was about as sociable as a wounded bear and with a growing sense that whatever she did—however perfectly or wonderfully she did her job—it would somehow never be good enough.

‘Was there anything else, Mr Jacobs? I really should get on.’ Lifting one of the glass vases, Liadan blew a curling red-gold lock of hair from her eyes, striving to keep her gaze as impersonal and unaffected as possible. A frown between his dark brows, Adrian didn’t reply straight away. To Liadan’s increasing discomfort he seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time just staring at her. What he was thinking about, she couldn’t begin to guess.

‘The flowers can stay,’ he said gruffly.

Her blue eyes widened in surprise. ‘Really?’

‘It’s not a big deal.’

‘Oh, but it is!’ Putting the vase back in its place, Liadan straightened, resting her hand momentarily on the marble mantel. ‘If putting them here makes you unhappy, I’ll take them away to my room. This is your home. You have a right to have things the way you like them.’

Home. Adrian’s glance was unremittingly scornful. ‘It’s people who make a home, Liadan, not bricks and mortar. Take away the people who matter and all you have is a shell. Small or grand—it doesn’t matter. It’s still a shell.’

Sensing his anguish and frustration, Liadan didn’t know what to say. For a moment there she’d never seen anyone look more lost…or more alone.

‘Anyway, I’d better put you in the picture about tomorrow.’

‘What’s happening tomorrow?’ Relieved that he’d changed the subject because he would probably only scorn any comfort she tried to offer, Liadan waited with interest for him to tell her.

‘Cheryl Kendall’s newspaper is printing Petra’s claim about the abortion. I fully expect to be invaded in the morning by journalists champing at the bit. My solicitor, Edward Barry, will be here first thing to make a statement on my behalf. Just stay put in the house for a while until they go, will you? I don’t want you getting caught up in the free-for-all, and, believe me, it will be one.’

He had that world-weary look in his dark eyes again and this time Liadan really did feel like comforting him. She knew it wasn’t her place and that she had no right—she was just someone he’d given a job to, and what did she know of the personal torment he was going through? But she was adamant that he shouldn’t have to endure such invasion alone, with nobody on his side but his solicitor.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Adrian?’

‘Just do the job I’m paying you to do. There’s nothing more you can do for me but that.’

As Adrian turned away from the distinctly hurt look in her lovely blue eyes he wondered when he’d added lying to his list of sins. Right now there was another kind of comfort he’d readily accept from Liadan Willow. And it definitely wasn’t a kind that was within the remit of her job. He should put his lustful thoughts about her firmly to the back of his mind and remember that he needed a housekeeper far more than he needed a woman to warm his bed.

Returning to his study, he found it impossible to concentrate on his manuscript. Seeing those bright yellow tulips in the drawing room had foisted a wave of melancholy upon him that he couldn’t seem to shake. It wasn’t that he hated flowers as such—when everything started to bloom again in the gardens there was nothing he enjoyed more than to walk undisturbed through the meandering paths and admire nature at its most lovely. But flowers in the house reminded him of the cloying, desolate atmosphere of Nicole’s home on the day of her funeral. Because it had been raining heavily outside, all the mourners had gathered first at the house and Trevor and Barbara Wilson’s home had been full of bouquets and wreaths, the rooms overflowing with them. Their combined sweet cloying scent had almost made Adrian gag.

Now he found that his body was restless and he had a frustration in him that for once wouldn’t be beaten into submission by applying himself to work. Dreading the melee and intrusion of newspaper journalists tomorrow, he wished he could escape somewhere where he would never be found again. He’d had a fling with Petra Collins in a weak, despairing moment, fuelled by an excess of alcohol at dinner, and now regretted it bitterly. Adrian could only pray that once this latest nonsense had died a thoroughly deserved death, they would all go away and leave him alone for good.

Knowing he had to divert his restless energy somehow, he put a classical CD in the player, sat in his favourite winged armchair where he could gaze out at the melting snow in a landscape that was usually lush and green, and waited for the music to bring salve to his soul.

Unable to sleep, her mind whirring with thoughts of the morning when a barrage of reporters would apparently be gathering on the front steps, Liadan got out of bed, pulled on her white towelling robe over tartan flannel pyjamas and stepped outside into the long, echoing corridor. Thankfully there was a light still burning and she could see her way down the long, sweeping staircase to the lower floor where the kitchen was. Assuring herself that a glass of hot milk would do the trick and help her to sleep, she opened the door and switched on the light. Her heart almost burst out of her chest in fright when she saw Adrian stare back at her in surprise from the comfort of the kitchen chair he was currently occupying. In his hand he nursed what looked like a glass of scotch. His hooded eyes adjusting themselves to the light, his stern mouth lifted in a mocking little smile.

‘Sweet dreams evading you too tonight, Liadan? Perhaps you’d like to join me in drowning my sorrows in a glass of whisky?’

‘I’d prefer some hot milk, thank you,’ she replied primly, clutching at the tie on her robe to make sure it was secure. Adrian’s answering humourless laugh sent goose-bumps flying in all directions across her sensitive skin.

‘Of course you would. You probably think there’s something sordid about resorting to alcohol in moments of weakness, don’t you? Forgive me, Liadan. I don’t mean to offend your obviously delicate sensibilities.’

Upset and annoyed by his careless assumptions about her nature, Liadan came fully into the room, facing Adrian with little shooting sparks of fury in her bright blue eyes.

‘You should know better than to make such casual judgements about people! You don’t like it done to you, so why do you imagine I should tolerate it? You think I haven’t been so hurt that I can’t understand how a person might use a drink or two to try and deaden the pain? Well, think again, Mr Jacobs, because I have.’ Biting her lip to stop it from wobbling, Liadan gulped down a deep breath, then walked towards a line of cupboards on the other side of the room, intent on searching out a milk pan to make her drink.

She wouldn’t think about Michael right now. Nor would she recall the terrible feelings of deep rejection because when it came down to it she hadn’t been able to compete with his faith. But it wasn’t just his rejection that had hurt. There were times before he’d made the decision to leave when she had allowed herself to feel less than worthless. Times when he’d berated or scolded her for not being as capable, or intelligent, or faultless as she might be. Times when he’d suggested that her virtue was tainted for ever because she’d slept with a boyfriend when she was twenty and wasn’t a virgin. Michael hadn’t wanted to sleep with Liadan because she was somehow defiled, unclean in his mind, not just because of his faith.

Behind her she registered the sound of Adrian’s chair scraping against the stone-flagged floor. Her spine tensed, as stiff as a steel post.

‘Liadan?’

‘What?’ She found the saucepan and moved away to retrieve a pint of milk from the amply stocked fridge.

‘If making assumptions is a fault of mine, I apologise. Here, let me do that.’

‘I’m quite capable of—’

‘Your abilities aren’t in question. I just think you ought to sit down and let me make you a drink. Perhaps this would be a good opportunity for you to tell me a little about yourself. What do you say?’

CHAPTER FIVE

SITTING at the table, her mug of hot milk cradled warmly in her hands, Liadan glanced briefly at Adrian in the chair opposite, trying desperately to come to terms with the strong sensation of intimacy that frighteningly seemed to flow between them.

‘What do you want to know?’ she asked quietly.

‘How long have you lived in the village? It’s strange I’ve never seen you there before.’ If he’d seen her he certainly would have remembered her…

‘I’ve been around. I moved here three-and-a-half years ago. Before that I lived in Dorset with my mother. She lives in Spain now.’

‘Why didn’t you go into the hotel business when you left Dorset? Why did you go to work in an esoteric bookshop, of all places?’ He was smiling, but this time not mockingly. Liadan sensed the tension in her stomach ease a little.

‘There aren’t many hotels in the local vicinity and those I tried didn’t have any vacancies at the time. My friend Mel has a friend called Jennie who owned the shop and was looking for someone to help out. As luck would have it, Mel’s boyfriend owns the local estate agent’s, and he helped me get my mortgage on my cottage when I decided to move here.’

‘And this Mel? She lives in the village too?’

‘That’s why I moved here. We’ve known each other since we met on holiday when we were kids.’ Liadan took a sip of the fragrant creamy milk laced with nut-meg and experienced a rush of surprise that Adrian had made it so perfectly. There was something highly personal about him making it for her—something that very definitely blurred the lines of employer and employee, and made their relationship suddenly far more intimate.

‘So…you’ve been here three and a half years and you’re still alone?’

‘Alone?’

‘No significant other?’ Taking a slug of whisky, Adrian made a face as the fiery spirit scorched the back of his throat, then put down his glass and fastened his slow, deliberate gaze on Liadan’s face with deepening interest. Her throat convulsed a little, and her grasp on her mug tightened.

‘There was someone,’ she admitted softly. ‘We were going to be married but things between us didn’t work out.’

‘You decided the married state wasn’t for you after all?’

Her heart beating an uneasy tattoo and, unsure of how much to reveal, Liadan shrugged the comment aside and forced herself to continue. ‘No. The man I was involved with had a conflict of priorities. It was either me or his calling to the Church. In the end the Church won hands down. I don’t blame him. He had a right to follow his heart.’

‘And you loved this man?’ Adrian’s voice sounded like whisky and cigarettes and Liadan found that, as much as she desperately needed to, it was nigh on impossible to break away from the burning intensity in his eyes.

‘I…I thought I did.’ Shrugging her slim shoulders, because there was a wealth of soul-searching behind that statement that she couldn’t begin to explain, Liadan looked pained. It was enough to know that she’d analysed her behaviour deeply and with enough regularity to write a psychology book. ‘I don’t know if I was actually “in love” with Michael. He was solid and reliable and at the time I thought I needed that.’ Until he’d started to dictate what she could or couldn’t do, that was.

Feeling as though she had to qualify her statement, particularly what she knew must sound like a complete lack of affection for the man she had been engaged to, Liadan found words spilling from her lips that she hadn’t meant to say. ‘My father died, you see. I was very insecure after that for a while. He’d appeared so healthy and strong up until his heart attack, and my mother and I had no notion that anything was wrong. It’s scary when someone you love suddenly isn’t there any more, and we’d always been so close. When he died I was quite lost for a while. Well…for a long time, actually. When Michael came along I suppose he picked that up. In a way he liked the idea of rescuing me, I think. He was very much a man who liked to take charge and he wanted me to defer to him in practically everything—even down to the friends I had. As soon as that started happening I should have known that things would never work out. Anyway…in the end I was relieved he made the decision he did.’ She paused, feeling slightly ridiculous for revealing so much, for allowing herself to expose her failings and vulnerability to a man like Adrian who, with his cynicism about the world, probably took it as read that relationships didn’t work out—period.

‘I wonder if he still believes he made the right choice?’ Before Liadan could answer the question, Adrian slid the palm of his hand across her fingers gripping the mug of hot milk, his touch all but scorching her. His skin was smooth and warm and incredibly erotic and for brief seconds such a longing swept over Liadan that she couldn’t do anything other than stare deeply into his eyes and let the feeling take her. Her heart slamming against her ribs, she told herself he meant it as a consoling gesture and it was nothing to get worked up about. But somehow her wildly racing heart refused to listen. He must have access to a kind of magic to instil that much magnetism and that much sensation into just one simple brush of his skin against hers, Liadan thought frantically, staring at him in fright.

‘I’m sure he does. Why shouldn’t he?’

She shot out of her chair, milk slopping out of her mug onto the table, jarred by the suddenness of her movement. Feeling hot colour pour into her cheeks, she swung round in disarray to search for a mopping-up cloth.

‘Do you really have to ask why a man wouldn’t choose an austere celibate life over being with you, Liadan?’ Getting to his feet, Adrian held her gaze for a brief but ignitable couple of seconds before silently locating a dishcloth, wringing it out and mopping up the spill in the middle of the table with quiet efficiency. Watching him, Liadan was mesmerised by the ease with which he moved his fit, muscular body, his movements unconsciously and devastatingly sexy to her hungry eyes, the space he inhabited the compelling focus of her complete and undivided attention.

‘Please don’t get the idea that sleeping with me was any kind of inducement. As far as Michael was concerned I was…tarnished because I had slept with a boyfriend before.’ Looking down at the floor, Liadan wished she didn’t still feel humiliated by her ex’s judgemental opinion and rejection. ‘Besides, I don’t think church life is as austere as all that nowadays. At least I hope not. Michael likes his comforts.’ She knew she was babbling. She always talked too much when she was nervous and Adrian Jacobs made her very nervous. Lifting her head, Liadan saw that his deliberate dark gaze was examining her with what appeared to be concern in their liquid depths, and she worryingly sensed her equilibrium coming undone. Clutching at the collar of her robe, she tried for a smile but somehow couldn’t get the necessary muscles to assist her. ‘Thank you for clearing up the spill. I should have done that.’

‘So what are you telling me, Liadan? That you and this Michael never actually made love?’

‘I think he was waiting for the day when God would personally come down and absolve me of my sins in front of him. He wanted a guarantee that I was good enough.’ Her soft mouth twisted with painful humour.

‘The man must have been insane.’ Adrian shook his head in clear disbelief and Liadan felt a surge of wild gratitude for his vote of confidence.

‘I shouldn’t have disturbed you,’ she said breathlessly. For a long, unsettling moment, Adrian just stared. Then he shook his head as if coming to a decision.

‘Go back to bed and get some rest. We both have to be up early.’

Liadan couldn’t deny her heartfelt disappointment.

‘You were drowning your sorrows and all I did was talk about me.’

‘I asked you to talk about yourself, remember?’

Adrian wished she would just turn around and leave. In the past few minutes he had become too consumed by the power of her femininity—of all the beguiling attributes that no red-blooded male could fail to notice, starting with her incredible eyes. Her ex-boyfriend either had a will of iron where Liadan’s attractions were concerned, or he must have been taking passion-killing drugs to sedate desire, because Adrian couldn’t believe that any man could gaze at the woman and not be so turned on that it hurt. And if it was true that a person’s eyes reflected their soul, then Liadan’s must be as pure and unsullied as water from a crystal well, he surmised with feeling. Because when she trained them on him, all his sins came back with force to haunt him. He was a million miles away from such purity, especially when all he wanted to do right now was tear off her clothes and make violent, passionate love to her.

‘What about tomorrow?’ she asked tentatively, moving towards the door.

‘What about it?’

Aware of his deliberate cooling towards her after the stunning intimacy of the last few moments, Liadan felt her stomach churn with anguish. ‘Will you…will you be all right? With the reporters and everything?’

‘I’ll handle it. Just stay in the house and don’t venture out into the gardens unless it’s an emergency. After this, I’m going to be installing electronic gates at the end of the drive—something I should have attended to from the beginning. Now go to bed, Liadan. You look tired.’

Deliberately tearing his gaze from the concern in her eyes, Adrian threw the dishcloth into the sink and combed his fingers wearily through his thick dark hair. Instead of soothing him, the whisky he had imbibed had made him irritable and morose—more so now that Liadan was going back to bed. For a few unexpectedly bright moments there she had inspired feelings in him that he’d thought he’d crushed for ever. Feelings of warmth and the need to connect with another human being on a deeper level, not just surface chit-chat that said nothing and concealed everything. Liadan had ignited longings in him that made her a very dangerous woman indeed. A woman who, despite being hurt, still believed in the goodness in the world—who’d forgiven her foolish boyfriend for dumping her because he had a right to ‘follow his heart’.

Well, as far as Adrian was concerned, all the goodness in him had long been used up, because he wasn’t about to forgive himself for ultimately being the cause of Nicole’s death that day. And all because his ego had tricked him into believing he was somehow invincible—immune to threats of death and destruction. It had naturally followed that everyone connected to him had to be invincible too…

Turning her back reluctantly, Liadan told herself that those muscular broad shoulders of Adrian’s could handle whatever was troubling him right now. He’d survived this far without any help from her, hadn’t he? She just hoped that those reporters tomorrow wouldn’t give him too hard a time. Once they had their statement from Adrian’s solicitor, she prayed they would just pack up and leave as quickly as possible. She’d make something special for dinner tomorrow night, she decided, her spirits momentarily lifting. A wonderful meal wouldn’t solve his problems, but the care she put into preparing it might just convince him that someone cared about his well-being.

‘That was a first-rate cup of coffee, Liadan. Thank you. Now, Adrian, my friend, I think we’d better go and appease the wolves, don’t you?’

Edward Barry, Adrian’s solicitor, surprisingly turned out to be an attractive young man in his mid to late thirties, immaculately dressed in a beautiful Armani suit, his dark blond hair equally impeccably cut and styled. He had a twinkle in his eye that suggested to Liadan that he didn’t take himself too seriously, yet at the same time there was a distinct air of reliability about him—as if you could count on him not to let you down. Inwardly Liadan was hugely relieved. Adrian needed someone like Edward Barry on his side right now. The crush of reporters at the door was truly frightening to her inexperienced eye and she couldn’t wait for them to be gone. They’d been camping out in the gardens of the house since before dawn with their cars and their camera equipment, apparently immune to the now-slushy melting snow and the biting cold, clearly willing to endure any hardship in anticipation of coming face to face with their quarry.

Bending forward to clear the table of drained cups and saucers, Liadan briefly caught Adrian’s eye. It was hard to detect exactly what was going through his mind just then because his attractive face was carefully blank. She wanted to say ‘good luck’ or something like that but decided that it sounded too asinine. Like wishing someone good luck when they were about to be thrown to the lions, she silently reflected. So instead she just ventured a smile, hoping he knew that she prayed his encounter with the press wouldn’t be too awful or painful.

Adrian’s arresting dark eyes narrowed briefly, as if silently acknowledging her support, then without further preamble he opened the door and led his solicitor out of the kitchen.

Making herself return to the rooms on the second floor that needed vacuuming, Liadan headed straight for one of the two large windows in the first room that overlooked the front gardens, unable to resist taking a peek outside. The stone steps were covered in wall-to-wall people, all, it seemed, shouting Adrian’s name, demanding he look this way or that while cameras popped aggressively. Like a swarm of vultures fighting over a carcass. Her pulse racing, Liadan bit down on her thumb, the force of her teeth almost biting through the flesh. Anger, swift and powerful, roared through her blood at the sight that met her gaze. How dared they? How dared they invade his home like this, as if they had every right to storm in like some self-righteous marauding army? Surely they must know this whole sorry episode had been engineered by Petra Collins’ publicity machine, purely to make her look good and Adrian look bad?

Not even concerning herself with why she so readily believed Adrian’s side of the story, Liadan raised her hand to the window, letting her palm rest against the icy glass pane. Her ears strained to hear above the noise as Edward Barry’s impressive voice begged for quiet so that he could make a statement on Adrian’s behalf.

At the end of the statement, which was dignified yet blunt, and in no way stooped to denigrate Petra Collins either as a woman or as an actress, Edward led Adrian back inside and the crowd on the steps reluctantly started to disperse. Moving away from the window with a sigh, relieved that Adrian’s ordeal was for the moment at an end, Liadan switched on the vacuum cleaner to resume her work.

But as the harsh sound filled the formerly silent room she forced herself to remember that she was after all only Adrian Jacobs’ housekeeper and not even someone he might think of as a friend. She had no need and no right to concern herself unnecessarily about his welfare. But even though logic begged her to see sense, Liadan couldn’t prevent the helpless yearning that seemed to have taken root in her heart since their impromptu conversation in the kitchen last night. All she could do was pray that she would snap out of such foolishness soon…

At lunchtime she took Adrian coffee and sandwiches. As she rested the tray on top of the piano as usual Liadan glanced at him sidelong to try and gauge his mood. They hadn’t exchanged words since Edward Barry had left earlier, because Adrian had gone directly back to his study to work. Now as she watched him, his attention apparently wholly absorbed by what was on the computer screen in front of him, she marvelled at the fact that he could lose himself in his work so thoroughly when this morning he’d had to face that horrible unsettling scene on his doorstep.

‘How’s it going?’ Liadan surprised herself with the question. She hadn’t intended to ask it and, now that she had, she wished she hadn’t. Adrian turned his head to stare at her as if only just realising she was there.

‘Okay.’ He didn’t elaborate and Liadan knew it was probably a hint that she should not disturb him any further and leave. But somehow, because she had been so concerned about him, she couldn’t just leave things at that without satisfying herself that he really was okay. ‘No man is an island,’ the phrase went, and right now she surmised he could probably use a friend or two.

‘What’s the book about?’

As he shook his head slightly Adrian’s dark gaze became immediately guarded—as if he’d endured enough invasion into his privacy for one day and wouldn’t endure any more.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I’m interested.’

Folding her arms across her sky-blue sweater, Liadan smiled. Brave it out, she told herself. Don’t let him frighten you off with those foreboding dark glances of his.

‘You don’t like my books. There are no happy endings, remember? Only the inevitable conclusion that life is dark and ultimately dangerous and we’d better arm ourselves in any way we can to deal with it.’

‘That’s a very sad and pessimistic outlook, if you don’t mind my saying.’

Adrian shrugged. ‘You can say what you like. It’s the truth.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ Her passionate conviction that he was so wrong prevented Liadan from being more cautious. Feeling heat rush into her face, she forced herself to meet his suddenly hard, unflinching glance.

‘Life is what you make it. The old saying is true. If you believe everything is dark and dangerous and you should be prepared to meet the worst, then that’s what you’ll probably pull towards you. But if you nurture optimism and expect the best—then that’s what you’ll attract. I know you must have been hurt in the past and you’ve seen some things in your career that no one should ever have to witness, but you shouldn’t let it colour your future. Whatever happened.’

Pain cramped his throat as old, hurtful memories suddenly deluged him—in particular Nicole lying on that hard sun-baked sidewalk, her beautiful hair caked in blood…Adrian got up from his chair and paced angrily to the window. Just who the hell did this woman think she was, walking in here and telling him he shouldn’t let his past colour his future? She hadn’t even lived yet!

‘Do me a favour, will you? Keep your cosy little homilies about life to yourself, Liadan. I hired you to be my housekeeper—not my life coach. If I feel the need to converse with someone like that I’ll go and see a professional. Understood?’

Staring at his coldly handsome face as he glared back at her, Liadan tried bravely to field the hurt and embarrassment that washed over her. She’d only been trying to help—not fix his life. Did he really think she had the audacity to do that? She knew her own limitations. Her own life was hardly perfect. Yet, no matter what happened, she knew what she’d said was true. Life was what you made it…

‘I’m sorry you feel that way. I meant no offence, I was only trying to help.’

‘The best way you can help me is to remember what I hired you for. Do that and we’ll get along just fine.’

Having been put firmly in her place and knowing it was useless to say another word, Liadan nodded briefly, then turned and walked away. Just as her hand pushed at one of the double doors to open it she remembered something she’d been going to ask earlier but had forgotten. In the light of what had just transpired, the question seemed even more imperative.

‘I’ve got to go into the village this afternoon for some groceries. Would you mind if I took an extra half hour just to pop back to my cottage to check on things?’

‘No. That’s fine.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Liadan?’

‘What?’ Her back stiffening, she steeled herself against another admonition.

‘If you come across any reporters lurking about or trying to hassle you in any way, come straight back here, do you understand? Forget the groceries until tomorrow.’

‘I can deal with—’

‘No. You can’t. You have no idea what these people can be like. Just do as I say, will you?’

Emotion threatening to overwhelm her, Liadan bit her lip and nodded reluctantly. It would be a big mistake to imagine for even one second that he was concerned for her welfare. He was only trying to protect himself by suggesting she didn’t talk to reporters. Did he think she would tell them anything? Sad that there was obviously such a lack of trust, she hurried back down the corridor to the kitchen, suddenly desperate to be out in the fresh air and on her way to the village.

As soon as Liadan arrived at the cottage Jack Kempsey, her lovely elderly neighbour, came round with Izzy, the petulant long-haired Persian she had acquired from the Cats Protection League. As Liadan sank gratefully onto her overstuffed couch with its startling array of vividly bright cushions, her gaze drinking in the cosy front room that she had so missed these past few days, she cradled Izzy on her lap, her fingers stroking the silky fur with unashamed enjoyment.

‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon.’ Jack smiled. ‘Got time for a cup of tea before you go back, love?’

‘Oh, Jack, you’re a godsend! Yes, please. How has Izzy been behaving herself?’

‘You don’t need to worry about her, Liadan. She’s been spoiled rotten, she has! Comes over to me during the day to be fed and acts like the Queen of Sheba, then at night she comes back home through the cat-flap and acts like she’s guarding the place for you until you get back.’

‘That’s my girl.’ Tickling the contentedly purring feline beneath her chin, Liadan felt herself shrug off the tension of the morning. Coming home, even briefly, anchored her somehow, reminded her that if things didn’t work out up at the big house, then she still had a home to return to. No matter what happened, what kind of work she had to do, she would do it to keep this little house. It was her haven. ‘Drowsy Haunt’, it was named, and as soon as Liadan was back within its four walls all her cares and concerns seemed to melt away.

‘How are you finding it working up there with the writer fellow?’ Jack called from the kitchen.

On a scale from one to ten? Below zero…Liadan reflected silently. Then she pulled herself up short, reminding herself that it wasn’t all bad. It was a beautiful house to work in, the work was, on the whole, second nature, and Adrian Jacobs…could be worse. She let loose a wry laugh at that.

‘What did you say, love? I didn’t hear you.’ Popping his head round the door, Jack’s wrinkled brow creased in puzzlement.

‘I said it’s fine, Jack. Everything’s fine.’

‘Good. It does my heart good to see you smile again. When you were with that Michael fellow, I missed your smile.’

For the umpteenth time that afternoon Adrian glanced at his watch and for the umpteenth time was unable to suppress the sense of worry and anxiety that surged into his chest. Where was she? She’d been gone too long even if she had popped back home to her cottage. The perfectly made chicken sandwiches she’d brought him earlier lay curled up and uneaten on the plate and his coffee too had been left to grow cold and congeal in its brightly patterned cup and saucer. After the events of this morning and that scene with Liadan before she’d left to go to the village, the last thing Adrian could stomach was food. The darkly dramatic themes of his current work in progress, instead of exciting or enthusing him, just filled him with melancholy and a silent rage at the futility of his life that was growing daily. Why couldn’t he have been the one who’d been left waiting on the sidewalk when the bomb had gone off? Why had it had to be Nicole—vibrant, beautiful and only twenty-nine? She would have been his wife…the mother of his children.

Stalking restlessly from his study, Adrian headed to the kitchen and prowled there, noting the spotlessly clean worktops, meticulously swept floor and newly laundered tea towels folded neatly over the rail of the Aga—all signs that Liadan was completely professional and adept at doing her job. The job he’d hired her to do. He should feel gratified, he told himself. When he’d first seen her he’d doubted she would last a day, never mind impress him with her efficiency. And now he would do well to remember that she was only his housekeeper, not someone he could get close to, whom he might confide in—no matter how beguiling that gentle voice or how kind that beautiful face.

Tapping his fingers against the tabletop, Adrian couldn’t resist another glance down at his watch. Where the hell was she? She’d left the house over three hours ago and it was now black as tar outside. Had she been waylaid by the press and somehow persuaded to talk? Or had she simply decided to leave and not come back? Hating the idea and despising himself for dreading such a possibility, he went in search of his coat and, with a surge of energy that had so far been denied him that day, decided to find Liadan and bring her safely back home.

CHAPTER SIX

WHEN he came upon the old-fashioned Morris Minor tilted sideways into a ditch at the side of a winding unmade road not far from the house, Adrian knew immediately it was Liadan’s. Climbing quickly out of his Jeep, he ran to the vehicle, his heart pounding so heavily in his chest that it made the blood roar in his ears. As he wrenched open the passenger door and called her name she turned and stared at him, her blue eyes dazed yet startled. Then he saw the blood.

For one terrible, frozen moment Adrian felt physically sick. The blood had oozed from a gash high on her forehead into her beautiful red-gold hair and her skin was quite pale in the car, reflected light from the still blazing headlamps lighting up the interior with an almost supernatural glow.

‘I hit my head, I think.’ Her smile was lopsided and apologetic. Long training forcing him to take charge even though his heart was still banging like a drum, Adrian leaned towards her in a brisk, no-nonsense kind of way that belied the turmoil going on inside him.

‘I need to get you out of there and take you straight to Casualty. Here, reach over to me carefully. Take your time, don’t rush.’

She was a warm bundle of tweed coat, bright orange scarf and tumbling strawberry-blonde hair in his arms and if he was surprised at the feeling of protectiveness that washed over him, Adrian quickly squashed the sensation in order to do what he had to do.

‘I swerved to avoid a rabbit.’ Biting her lip, Liadan stared up at him, tears washing those perfectly blue eyes like a crystal fountain flowing over sapphires.

‘A rabbit?’ Adrian’s expression was almost painfully wry as he eased her gently into the passenger seat of the Jeep. Swiftly fastening her seat belt, he pushed back her hair from her eyes to examine the wound she’d sustained. The gash was about two inches long and appeared deep. He frowned into her upturned face, torn with the need to either scold her thoroughly or kiss her senseless. Again his feelings stole a march on him and he fought hard to get them under control, inwardly raging that right now nothing in his life yielded to his control. Not one damn thing, it seemed.

‘Here.’ He produced a spotless white handkerchief from his jeans pocket and gave it to Liadan. ‘Hold this to your head until we get to the hospital. It’s about ten miles away. Think you’ll be okay?’

‘I’ll be fine.’ Her voice was raspy with a slight catch in it and Adrian’s dark gaze grew even more concerned.

‘Are you hurting?’ he demanded. ‘Feeling dizzy or sick?’

‘I’m not dizzy but it—it stings.’ Wincing, Liadan gingerly pressed the clean white handkerchief to her head. ‘You probably think I’m a terrible driver, don’t you? But I really thought I’d kill that rabbit.’

‘And what if you had killed yourself, huh? Did you think of that when you were trying to do your good deed for the day?’

He sounded furious, Liadan thought a little desperately as her head throbbed. It was fortunate that Adrian had come along when he had because God knew how long she would have been stranded there in rapidly deteriorating freezing temperatures if he hadn’t—but why did it have to be him who found her in such vulnerable circumstances? She tried to swallow but the ache in her throat was almost as painful as the gash she had sustained.

‘I didn’t think about trying to do a “good deed”. I acted completely instinctively. Would you like the death of an innocent creature on your conscience?’ She knew she sounded petulant but she couldn’t help herself. Why did he always have to be so angry with her?

Staring at her as if she’d slapped him, his mouth a foreboding grim line in his suddenly pale face, Adrian nodded at her briefly before slamming the door shut at her side. Jumping into the driver’s seat, he started the engine, engaged the gears and drove off past Liadan’s stranded car without so much as a backward glance, her unfortunately significant words echoing through his brain like the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer coming down hard on an anvil. Would you like the death of an innocent creature on your conscience? she’d asked. He’d felt so bloody desolate just then that if Liadan hadn’t been his passenger, Adrian would have willingly driven his own car into a ditch. Or failing a ditch, the nearest river…

When the door opened suddenly and Adrian strode into her room, Liadan pushed herself guiltily up into a sitting position against the plumped up pillows on the bed, trying to ignore the renewed stinging of her newly stitched wound. They’d spent nearly three hours at the hospital waiting for her to be seen and her wound attended to, and by the time they’d got home it had been nearly ten in the evening. She hadn’t been able to even think about cooking him the delicious meal she’d intended, and she guessed her recently bought ingredients were still in the back seat of her stranded car.

Her brows knitting anxiously together, she glanced up at Adrian’s tall, imperious figure with a little knot of trepidation settling uncomfortably beneath her ribs. He’d been faultlessly attentive and solicitous at the hospital, regularly checking that she was comfortable enough as they waited on hard red plastic chairs in the busy emergency department. Every now and then he’d stride across the shiny floor to the little reception window and enquire how much longer it would be before Liadan was attended to. All eyes had been drawn to him. He was an imposing-looking man at the best of times and he was even more so when he took charge on Liadan’s behalf. She didn’t know whether she’d been seen more quickly than she would otherwise have been because Adrian had simply worn the receptionist down with his constant badgering, or because he had the kind of aura about him that plainly commanded attention. In any case Liadan had been grateful to have him on her side.

Now, though, she couldn’t help fretting that he must think her a complete nuisance. He needed a housekeeper, not a patient. Knowing that thought must be uppermost in his mind, Liadan resolved to get straight back to her chores in the morning, throbbing head or no throbbing head. She was determined to let Adrian know she was no wilting flower, fading at the first little setback.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, examining her closely.

‘Fine.’ She gulped, then quickly glanced away lest he see she was lying, because she didn’t feel fine. She felt bloody awful if he wanted to know the truth.

‘Liar,’ he said.

Liadan sensed that uncomfortable knot beneath her ribs tighten. Lifting her hand cautiously to the white gauze dressing that was taped to her forehead, she forced a smile. ‘Obviously I’ve felt better. But it’s only a small gash and tomorrow I’ll be up and about again, no worries. You’ll see.’

‘Over my dead body.’ Adrian’s expression was darkly foreboding. Her eyes widening in surprise, Liadan’s heart skittered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean only an idiot would consider getting up and carrying on as normal after an accident. You need at least a day to recover, if not two. And you’re to tell me right away if you have any dizziness or sickness, is that clear?’

Wishing he wouldn’t look quite so formidable, Liadan felt herself slump resignedly back against the pillows. All of a sudden she was deathly tired. ‘I’ll see how I feel in the morning,’ she said quietly.

Studying her pale complexion along with the soft, bruising smudges beneath her startlingly blue eyes, Adrian reached out his hand and lifted a curling lock of her red-gold hair. Staring at it, twining it round his fingers, its silken texture stirring something deep within his soul, he frowned, his concentrated dark gaze not moving from the sight of it. It had been shocking when he’d seen the blood staining that beautiful hair. For a moment he really hadn’t known where he was, as all the harshly buried pain he’d carried around with him in the years following Nicole’s brutal death had seemed suddenly to surface and threaten to batter him—like volcanic rocks spewing down a mountainside towards him. Thank God he’d come quickly to his senses and got Liadan to the hospital as rapidly as he had. He’d never have been able to forgive himself if he hadn’t come to her aid in time.

‘Head wounds can be very serious—even if they don’t appear so at the time,’ he said out loud.

He was far away from her in another place, Liadan realised, his mind clearly dwelling on some past situation that she was excluded from. Whatever it was, it haunted him. Haunted him to his very bones. One day when she was brave enough, perhaps she would dare to ask him about it? But not now, when the memory was clearly paining him anew, and especially not when her heart was pumping so hard she almost couldn’t breathe…

‘I’ll be…I’ll be careful,’ she promised, her lips trembling a little.

‘I’ve called out the chap who owns the local garage to come and get your car out of the ditch. I’m just waiting to hear back from him. As soon as he locates it I’ll drive out to talk with him. Will you be all right if I’m gone a little while? I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘I’m sure I’ll be just fine.’

‘You’re not to get out of bed or move so much as a muscle.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Good.’ Seemingly satisfied, Adrian abruptly released the impossibly soft coil of hair still brushing against his fingers and strode across the room to the door.

‘It’s very good of you to do all this. I mean, seeing to my car and taking me to the hospital and everything. I’m very grateful.’

‘Don’t be.’ With a flash of barbed humour, Adrian shrugged carelessly. ‘I’m only protecting my investment.’

Crushed, Liadan shut her eyes, warding off the hurt that ached right down to her fingertips.

She was making soup for their lunch. She’d had to swear by all that was holy to Adrian that she wouldn’t overdo it, but he had finally relented and let her come downstairs. All the ingredients she needed were laid out carefully on the scrubbed pine table. Chopped-up celery stalks filled a blue ceramic bowl next to a dish of roughly sliced carrots and next to that was a smaller dish of finely diced onion and garlic. Having spent years helping in the kitchen of her parents’ hotel, Liadan favoured an ordered approach to her cooking. Once all her ingredients were prepared and on display, then she could get down to the fun part of creating appetising meals. Now as she stood at the stove stirring a large pan of simmering stock she breathed in the fragrant cooking smells and tried not to concentrate on the dull, aching throb in her forehead.

Adrian had warned her not to get carried away. A sandwich and a cup of coffee would suffice for lunch, he’d told her as his dark serious gaze had swept broodingly across her features. But Liadan surmised the man needed to get a bit more creative, at least as far as his lunchtime routine went. And there was nothing better than hot, home-made soup on a bright, cold winter’s day like today.

‘Anybody home?’

Liadan turned at the voice, and her gaze collided dazedly with a smiling Steven Ferrers. He strolled into the big country kitchen with his usual bad-boy stride, his too-intrusive glance flicking up and down her sweater-and-jeans-clad figure, making it obvious that he liked what he saw. Liadan’s hackles rose immediately, just as Izzy’s did when unfamiliar visitors came into the house.

‘What are you doing in here? How did you get in?’

She hadn’t seen him since that unpleasant encounter in the garden and she was seriously bothered by the fact that he didn’t seem to have paid any attention to what she’d said to him then about keeping away from her.

‘That’s a nice greeting, I must say! Front door was open, for your information. Our Mr Jacobs has gone for a walk and left it ajar. I only dropped by to see how you were. Dad told me you drove your car into a ditch last night and his lordship had to take you to hospital. You’ve hurt your head. I’m sorry to see that, Liadan.’

Unsure how to handle Steven’s professed concern about her welfare and slightly discomfited by the fact that Adrian wasn’t present in the house, Liadan wasn’t about to let her guard down just yet.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks. I’m perfectly fine, actually.’

‘I won’t argue with that, sweetheart. You’re easily the best thing in this whole godforsaken place!’

‘Look.’ Exasperation getting the better of her, Liadan folded her arms across her chest and sighed. ‘I really must get on. I’ve got work to do and I’m sure you have, too.’

‘Seen the papers this morning?’

Before Liadan could answer one way or the other, Steven drew a folded-up newspaper from one of the deep patch pockets on his duffel coat and slapped it on the table in front of her.

‘Look on page two and cast your eyes over what our infamous Mr Jacobs has been up to!’

When Liadan deliberately made no move towards the offending tabloid newspaper and instead stared frostily at Steven, he leant forward and opened the pages himself for her to examine. Reluctantly Liadan’s gaze fell on the grainy black and white picture of Adrian, clearly taken in his days as a war correspondent. He was standing in some kind of desert landscape and he wore light-coloured trousers with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows. Even though he must have been reporting from some dangerous and grim terrain, he looked much less careworn and younger than he did today—as if he could easily deal with whatever trials life threw his way and still have reserves left over.

Her stomach clenched tight as though there were suddenly a giant-sized knot inside it. Next to the picture of Adrian there was another more glamorous snapshot of a beautiful brunette with exotic slanting eyes and pouting lips. Petra Collins. The headline screamed, HOLLYWOOD ACTRESS CLAIMS WRITER LOVER DEMANDED ABORTION. Casting her eye further down the page, Liadan briefly read, ‘Well-known author Alexander Jacobsen—previously war correspondent Adrian Jacobs—denies Petra Collins’ startling claim that he made her have an abortion when she was pregnant with his child…’

‘This is garbage.’ Grimacing with distaste, she closed the paper and turned back to stir the fragrant-smelling stock in the pan.

‘Know that for sure, do you, sweetheart?’

To her alarm, Steven came up behind her and laid his hand on her shoulder. His touch made Liadan shudder as though a bug had just crawled down her bare skin and she swung round and pushed her hands roughly against his chest to make him go away. ‘I told you before, if you ever lay your hands on me again I’ll call the police!’

‘Think your threats can scare me, little Miss Goody Two Shoes? Just who the hell do you think you’re saving yourself for—the Lord of the Manor? He might bed you, sweetheart, but don’t expect any more than that. You’ve seen what he did to that actress. When he marries it won’t be to the likes of you or her. It’ll be to some posh tart that went to the right school whose daddy is loaded. You could do worse than be nice to me, Liadan. A lot worse.’

His mouth was twisting cruelly, and the macabre grin made her blood run cold. Trembling with emotion, Liadan shook her head. ‘If you want to delude yourself, fine! Enjoy your little daydream while it lasts, because if you so much as come within ten feet of me again I’ll go straight to your father and tell him exactly what you’ve been doing.’

‘No, you won’t.’

‘Yes, I w—’

‘What’s going on here?’ Adrian stepped inside the room with a face like a thundercloud. Liadan’s heart almost stopped. Grabbing up the paper from the table, she quickly folded it and shoved it into Steven’s hands. The last thing Adrian needed to see today was that vile slander.

‘Nothing.’ She smiled, her blue eyes silently signalling Steven to keep quiet. With another self-satisfied grimace, the younger man touched the paper to his head as though doffing his cap and sauntered past Adrian as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

‘Just a minute.’

‘Yes, Mr Jacobs?’

‘I don’t want you coming in here bothering Liadan when she’s working. Is that understood?’ Although Adrian’s smooth, even voice belied it, Liadan could hear the rage that simmered beneath the calm surface when he addressed the younger man.

‘Yes, Mr Jacobs.’

‘And you’d better take that stupid smirk off your face right now before I take it off for you!’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘If you want to keep your job you’d better not even think about getting cute with me. Do I make myself clear, Mr Ferrers?’

Clearly struggling to keep a lid on his temper, Steven nodded his head derisively before stalking from the room looking as if he was going to kick the nearest thing that came into contact with his boot.

Letting go of the breath she’d been holding, Liadan pressed her hand to her chest, her fingers closing over a tiny pearl button on the roll-neck collar of her soft wool sweater.

‘You should know better than to encourage him.’ Arms akimbo, Adrian studied her as if she was a great disappointment to him. Indignation and hurt welled in Liadan’s chest at his careless assumption about her association with the younger man. Did he really think she’d be interested in a low-life like Steven Ferrers?

‘I didn’t! I mean I don’t! He just wanted to—’

‘I’m not interested in what he wanted from you, Liadan. Things would run a lot more smoothly round here if the people I employed just got on with their jobs and kept the organisation of their social lives for their days off!’

As he strode out of the room Liadan took a moment to absorb the outrageous admonition before haring off after him and catching up to him in the corridor. Unable to think past the fury that was threatening to burst out of her like a hot spring, she caught his arm to make him stop and face her.

Adrian stared down at the pale, slender fingers curved round his bicep, and couldn’t deny the fierce stab of heat that went straight from his arm to his groin. For a moment it made him almost dizzy—weak with longing. With her blue eyes flashing and her chest heaving, right now Liadan Willow was the woman of his dreams, the epitome of all his fantasies rolled into one gorgeous, sexy package…

‘Just a minute! You can’t just walk in, say something as insulting as that and then walk out again!’

‘You don’t think I have a right to admonish you if you waste your time making social arrangements with Steven Ferrers when I’m paying you both to work for me?’

Suddenly aware of exactly where her hand was resting, Liadan snatched it back, her pale face awash with burning heat. All she could think of was one thing now she had felt the throb of that steely bicep beneath her fingers…sex. Adrian Jacobs was sex on legs and just lately it had been slow, sweet torture to even be in the same room as him. Never in all her twenty-seven years had Liadan experienced such wanton longing for a man.

‘I don’t even like the man! Why do you think I would even dream of seeing him after work?’

‘It’s not such a stretch of the imagination, is it? He’s not bad-looking, I suppose, and he certainly has a reputation for being a bit of a magnet for some of the local girls, so I’m told.’ Adrian shrugged and glanced away. When he next rested his dark brown eyes on Liadan, one corner of his usually stern mouth had disconcertingly lifted in a little half-smile. ‘Maybe you’re lonely? You’re a young, healthy woman, Liadan—barring head wounds caused by an aversion to running over rabbits. I’m sure you have the normal desires of any young female. You don’t have to be ashamed of them.’

Barely able to speak over the dryness in her mouth, Liadan frowned. ‘I’m not ashamed. I’m just not interested in Steven Ferrers and I don’t want you believing that I am.’

‘Good.’ His voice arrestingly low, Adrian brushed back a curl from her forehead and seemed to be examining the gauze pad that was still taped there. His touch immediately sent tiny electrical currents of shock pulsing throughout Liadan’s body. She felt shivery with heat, weak with fervent, helpless longing, as if her insides were slowly but inexorably melting.

‘I like this sweater,’ he said beguilingly, his hand moving away from her forehead and resting instead on the front of her mulberry-coloured jumper.

‘Do you?’ Mesmerised by his hot glance, Liadan hardly dared breathe.

‘It shows off your shape to perfection.’

She sensed his fingers move inevitably downwards until they stroked across the burgeoning nub of her nipple, peaked inside her pretty lace bra. Her womb contracted deeply in shock, and a violent wave of scalding desire throbbed through her body leaving her momentarily dazed.

‘Adrian, I—’

He withdrew his hand, but his glance still burned. Liadan could feel the prickling sensation on her breast where he had touched her, the primitive aching need between her legs…

‘Keep away from Steven Ferrers. Take it from me, he’s trouble. If he bothers you in any way I want you to tell me right away. Understand?’

All she could do was nod. Right now she was hardly capable of speech.

‘Oh, and Liadan?’

‘What?’

‘If you could take pity on me and not wear that tight sweater again, I’d be very much obliged.’

With her face flaming a vibrant scarlet, Liadan turned without a word and hurried back to the kitchen.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘LEAVE that. I think you’ve done enough for one day, don’t you?’

‘I’m only setting the table for your dinner. It won’t take a minute. I haven’t made anything fancy tonight—just a lasagne with a salad.’

Flushing a little, because seeing him again had reminded her that he had all but reduced her to a puddle on the floor with that electrifying brush of his fingers across her breast, as well as his comment about her sweater, Liadan continued to lay the table. At lunchtime she had taken him soup and sandwiches, leaving the tray as usual on top of the beautiful grand piano that she itched to play. Apart from a polite inquiry about her head, he’d let her appearance pass without comment, his work commanding his attention again almost immediately. Liadan had been glad to leave him to eat his lunch in peace and return to the kitchen to eat hers.

But now Adrian wasn’t absorbed by work. Dressed in casual black jeans and a chocolate-brown sweater that highlighted his exceptional physique in a way that made Liadan a little more than hot under the collar, he smiled at her as he came into the room, his face looking less careworn than it had in days. That smile had her spirits soaring as high as a bird and she was fiercely glad that she had prevented him from seeing that despicable rag masquerading as a newspaper that Steven had shoved under her nose earlier.

‘Why don’t you join me?’

‘You mean, eat in here with you?’

‘Would it be such a hardship, Liadan?’

‘No.’ Liadan frowned as she straightened up from the table. ‘It wouldn’t be a hardship at all. That wasn’t what I meant. It’s just that—’

Looking amused, Adrian casually rubbed his hand round the back of his neck. ‘It’s just that what?’

Did he really have to ask? Liadan wondered in exasperation. He’d already emphasised more than once that he was paying her to do a job for him, nothing more. Sitting down in his grand dining room to eat dinner with him would be too awkward for words. It would make it hard for her to remember that she was just his housekeeper and not something far more intimate, and to Liadan’s mind it was best if she kept the distinction between their roles clear. At the end of the day, Adrian was her employer and she his employee. She needed to hold onto this job if she was going to keep her little house and that had to be her priority. Not some pie-in-the-sky hope that her relationship with her employer might become more personal.

‘It would be better if I just ate in the kitchen as normal. You should relax and unwind after your day’s work. Dinner won’t be long.’

She accidentally came into contact with his arm as she brushed past him to get to the door, and almost leapt out of her skin when Adrian caught her by the wrist to waylay her.

‘What if I’m in the mood for some conversation?’ he asked idly, his deep, penetrating gaze drifting over her features. Even with that stark white dressing peering out from under her unruly curls, her face was bewitching, Adrian thought hotly. Her pretty mouth had a naturally gorgeous pout to it and her cute retroussé nose was probably the envy of all her friends. But when it came to her eyes, those long-lashed sapphire-blue orbs that excited him with the merest glance…Well, if he were a poet instead of a fiction writer, he’d write poems to her beauty till the day he died. Feeling the fragile bones of her wrist beneath his fingers, he tightened his hold a fraction longer than necessary before letting go, just to remind himself what touching her could do to his already-heightened senses.

‘Did Kate ever join you for dinner?’ Her voice sounded a little breathless and with an undeniable throb of pleasure Adrian knew that his touch had been the cause.

‘No. She was a busy little body who liked to get on with her work so I never asked her.’

‘So you would have…asked her, I mean, if she’d been predisposed?’

‘Suddenly I’m in uncharted waters, Liadan. What exactly are you getting at?’

‘I’m your housekeeper, Adrian, not your dinner guest. It’s best we keep things clear, don’t you think?’

For a moment his expression was as implacable as iron. Then in the next second his facial muscles seemed to visibly relax and he issued her with a brief but slightly weary smile. ‘You’re right, of course. Thank you for the timely reminder.’

Knowing that she had been the cause of his sudden return to formality and realising it was probably too late to rescind, Liadan reluctantly left him alone to go and see to the dinner. But as she returned to the kitchen she was unable to easily dismiss the powerful longing that stirred inside her—even when she crossly told herself it was utterly and irrevocably futile.

Later that evening, long after Liadan had gone to bed, Adrian pulled out a single drawer in his writing desk and extracted the slim black volume that lay there. Flicking through its thickly embossed pages, he frowned down at an address and telephone number that he’d inscribed there long ago. His mind made up on what he was going to do, he picked up the telephone and started to dial.

The sun streaming into her room was too bright, like an upturned can of daffodil-yellow paint exploding onto a cream carpet. It was an assault on the senses—an abomination. Her head throbbing, Liadan groaned, got out of bed on legs that felt like rubber and irritably closed the offending gap between the curtains.

‘Liadan! Are you in there?’

A loud rapping on the door followed Adrian’s harshly raised voice making Liadan freeze where she stood as realisation dawned. What on earth did she think she was doing, going back to bed? It was seven-thirty in the morning, her clock said so, and she should have been up at least two hours earlier to lay the fire in Adrian’s study. Grabbing her robe off the bed, she hastily shoved her arms into it and opened the door.

Adrian glowered. ‘You scared the hell out of me! What’s wrong? Does your head hurt?’

Not wanting to admit that it did, that she was surely suffering from some kind of delayed reaction to her impromptu detour into the ditch, that her whole body felt as though she’d been knocked down by a marauding elephant, Liadan grimaced. ‘I’ll be okay in a minute. I’m sorry I overslept. Just give me a chance to jump in the shower and I’ll—’

‘Get back into bed.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve seen corpses with more colour than you.’

Not mincing his words or caring whether she was offended or not, Adrian strode menacingly into the room as Liadan backed feebly away towards her tumbled bed. One glance at the jumbled up bedclothes told Adrian what he’d already suspected. She’d had a bad night, a terrible one, most likely. Her pale skin looked almost translucent this morning even in the dimmed light of the room, and there were dark, telling circles beneath her drowsy eyes. He could have kicked himself for allowing her downstairs yesterday, never mind allowing her to prepare lunch and dinner for him.

‘Get back into bed and stay there. I’m calling out the doctor to come and check you over. I’d take you straight to the hospital if you didn’t look so damned incapable of putting one foot in front of the other right now!’

‘I probably look worse than I feel.’

Desperately trying to convince him that she wasn’t as feeble as she appeared, Liadan sank back down onto the bed without even realising she’d automatically done so. God, she was tired! Perhaps if she did allow herself to catch up a little with some shut-eye she would feel more like herself later on. Oh, why did this have to happen now, when she was just getting into the swing of her housekeeping role? Now Adrian would have to disrupt his schedule to tend to her and that was the last thing she wanted!

‘You and I aren’t going to stay friends for very long if you insist on lying to me, Liadan.’ Adrian’s dark gaze was ominously threatening and Liadan took a very big gulp. Was she his friend? Or was he just using a figure of speech to lure her into co-operating with his insistence that she stay in bed?

‘I—I didn’t want to let you down. My head’s throbbing a bit but it’s not bad. I think I feel worse because I didn’t get much sleep last night, that’s all.’

‘Get beneath the covers. Come on, be quick about it, I want to phone the doctor.’

‘No doctor—please!’ Her blue eyes beseeched him as she threw off her robe and swung the slender legs that were hidden beneath her long white nightgown onto the bed. As she settled herself Adrian tidied the jumbled bedclothes and remade the bed. When he’d plumped up her pillows, he stood back to examine her pale, unhappy face as she stared up at him.

‘You do not move from that bed unless it’s to go to the bathroom; do I make myself clear?’

‘I’m twenty-seven years old, not a child in kindergarten!’ Her retort was mutinous and for some reason Adrian’s heart squeezed unexpectedly.

‘Right now you’re not in a position to make intelligent decisions for yourself so I’m temporarily taking charge. Where did you get that nightgown, by the way? Your great-grandmother’s attic?’

As she saw the unexpected humour in his eyes Liadan’s heart did a pirouette as perfect as any prima ballerina’s inside her chest. But then irritation surfaced, quickly squashing the warmer emotion. She hadn’t bought the long antique nightdress to titillate anyone; it kept her warm and made her feel secure alone at night in her bed in the cottage. And what right did he have to criticise her nightwear anyway?

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You clearly have no idea how much old-fashioned Victorian nightgowns on young, sexy, blue-eyed red-heads turn me on.’ His expression was no longer humorous, but quietly, deadly serious, and Liadan closed her mouth on the follow-up retort she’d been going to make. Suddenly the air in the room seemed thick and heavy and disturbingly she felt as if she were melting into the mattress beneath her. Unconsciously wetting her lips, she raised her big blue eyes to nervously meet Adrian’s penetrating gaze. ‘My hair isn’t red. My mother said the colour was more like strawberry-blonde.’

‘Or red-gold…like autumn leaves.’

‘That’s the writer in you.’

‘No, Liadan.’ His voice husky, Adrian’s smile was dangerously seductive. ‘That’s the man in me.’

It was almost uncanny how right at that instant the pain in her head seemed to disappear. Instead, a new, far more delightful sensation was rippling through her body, making her feel as if she were floating on a warm, sensuous sea, and she was no longer weighed down by tiredness. On the contrary, she was gloriously, vibrantly awake.

‘I’ll try and get some sleep. Just an hour or two, then I should be able to come downstairs.’ As much as she desired him, Liadan badly needed him to go before something happened that they would only regret.

‘I’m still calling the doctor.’

‘No, Adrian, please!’ Unthinkingly, Liadan grabbed his hand and held it. ‘I’ll stay in bed for the rest of the day if you insist, but please don’t call the doctor out. I know I’m going to be fine.’

‘Okay.’ His dark brows drawing briefly together, Adrian glanced down at the small, pale hand that presently held him captive and mentally fought like a Trojan to stem the flood of sensual heat that infiltrated his blood and aroused him as he’d never been aroused before. She wasn’t well, he harshly reminded himself, so what the hell did he think he was doing lusting after her in her prim, unsuspectingly sexy Victorian nightgown? And Liadan wasn’t even his girlfriend. She was the woman he’d hired to be his housekeeper—a role that was as essential to his lifestyle as his computer, and no more emotional. He knew he had to get a grip. ‘Against my better judgement I won’t phone the doctor. But the second you feel worse or you’re in pain, that decision will rapidly change, and no argument!’ Reluctantly tugging his hand free, Adrian strode to the door. ‘I’ll give you a couple of hours, then I’ll bring you up a cup of tea.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘Get some rest. I’m going downstairs to my study to work.’ His expression unreadable, he closed the door behind him without another word and Liadan had no choice but to sink back against her pillows and close her eyes.

About to go into the study at Adrian’s behest, she paused outside the door for a moment, letting the tinkling, soporific sounds of the most exquisite piano music wash over her. It was one of her favourite pieces of music, written by an Italian composer who had died an early and tragic death. Liadan knew it well and had played it often. Her throat welling with emotion as she listened, she had to shake herself out of her momentary trance to knock on the door. At Adrian’s curt, ‘Come in!’ she pushed open the door and went inside.

He was seated by the fire in a deep leather armchair, the silver in his hair an eye-catching contrast to the darkness of his clothing, his long legs stretched out before him as though he’d been relaxing for the first time in days, and Liadan was almost loath to disturb him. His expression was closed and unsmiling as he regarded her, but right then he exuded such strength, such irrefutable male beauty, that Liadan found she could forgive him for his less than warm welcome. Besides which, he’d let her rest upstairs in her room all day and had even brought her lunch. Not all employers would be so lenient and caring to someone who’d barely been in their employ for five minutes, and she should count her blessings. She was feeling much better, too. Her headache had definitely subsided and if she didn’t overdo things the following day, she would be more or less back to her old self. Now all she had to do was convince Adrian of the same.

‘You must be feeling better.’ He got to his feet and this time he did smile—albeit briefly. ‘You’ve got rosy cheeks.’

Catching the ends of the dark green pashmina shawl she had teamed with her maroon sweater and long, black skirt, Liadan smiled back. ‘I had a long hot bath and washed my hair and now I feel like a new woman.’

She’d left her hair free of binds this evening and it tumbled down her back in a riot of waves, like a fall of the most exquisite silk on display at a Bedouin market. For a moment Adrian was truly lost for words. The air he breathed was disturbed by the sweetly heady fragrance she wore, and its spellbinding impact registered a sensual punch deep in his belly, stirring feelings and emotions and needs he’d long trained himself to dismiss. But it was becoming more and more difficult to distance himself from this enchanting woman, he realised. He could no longer deny that he could barely think about anything other than seducing her. Even that nonsense with Petra had ceased to occupy him and last night, for the first time in ages, he hadn’t dreamt about Nicole at all…

‘Come and sit down.’ Indicating the other chair beside the fireplace, Adrian waited for her to sit before doing so himself.

‘I love this piece of music,’ she enthused, wrapping her shawl more securely in front of her chest. Adrian stared. Her blue eyes sparkled like jewels in the fire-light and all the gold lights in her hair seemed to dance and shimmer just for him. ‘Do you play?’ She directed her glance briefly across the room to the stately grand piano she had been fascinated with from the moment she’d set eyes on it.

Relaxing back into his chair, Adrian shrugged, the beginnings of a smile touching his lips. ‘A little. Do you?’

‘I do.’ There was no point in being falsely modest, Liadan thought, not when she had been playing the piano since she was five. The only reason she hadn’t gone to music school was because her parents had needed her to help them in the hotel. She could have refused, but at the end of the day she hadn’t wanted to disappoint them because her brother Callum had sworn that no way was he going to go into the hotel business. So once again she had sacrificed her own needs for somebody else’s…Liadan dismissed the uncomfortable thought with a slight frown between her brows.

‘Would you like to play me something?’ Before she could answer, Adrian moved across the room to switch off the CD that was playing.

‘You don’t mind?’ Uncertainly Liadan got to her feet, her whole body in a state of quiet excitement at the idea of playing such a beautiful instrument.

‘Be my guest.’

Settling himself back in his seat, Adrian made a steeple of his fingers and watched with interest as Liadan settled herself on the piano stool, then almost reverently lifted the lid to expose the keys. As soon as her fingers touched them she closed her eyes and began to play. The music that ensued was nothing short of wonderful. There was barely a difference from the CD recording that had been on a moment ago. The short hairs on the back of his nape standing on end, Adrian watched transfixed as Liadan continued to play, a quiet but powerful sense of excitement building slowly but inexorably inside him. Clearly at one with the music flowing from her fingertips, she kept her eyes closed mostly—as transported as he was on waves of sound so sweet, so poignant, and yet so powerful, that it almost brought tears to Adrian’s eyes.

When she had finished, the silence in the room was profound. Glancing shyly across at him, Liadan smiled, her lovely face unable to conceal her joy. Without saying a word, Adrian got up and walked over to her. Taking her utterly by surprise, he bent down to capture her mouth in a long, deep, soul-stirring kiss that effectively blotted out his past as easily as though God had finally taken pity and obliterated it for good. Today was a new day. With this woman he was made anew. There was no stain on his soul to stop him completely giving himself to the moment…His hands cupping her face, feeling the strong yet delicate bones of her small jaw, Adrian explored the sensation of skin as soft as a newborn child’s beneath his fingers and something settled irrevocably inside him. Something profound and good and natural that reconnected him back to a world where good things really happened. Where all was not lost in a tangled dark web of death, deceit and destruction.

Liadan could hardly believe he was kissing her. When she’d seen him approach she had secretly hoped, imagined…a peck on the cheek maybe? Something affectionate but polite that wouldn’t strain the bounds of their professional relationship too much. Something to show his pleasure at her playing. But, instead, the moment his lips took possession of hers she was shaken by a deep and stirring connection that unravelled her to the core. She was still shaking. The reality of his touch was so much more satisfying and passionate than anything she could have imagined. He kissed her as if he meant it. He kissed her as if he meant that kiss to lead to so much more. Liadan shivered. Need and want and carnal longing poured into her body, filling her with a profound, restless, scalding heat that begged for fulfilment.

When his mouth finally released hers, Liadan stroked her fingers gently across her throbbing lips, her heart going wild. She could still taste him, still feel the sensuous exploration of his tongue and smell the exotically sexy tang of his aftershave.

‘What was that for?’ Was that really her voice? That soft bedroom huskiness?

‘That was for reminding me that grace and beauty still matter in the world. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ What else could she say? I would gladly play for you any time, day or night, till we both grow old?

‘Where did you learn to play like that?’

‘I had lessons from the age of five. I guess I never saw piano practice as a chore, as some of my friends did.’ Shrugging, she carefully closed the lid on the keys and got to her feet.

Her scent was all around him—not just the fragrance she wore, but the sweet, unique lovely scent of the woman herself. Liadan. Even her name seemed imbued with magic. Adrian’s senses were totally confounded by her. Right now he didn’t even feel like putting up a fight against the soft but deadly power she wielded.

‘You are an exceptional woman…you know that?’

‘No, I’m not.’ Glancing down awkwardly at her hands, Liadan tried to shrug his compliment off. As lovely as it was and as much as she secretly thrilled to have him bestow it, she knew it was ultimately wrong to allow this much intimacy with a man who was, after all, her employer. Somehow she was going to have to reassume the role he was paying her for as quickly as possible. No matter how much she longed to be closer to him…In a few days’ time, when things got back to normal, hopefully Adrian would forget that he’d ever let his guard down so carelessly around her.

As for her own heartfelt reaction to his kiss—well, she would have to forget that, too. Adrian Jacobs’ world and hers did not equate, no matter how carefully you did the maths. All of a sudden, quite uninvited, she heard Steven Ferrers’ mocking voice. He might bed you…he’ll marry some posh tart whose daddy is loaded. As much as she hated to admit it, Liadan knew he was probably right.

‘With respect, if I were exceptional—what am I doing working as a housekeeper?’

‘Not all exceptional people call attention to themselves, Liadan. Most go quietly about their work, doing it with honour and integrity, happy to stay out of the limelight.’

‘That’s true, I suppose. I wouldn’t want fame if you paid me.’ Tossing back her hair, Liadan grimaced. ‘It certainly doesn’t seem to have brought people like Petra Collins much happiness, does it?’

‘You’re right.’ Adrian’s voice was sober. ‘She is a very unhappy woman and fame is definitely not all it’s cracked up to be.’

‘She might already be regretting dragging your name through the papers with that awful slander. Hurting you won’t make her feel better. How could it?’

‘Are you so quick to believe my innocence in all of this, Liadan?’

Absorbing the steady, direct perusal of his sensual dark gaze, Liadan had no hesitation in stating her feelings on the matter.

‘You have too much good in you to treat someone in such a disrespectful way,’ she said quietly.

Adrian was stunned by her assertion, and it painfully dawned on him that Liadan’s insistence on his goodness might be pointing to deeper feelings on her part than he had realised. The thought immediately made him want to set the record straight—to disabuse her before, God forbid, she should do something so useless as to fall in love with him. If he didn’t quickly destroy those hopeful illusions she had about him, he would only end up destroying her innocence more cruelly.

He reached for denial and pain—those long-time friends of his who never let him down, who reminded him exactly why he chose to live as he did, away from the public eye and away from his friends. He deserved the life he led. He had been complicit in the death of a beautiful young woman because of his egoism and arrogance and there was no good in him at all. None. That was why he spent his time creating shadowy, dangerous characters in his stories who lived on the periphery of life. He easily identified with the pain and self-loathing in every one of them.

‘That’s where you’re wrong. Very wrong. I’m a selfish man, Liadan. I take what I want, and to hell with the consequences. As much as you might hate to hear it, Petra Collins and I were kindred spirits—that’s why I don’t entirely blame her for using me to further her own ends. If you believe that I kissed you because I’m nurturing some deepening affection based on the fact that you’re a sweet and lovely girl, then I really have to enlighten you. I want to sleep with you. That’s all. And other than getting you naked and sweaty in my bed, I need your services as a housekeeper. Sorry if that sounds brutal, but facts are facts.’

If he had lashed out at her physically, Liadan couldn’t have been more shocked or more taken aback. Her mouth opened in protest to express her abhorrence of his cruel, base words, but nothing would come out. His ferocious burning glance was effectively slicing her heart in two, and in the next second he turned abruptly away as though he couldn’t tolerate her company a second longer. Uttering a curse beneath his breath, he strode from the room as if suddenly there weren’t enough air to breathe and he desperately needed to find some.

CHAPTER EIGHT

TWO days later, as she made her way up to the topmost floor of the house to open windows and dust pictures, Liadan marvelled at the fact that she was still working for Adrian Jacobs. She was either the biggest fool who ever lived or simply some kind of martyr, because after the agony of hearing words designed to hurt her and ‘enlighten’ her as to what he insisted was his true character, she had wrestled with two conflicting desires. A very understandable need for self-preservation where her heart was concerned, possibly leading her to hand in her notice, and a surprisingly compelling desire to stay and tough it out—because, quite frankly, how much worse could it get? For two whole days now the atmosphere between them both had been as jagged as broken glass. When she looked at him, he looked away. When she had to ask him anything he answered her in as few words as possible. And when he’d finished speaking, his hostile brown eyes would be coldly dismissive and hurt Liadan all over again, like a rusty blade digging into a wound not yet healed.

Apart from him telling her this morning that he’d arranged for her car to be brought back from the garage ‘some time today’ and to insist upon taking her to the hospital himself this afternoon to have her stitches removed, their conversation had been minimal. Now the thought of having to spend time with him driving to and from the hospital was like anticipating root-canal work at the dentist.

Telling herself over and over again that he hadn’t meant what he’d said, that he really was a good man underneath that coldly forbidding façade, Liadan forced herself to believe that she’d made the right decision in staying. And she didn’t think that he used people as Petra Collins did. Adrian Jacobs was fighting demons from his past and all he was doing by assuming an air of hostility was adding another protective layer to prevent Liadan from getting close. But until he found a way to reconcile himself with the past, and see that there was light round the edges of his darkness, then he would continue to live out the rest of his life in torment.

Raising the colourful feather duster to dust down a venerable old gilt-framed print of horses and hounds off on a hunt, Liadan determinedly applied herself to the task in hand, grimacing at the very idea that things might get much worse before they got better.

‘Liadan Willow? Dr Thomas will see you now.’

As she stood up to follow the slim, bright-eyed nurse into the designated room, the familiar hospital smells of disinfectant and fear making her stomach lurch, Adrian put his hand on Liadan’s arm to waylay her. ‘Want me to come in with you?’

Meeting his intense, concerned gaze with a little shock of surprise, she drew back her arm and shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine, thanks. I don’t need you to hold my hand.’

Escaping before he could make some cryptic remark in response, Liadan was appalled at the ache that arose in her throat. She wasn’t a coward and could handle having a few stitches removed without needing a babysitter, but, all things being equal, she wouldn’t have been averse to having Adrian hold her hand. But that was before his crude remark about wanting her in his bed…Her thoughts broke off at his graphic description of how. Right now she wouldn’t let him hold her hand if he were the last man on earth!

‘Did the doctor say you’d have a scar?’

As he negotiated the purring Mercedes out of a bend in the country road, Adrian glanced sidelong at Liadan. She was staring straight ahead, her exquisite profile determinedly concentrating on the spot on the horizon where the blue-grey of the sky met the darker slate of the road. If she was being deliberately aloof, he knew he only had himself to blame. It had been a miracle that she hadn’t walked out that night there and then, and, against his better judgement, Adrian had been unable to deny his relief that she hadn’t. What would she think, he asked himself, if she knew it was getting to be almost torture for him to be around her? That he had deliberately distanced himself from her both mentally and physically because right now he didn’t trust himself to cope with this passionate attraction that he had developed for her? That if she could see into the vivid pictures of his mind she would discover for herself his amazing proclivity for sexual fantasy as far as she was concerned? Because in all of his fantasies, Liadan was the star…

‘I didn’t ask. My fringe would hide it anyway.’

‘Don’t you care?’

‘Unlike some people, I don’t believe you have to be perfect to be attractive. A little scar’s not going to damage me psychologically. I’m just glad I didn’t do any worse damage.’ To Adrian’s surprise, Liadan turned her head to regard him with a steady blue gaze. ‘Besides…flawed people are always more interesting, don’t you think?’

What was she getting at exactly? Was she having a snipe at him, believing him to be one of those people who desired physical perfection in a mate? She couldn’t be more wrong if she did, Adrian thought vehemently. What he found attractive was somebody real. Outwardly perfect good looks with nothing of substance inside left him cold.

‘All right, Liadan. What’s bothering you? I sense some underlying agenda here. Perhaps we should stop and talk?’

Before Liadan realised his intention, Adrian had pulled into a lay-by and switched off the engine. Now her heart started to clang like the toll of a great bell inside her chest as the small, confined space in the car seemed to grow rapidly smaller.

‘I thought you didn’t talk with the hired help?’ she said sarcastically, blue eyes challenging him to refute her statement. For a few anxious moments she watched his hands curl around the leather-covered steering wheel as if garnering control, and she couldn’t help noting the strong, well-defined knuckles and the sprinkling of dark hairs that covered them with a little jolt in her chest. Remembering how gentle his fingers had been as they’d caressed her jaw when he’d kissed her, heat rippled, unguarded, right through her body in a heady rush.

‘You want me to apologise for what I said the other night?’

‘If you have to ask me if I want you to, then the answer is no. I don’t want you to apologise. You don’t even have to put yourself out to be overly pleasant—judging by your mood the last two days, it’s obviously not something that you consider a priority. But don’t worry, because I can handle it. I don’t need your approval or admiration to do a good job. My only stake in this relationship is the fact that I work for you and I would like to keep things that way so that I can pay my mortgage on my cottage. Simple.’

‘Then let me assure you right away that you’re in no danger of losing your job, Liadan. You don’t think I’d willingly let go someone who can play the piano like an angel in a hurry, do you?’

Venturing a glance from beneath her curling red-gold lashes, Liadan was deeply disturbed by the fact that Adrian was smiling. Did he know what a deadly piece of weaponry in the battle of the sexes that smile was? Or how thoroughly it submerged her senses in scorching, sensual heat and guilty, guilty pleasure?

‘Let me remind you, you didn’t hire me to entertain you with my piano playing,’ she said tartly. ‘You hired me to take care of your house.’

‘And me. Don’t forget that very important little fact.’

‘Perhaps what you need is a mother, in that case,’ she snapped.

‘What I need,’ Adrian emphasised huskily, ‘is you in my bed, Liadan. But as that would definitely be exceeding the bounds of our contract and you are obviously anxious to keep our relationship purely professional, I suppose I will have to make do with having you as my housekeeper. But I want you to know the sacrifice is killing me.’

With those wide, muscular shoulders and the devil’s own twinkle in his wicked dark eyes, he was temptation personified and Liadan warned her thoughts not to speculate just how the sacrifice was killing him. Already she was undone just sitting beside him in the car. If she didn’t make a huge effort to steer the situation into safer waters she might find herself telling him that she wouldn’t mind exceeding the bounds of their contract, and then where would she be?

‘We should be getting home. I’ve got laundry to do, and shopping and—’

‘Liadan?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Let’s get back, shall we?’

Changing his mind abruptly about what he’d been going to say, Adrian started the engine, then steered the car expertly out of the lay-by back onto the road. Secretly alarmed at the fact that he had almost succumbed to a very weak moment and told Liadan the cause of his torment, he congratulated himself for being strong enough to pull back. How could this pretty, inexperienced girl help him in any way other than easing a purely physical ache? She couldn’t, he realised with bitterness. End of story.

‘Taking the opportunity to get some fresh air, lass?’ George leant against his shovel and observed her thoughtfully as Liadan came up the path towards him. Instead of her long tweed coat to keep out the cold, she wore a soft, light blue suede jacket over a white roll-necked sweater with figure-hugging black jeans. With her long hair scooped up in a very fetching top-knot, she looked as pretty as a picture to the older man’s doting gaze. ‘Saw Mr Jacobs drive by about ten minutes ago. Gone into town, has he?’

Glancing round at the picturesque scene that met her eyes, at rich green winter gardens that were starting to reveal their beauty now that the snow had finally gone, Liadan was more than glad that she’d ridden the storm and kept her job. If Adrian continued to maintain what he deemed a professional distance then she ought to be thankful, not unhappy. When all was said and done, no matter how much she found herself attracted to her brooding, aloof employer, she was realistic enough to know that there could be no ‘happy ever after’ where they were concerned. If she let herself become more intimate with him, all it would do would set up an even worse restlessness inside Liadan than she was coping with already and make her yearn for the fulfilment of a dream that was clearly impossible. She’d already wasted eighteen long months waiting for Michael to make up his mind about her—she wouldn’t do the same with Adrian. Not that she believed for even a second that he would want anything more than a short, hot affair with her…

‘It’s such a glorious day,’ she confessed, smiling, ‘I couldn’t resist playing hookey.’

‘You’re far too young to be confined to that big old house,’ George agreed. ‘Fancy taking a walk with me? I’ll show you around a bit.’

‘Oh, I’d love that!’ Liadan enthused, her heart lifting at the prospect.

The gardens stretched much further afield than she had ever imagined. Path after path revealed something new—treasures like the orangery, a grotto with hundreds upon hundreds of seashells embedded deep within its walls, and winter blooms including snow-drops and crocuses in breathtaking abundance. Enchanted at nearly every turn, Liadan forgot her cares and concerns as she completely succumbed to the magic of Adrian’s gardens and George’s quietly authoritative garden lore.

‘People often make the mistake of thinking they can control the garden, but what they soon learn is that the garden controls them. It takes you over completely. Watering, weeding, digging, pruning, spraying, it becomes an obsession after a while. One I wouldn’t willingly give up and that’s the truth.’

‘I can tell that you love it,’ Liadan commented with a smile, ‘but don’t you find all this work a bit much for just yourself and your son?’

Somehow, Liadan couldn’t bring herself to say ‘Steven’. She was still wary and smarting from their last upsetting encounter. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to be around today, either. Her blue eyes darted from side to side just to check.

‘Funny you should bring that up. I’ve had a touch of the old arthritis in my knees for the past few months and I was going to mention to Mr Jacobs how I could probably do with another hand around the place to help. Specially leading up to spring. There’s a lot to be done.’

‘Then you should definitely mention it. I’m sure he’d be only too willing to get you the help you need, George.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, lass. Perhaps I will have a talk with him. To tell you the truth, I don’t think Steven is a natural gardener. He’s got his mind on too many other useless things, that boy.’

Perfectly understanding why George had reservations about the younger man’s commitment levels, Liadan nodded in sympathy.

‘Thanks for showing me around, George. It’s been a great way to spend an illicit half-hour. I’ve had a lovely time. Best go in now, though; I need to think about what I’m going to do for dinner.’

‘You go ahead, lass. Feel free to walk about the place whenever you feel the need. I’m always around if you need to know anything about the garden. By the way, I’m glad that story about Mr Jacobs has died down in the papers. She’s a bad ’un, that Collins woman, for telling such lies.’ Tipping his hat, George looked distant for a moment before he jammed his hands into the big patch pockets of his jerkin and headed back down the terracotta bricked path he had walked with Liadan.

Careful not to dislodge any of the papers that littered Adrian’s writing table, Liadan picked up the drained cup and saucer and added it to the tray she’d left on the piano. She was about to vacate the study when she caught a glimpse of an opened newspaper jutting out from the side of the desk that Adrian had his computer on, and instinctively moved towards it.

‘Actress retracts abortion claim,’ she read with thumping heart, alongside a picture of Adrian and his solicitor Edward Barry, taken outside on that awful day when reporters had camped out on his doorstep. Putting down the tray, Liadan sat down in the leather chair opposite the desk and read further. When she got to the part where she learned that Petra Collins and Adrian had comforted each other after her divorce and the brutal, untimely death of Adrian’s fiancée Nicole Wilson, in a terrorist attack on a foreign embassy, she let the paper flutter down unheeded into her lap.

Staring into space for a long moment to gather her thoughts, Liadan felt vindicated in the flood of relief and shock that swept through her body. His fiancée had been killed. That was why he had locked himself away from the rest of humanity, and that was no doubt why he was so bitter. Liadan didn’t have to be a genius to know that Adrian blamed himself for Nicole’s death. She also didn’t have to read the words a little further down the page where Adrian had been quoted at the time of the attack as saying, ‘It should have been me,’ to know that he made himself entirely responsible for what had happened to his fiancée.

On top of that, she read that Petra Collins was ‘extremely regretful’ that she’d taken ‘wrong advice’ and spitefully embellished her brief liaison with Adrian Jacobs to further her own career. Liadan’s relief knew no bounds. Adrian was innocent of all the slander that had been directed towards him, including his own bitter assertion that he was responsible for his fiancée’s death. Despite his savage denial to the contrary, he was a good man…

The echo of the doorknocker resounding through the house just then made Liadan jerk round in shock. Quickly gathering up the paper, folding it, then placing it carefully beside the computer, she went back to the piano to fetch her tray, then hurried out of the study, down the corridor and out into the hall.

Leaving the tray on a little cherry-wood side table that was home to a beautiful Chinese-style patterned vase, she patted down her wayward hair, straightened the hem of her sweater and went to answer the door.

‘Can I come in?’

‘I—no, you can’t! What is it, Mr Ferrers? What do you want this time?’

Staring into Steven Ferrers’ defiant gaze, she suddenly felt as if her stomach had a lead weight inside it. As the distinct smell of sour alcohol floated up to her nostrils Liadan’s fingers curled more tightly round the edges of the door, all her senses on red alert.

‘You and I need to have a little talk, Miss Willow.’ He drawled her name as if it disgusted him and the fingers of chilling cold fear that had crept round her skin grew immediately icier.

‘I’m sorry, but I have nothing to say to you. Now if you’ll just let me—’

The force of his hand grabbing the door and jerking it wide almost sent Liadan flying. As she struggled to right herself Steven swept through the door and pinned her against the wall, his face pressed dangerously close to her own so that the sour smell of booze wafting down at her almost made her sick.

‘Let me go! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Ice princess, that’s what you are…just the type that gets my goat. Think you’re too good for someone like me, don’t you? You’d rather consort with the likes of that murderer Jacobs!’

‘What are you talking about? He’s not a murderer!’ Shoving against his chest with all her might, Liadan made little impression on Steven Ferrers’ strength. He was slim but hard muscled and she was no match for him. She knew it with a sinking heart. No matter how much she pushed and shoved, he wasn’t going to let her go…

‘Said he was responsible for killing his girlfriend, didn’t he? Said he went back to the Jeep and left her there on the pavement for a bomb to kill her!’

‘That doesn’t make him a murderer, you idiot! Now let me go before you get into real trouble. If your father finds out he’ll be—’

‘Bitch!’ At the mention of his father, Steven’s eyes narrowed to two menacing slits and with no warning he raised his hand and struck Liadan hard across the face. As she reeled from the blow tears started to her eyes and her heart started to pump with stark, cold dread. There was no one around to hear her call for help, she realised. Adrian had gone out and George could have been anywhere. The gardens were huge and rambling. If he was in one of the greenhouses he’d be even less likely to hear her shouts for help.

‘You asked for it, princess. You should have been nicer to me and then you wouldn’t have got hurt.’ His words slurred, Steven put his face closer to hers, paying no attention to her continuing struggle to free herself. Spying the large ceramic vase on the table she’d set the tray on, just inches away from where she stood, Liadan saw a sudden chance to get away. But Steven was pinning her arms to her side as he tried to kiss her and she couldn’t free them.

She would have to try another tack. The chances of it working might be slim, but she had to try because the consequences if she didn’t hardly bore contemplation.

‘You’re right,’ she breathed huskily, lowering her voice. ‘I should have been nicer to you. You’re right. It does get lonely out here. A girl needs—a girl needs someone to keep her warm.’

‘That’s better. I knew you could be sweet if you wanted to. Now stop talking and kiss me.’

‘You’re holding me too tightly. Just let me free my hands, will you? I can wrap my arms around your neck and k-kiss you much better.’ Barely daring to breathe, Liadan tried to make her eyes look wide and seductive as she forced herself to smile up into Steven’s threatening eyes. Would he fall for her little ruse? God help her if he didn’t…Her face still burning from his blow, she’d never prayed harder for divine intervention than she did at that moment.

Miraculously, Steven briefly let her go. In what seemed an interminably long split second, Liadan immediately reached out to the side for the vase, grabbed it and brought it crashing down on the side of his skull. With a drunken groan he clutched his head before sliding bonelessly down to the black and white checked floor, and, without another glance, Liadan made herself run for all she was worth out of the house.

CHAPTER NINE

WHEN Adrian saw Liadan run down the stone steps that led from the house and turn onto the drive, looking desperately around her, his heart jumped right into his throat. Parking the Mercedes in record time on the gravel, he leapt out of the driver’s seat and raced towards her.

‘Liadan! What happened?’

When he reached her and witnessed the livid red welt bruising her pale cheek, her lovely hair coming undone from its fastening and her blue eyes huge and damp with tears, he naturally dragged her hard against his chest and held her. Feeling her slender body shake almost uncontrollably in his arms, he put her a little away from him and stared down questioningly into her eyes. ‘What the hell happened?’

‘I think I’ve killed Steven Ferrers.’ Her lower lip trembling, Liadan’s face grew even paler apart from the vivid red welt. Something in the pit of Adrian’s stomach went sickly cold.

‘How? Where is he now?’

‘He’s in the hall. I hit him, Adrian. I hit him with a vase and he fell to the floor.’

‘Wait here.’ His mind racing overtime, he briefly touched his fingers to Liadan’s unmarked cheek before running towards the steps that led into the house, negotiating them two at a time until he disappeared inside the entrance. Unable to heed his command to stay where she was, Liadan followed him, albeit more slowly, dreading the confrontation with what could possibly be Steven Ferrers’ dead body.

But when she reached the door and slowly walked inside, Adrian had a very much alive and kicking Steven slammed up against the far wall, his fist raised bare inches from the other man’s blood-stained face. After her initial relief of finding her assailant still breathing, everything inside Liadan went deathly cold at the idea that Adrian might finish the job she’d started. The rage coming off those broadly muscular shoulders of his in his tanned leather flying jacket was tangible and she was frightened of the damage he might do in the grip of it.

‘Adrian! No! Don’t hurt him!’

As he turned briefly to look at her Adrian’s dark gaze was malevolent. ‘He’s lucky he’s not dead already if he did that to you. Did he do that to your face?’ he barked.

‘Let him go and we’ll talk,’ she pleaded, more fearful for the damage that might be done to Adrian’s already much maligned reputation than any harm that could be inflicted on Steven Ferrers.

‘Oh, we’ll talk, all right. Come here and get my mobile phone out of my jacket pocket. I’m not risking letting this lowlife go until the police get here.’

‘The police?’ The sudden rush of blood to her head made Liadan momentarily lose her bearings. ‘Adrian, think about it. You don’t want to involve the police in this. You know what the papers will do to you. They’ll put some poisonous slant on it to make you look bad. Just let him go, will you? I’m all—I’m all right, I promise!’

Adrian couldn’t believe she was thinking about his reputation when she’d been attacked by the scum he currently had up against the wall. His chest hurt abominably when he thought about what she had been through. Why the hell had he decided to go into town today of all days?

‘Please, Adrian. He’s bleeding. I—I hit him hard with that vase.’

The shattered pieces of the pretty Chinese vase were scattered everywhere. For one brief, hysterical moment Liadan wondered whether it might be a Ming or something equally valuable. Heaven knew Adrian’s lovely house was filled to the rafters with antiques and expensive objets d’art of all descriptions.

With a ripe curse Adrian let go of the other man, only to have him ignominiously slide down the wall and sit on the floor groaning as he held his hand to his head. With none-too-gentle fingers Adam made a perfunctory examination of the wound, then, straightening, walked across the chequered floor to Liadan.

‘He’ll live, more’s the pity. He’s cut but it doesn’t look like it needs stitching. More to the point, how are you?’ Wincing, he touched the livid red welt with his fingertips, his chest growing tighter by the second at the realisation that she’d been hurt…and under his roof, where she should have been safe. He cursed the day that he had gone against all his instincts and employed Steven Ferrers as a favour to his father. No doubt when his faithful head gardener learned of what had happened, it would break his heart. But right now it was Liadan and only Liadan that Adrian was interested in.

‘Now listen to me,’ he said firmly, tenderly pushing away a curling tendril of spun red-gold away from her brow. ‘I want you to go into the kitchen and wait for me there. I don’t want you to do anything but sit and wait for me, is that clear?’

Suddenly too weary to argue, Liadan nodded mutely.

‘As soon as I’ve dealt with him—’ he jerked his head disparagingly in Steven’s direction ‘—I’ll come and join you. Now go along and don’t worry.’

‘You won’t hurt him?’ She bit her lip, her blue eyes looked enormous in her small, oval face.

‘I may be as mad as hell but I know the risks, Liadan. I’m going to phone George on his mobile and get him over here, then I’ll take things from there.’

‘Okay…if you’re sure?’

With one reluctant glance back at Steven Ferrers slumped pitifully against the wall, Liadan walked with relief back to the kitchen.

Half an hour had never seemed so long. As she sat at the kitchen table nursing the deliberately sweet cup of tea she’d forced herself to make Liadan flinched at every sound she wasn’t sure of, fearing the worst when she heard nothing and straining her ears for any sign of Adrian returning. When she heard a door finally slam somewhere in the house, she started to get to her feet, anxious to know who was leaving, terrified in case Adrian had decided to go for the police after all and had left Steven sitting on the floor in the hall. But when Adrian himself came through the door, shucked his jacket off those reassuringly broad shoulders of his and stood regarding her with deep concern in his eyes, Liadan had never known such sweet and blessed relief.

‘What’s happened? Did George come? Is he taking Steven to the hospital?’

‘George came. He’s taking Steven home to let him sleep off his drunken stupor. We both took another look at his head wound and it’s nothing to worry about. It certainly doesn’t warrant a hospital visit and, even if it did, I’m sure Steven would rather avoid any kind of authorities right now in the light of what he did.’

‘And how is George?’

‘How do you think?’ Shaking his head, Adrian came over to Liadan, studying her gravely as she sat in the ladder-backed kitchen chair, her hands cupped round her drink. ‘He’s appalled, ashamed, furious and ready to do his son some serious damage. His only fear is that whatever he says or does won’t sink in. Steven’s been in trouble with the police before, Liadan. Petty thieving, a couple of pub brawls…nothing too serious up until now.’ Leaning back against the table, Adrian put out his hand and tipped up her chin. Her face was drained of colour apart from the red mark on her cheek and she looked as if she’d been crying again.

He blamed himself completely for what had happened. He had hired Steven Ferrers knowing he had a criminal record, even if he had done it as a favour to George. George, who wouldn’t even help himself to a glass of water unless it was offered first. Now Liadan had been hurt for the second time in a few days. Could anyone blame Adrian for believing that he and this house were some sort of jinx for the woman?

‘I should get you some brandy for shock.’ Reluctantly he withdrew his hand, inwardly fighting against an almost insurmountable need to keep on touching her and never stop.

‘I made some sweet tea. It does the same thing, I heard.’

‘How did he get in?’ His logical mind demanding he know all the answers and tie up any loose or suspicious ends, Adrian was still having trouble quelling the tumult of emotion that was crowding his chest. Truth to tell, if he couldn’t tear Steven Ferrers limb from limb, he wanted to break something instead…do anything that would divert the maelstrom of anger that was almost suffocating him.

‘He knocked on the door. Before I realised he had been drinking, he just pushed back the door and came inside.’

Replacing her cup back in its saucer, Liadan pushed her fingers agitatedly through her hair, dislodging her tortoiseshell clasp completely. Her hair cascaded down over her shoulders, making her small, oval face appear disconcertingly like a child’s.

‘What did he say?’

‘What did he say?’ Liadan repeated through numbed lips. With great reluctance she forced herself to remember. She didn’t really want to talk about what had happened at all. All she really wanted to do was forget the whole horrible incident had ever occurred. But staring up into Adrian’s hard, implacable face, she knew he wasn’t going to let her do that. If this had happened in his house in another day and age, no doubt he would have challenged the other man to a duel in defence of Liadan’s honour. The thought almost made her smile, but just as quickly she wanted to cry. Adrian’s only concern for her was that she had been hurt. It would be foolish indeed to delude herself he would come to her rescue for any reason other than what decency dictated. She was his employee and, naturally, like any other employer with integrity, he wanted to assure himself that everything possible was done to alleviate her distress.

‘Um…he said that I was an ice princess. That I thought myself too good for him.’

‘He’d come on to you before?’

Feeling almost overwhelmingly tired, Liadan shrugged. ‘Being the kind of man he seems to be, I suppose he couldn’t help himself when I’m the nearest female for miles around.’

It was hard for Adrian to believe she could be so self-deprecating. Didn’t she have any idea just how beautiful she was? How much any red-blooded heterosexual male would look at her and fantasise about making her his?

Seeing the telling muscle flinch in his jaw, Liadan thought it best to keep quiet about just how much Steven Ferrers had frightened her—and not just today when his threats had finally tipped over into actual physical violence. The sting of that slap suddenly stealing into the edges of her consciousness, she couldn’t help but shudder. If that vase hadn’t been so close to hand, if she hadn’t had the chance to bring it down upon his head and steal the opportunity to escape…The possibility didn’t bear thinking about. An overwhelming urge to be at home in her little cottage, to light the fire and sit by it with Izzy on her lap, to be safe and warm again, swept through her with such force that her body prepared itself immediately for flight. Unable to conceal her longing for home, she looked straight at Adrian and told him exactly what was on her mind.

‘I need to go back home for a while. Do you understand? I need to be by myself and try to make myself feel better. Is that okay with you?’

Understanding her need and yet dreading being alone in the house without her, Adrian nodded reluctantly. The evidence of her presence—both physical and intangible—was all around, impressing itself upon him and the house almost indelibly, like invisible golden cobwebs that he couldn’t brush away. Without her both he and the house would be stark, empty shells.

‘Whether it’s okay or not with me, I know it’s what you need to do. Go and pack some things, then. I’ll come and carry your bag to the car for you when you’re ready. I’m not letting you drive yourself. I’ll take you.’ To Liadan’s surprise, he was gone from the room before she even had the chance to rise up out of her chair.

‘Come on then, Izzy. Come and finish this lovely salmon left over from my dinner…even though you’re getting impossibly fat!’ Admiring the gusto with which her beloved pet was tucking into her unexpected treat, Liadan lifted her gaze to glance round her warm, snug kitchen with something akin to contentment. After two days of being back home, with her own things around her—not least Izzy and the old Victorian piano she had haggled for at a local auction—her spirits had definitely started to heal. The only sting in the tail was the fact that Adrian wasn’t with her.

She missed him. Missed him with a slow, burning ache in her chest that felt as if it would never heal. When he had dropped her off at the cottage two days ago he had declined to come in. Instead he’d left her bag on the porch step and backed away as though he couldn’t escape quickly enough. His face had appeared coldly distant once again, even when he’d insisted on her assurance before he left that she would be all right on her own and didn’t need him to call someone to come and be with her. Then he had climbed into his Jeep, gunned the engine, and sped off down the small country lane as if he had a posse of trigger-happy mercenaries on his tail.

Returning to her living room and settling herself in the cosy nook before the fire, Liadan picked up the book she had been half-heartedly trying to read, telling herself that tomorrow she would go back to the house and resume work. That was, if Adrian hadn’t decided in the interim that it was more trouble than it was worth keeping her on. Even now in her absence he could be interviewing other prospective candidates for her job. The thought made her heart stall. If she didn’t work for him any more, what excuse would she have to ever see him again? He was a high-profile, well-known author and she was…Well. She was twenty-seven years old, possibly without a job and alone again. She eased the sudden aching cramp in her throat with a harsh breath.

When the echo of the doorknocker rudely broke into her thoughts, she jerked her head round in alarm, knocking her book off her lap and watching it land on the floor with a spine-jingling thud. As it was nearly ten o’clock in the evening, she told herself she had good reason to be alarmed. What if Steven Ferrers had somehow found out where she lived? What if he wanted to punish her for what she had done in her own defence? Clutching the white towelling robe that she had donned straight after her bath tightly round her, she padded barefoot across the carpet to the white-panelled door, then peeped cautiously out through the spy-hole. Her startled gaze settled on the face that had been occupying most of her thoughts from morning through till night—albeit looking as stern as she’d ever seen him and soaked through to the skin from the pounding rain—and Liadan’s fingers shook uncontrollably as she turned the key and lifted the latch.

‘Adrian! What are you doing here?’

She couldn’t believe she was shaking so. Trembling because his sudden, unexpected presence was almost too much to bear…

‘Are you going to invite me in or do I have to stand here getting even wetter?’ There was no answering smile, no teasing lift of a dark brow, just a scowl that would put the fear of God into a grizzly bear. Feeling strangely light-headed, Liadan stood back to let him enter.

‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll get you a towel.’

She was back in an instant, pressing a large pink towel into his hands, then anxiously standing back while he unzipped his dark green waterproof, shook it off and hung it on the hook at the back of the door where Liadan’s bright orange scarf presently hung.

‘It’s a foul night out there.’ Roughly drying his sodden hair, he combed his fingers through it almost impatiently, then threw the towel on the arm of the nearest chair.

‘You didn’t come by car?’

‘I decided I needed the walk.’

That explained why the sound of the doorknocker had taken her so much by surprise. Moving automatically across to the fire, he held out his hands to the flickering flames, his expression suggesting he was lost for a moment in the pictures he seemed to find there. The room was alive with his presence, the air crackling with electricity. The plain fact of the matter was that he would be impossible to ignore, no matter where he was. His strong, muscular physique was both reassuring and awesome at the same time, and right now Liadan was more awed than reassured. Studying him for a long moment without speaking, secretly appraising every fascinating inch of him as though her gaze had been starved of his presence for too long, she couldn’t help but release a sigh.

‘How are you?’

He turned to examine her, his dark gaze more probing than the most powerful microscope, seemingly stripping her of every secret she ever had, his relentless study making everything inside her drown in heat. Automatically touching her fingers to her cheek, Liadan withdrew them again just as quickly, in case he thought she was looking for sympathy.

‘I’m fine. Luckily I don’t bruise easily.’

Scanning the flush that brought a revealing rose pink to her cheeks, Adrian was not so easily placated. Yesterday and today he’d suffered agonies of doubt and fear wondering how she was—whether after this appalling incident she would want to come back to his house at all. Finally, unable to stand the tension of not knowing any longer and disparagingly dismissing the phone as a less-than-adequate method of communication, he’d donned his waterproof, stepped out into the rain and headed to her cottage to confront her. For a man working to an impossible deadline, he reminded himself, it was crazy behaviour.

‘Can I get you a drink or something? I’ve got some brandy if you want something a bit stronger than tea or coffee. You must be cold after being out in the rain.’

Ignoring her question, Adrian asked what he was most desperate to learn. ‘When are you intending coming back to work?’

To his relief, her blue eyes didn’t slide away in avoidance of the question. ‘Tomorrow, actually. I was thinking of coming back in the morning, if that’s all right with you?’

‘Of course it’s all right with me! Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘I thought you might have decided to hire somebody else in my absence. I wouldn’t have blamed you. I know your work is very important and you need somebody reliable to—’

‘Do you honestly think for one moment that I would go behind your back and hire someone else when the reason you’ve come back home is because you were assaulted by someone who worked for me?’

Clearly exasperated, Adrian dragged his fingers irritably through his damp hair, his expression almost feral. Liadan couldn’t take her eyes off him at the realisation that, despite needing a reliable housekeeper to take care of the house while he worked, he wouldn’t even consider employing someone else in her absence. Even if it meant that things were difficult for him.

‘You seem so angry, and I don’t understand why.’

‘I’m not angry with you, Liadan, even though it might seem that way. I’m merely furious with myself for hiring Steven Ferrers in the first place. For that appalling error of judgement I can’t forgive myself.’

‘You already blame yourself for far too much, Adrian.’ Her hands itched to reach out and comfort him and her body ached to hold him, but Liadan forced herself to stand her ground even though to be so near and yet so far was pure torment…

‘What do you mean?’ His dark gaze bemused, he stared at her.

She realised with horror that she’d been about to blurt out what she’d read in his newspaper about Nicole’s death. About the fact that he believed he should have died instead, that her death was somehow his fault. Instinctively knowing that that would have been just about the worst move she could make, because he wasn’t a man who would willingly admit to vulnerability in any way, Liadan furiously back-pedalled.

‘I only meant that it wasn’t your fault that Steven did what he did. We’re all responsible for our own actions, aren’t we?’

Hovering in the narrow doorway of the kitchen, Liadan smoothed her hands nervously down the front of her robe, unwittingly dislodging the material covering her chest. Adrian stared, dry-mouthed. The sensual globe of one perfect breast was almost revealed in its entirety. As heat careened straight into his groin and ignited desire almost too violent to be tamped, he nearly forgot his own name. With her long red-gold hair curling prettily over her shoulders and clearly wearing nothing but that virginal white robe, she was like one of the sirens from Greek mythology. Only it wasn’t just her soft, sweet voice that was luring him. Everything about Liadan aroused his excitement, from the way she moved her slender yet curvaceous body, to her naturally compassionate and loving nature.

Her loveliness enticed him to a temptation so great that it was impossible for him to think about anything else other than getting her naked as soon as he could and showing her in no uncertain terms just what she did to him. If he was honest, wasn’t it desire that had driven him out in the foulest of weathers to seek her? He’d needed to see her. He desperately needed to be in the same room as her and breathe the same air…

‘Come here.’

‘Why?’ Following his burning glance, Liadan gasped when she saw what he was looking at. Covering herself immediately, she silently cursed her lack of finesse. Damn! She should have thought about throwing on some clothes before answering the door. Now Adrian was making her unravel simply by looking at her, the carnal longing in his eyes brazen and unmistakable. What could he do to her already-quivering body if he touched her as if he meant it? Just as every inch of her was aching for him to do?

‘If you don’t come over here, Liadan…I’ll just have to come over there.’

She knew he was serious. Knew it in every tingling fibre of her being. Just as she knew she was too weak to deny him…didn’t want to deny him because she’d been craving his attention this way for too long…

‘What is it?’ Moving to stand in front of him on legs that felt as though she stood on the deck of a ship in a storm, she dared to meet the naked invitation in his disturbing dark eyes.

‘You can ask me that when I’m so consumed by my longing for you that I can’t think about anything else?’

There was a sharp intake of breath. Whether it was his or hers, Liadan couldn’t have said for sure. But when he curled his fingers round the edges of her robe and with one sure, firm tug exposed her breasts to his hungry, rapacious glance, the long, shuddering sigh that followed was definitely her own.

‘I want to touch you. I want to touch you everywhere,’ he growled. Then, lowering his mouth to one exposed breast, he took her deep inside his scalding heat and suckled her hard. Liadan’s slender hips bucked against him and in the next breath she was anchoring her fingers in his thick, dark hair, moaning his name and letting him push the rest of her robe from her shoulders so that she stood naked in his arms. Her craving to touch him was as passionate and rapacious as his. Desire was like a molten, flowing river pulsing unstoppably through her veins, carrying her relentlessly along with no help for it but to submit completely to its power.

Hands shaking, she helped him remove his black wool sweater, frustrated at fingers and thumbs that wouldn’t work quickly enough. Then, unadulterated pleasure rolling through her at the sight of his wonderful masculine chest, she looked her fill. He had biceps of steel and abdominal muscles of iron and Liadan ran her fingers across his flat, male nipples and would have bent her head to kiss him there had he not swept her high into his arms and carried her to the armchair. With a secret little smile playing maddeningly around his irresistibly sexy mouth, he positioned her in his lap so that he had full access to her breasts and her mouth. Then, capturing her lips in a hard, hot kiss, he unzipped his jeans, sheathed himself with the protection he’d produced from his back pocket and thrust deeply inside her.

For a moment Liadan truly thought she saw stars. In her wildest, most uninhibited dreams she’d never dreamt a man’s possession could be like this…so hot, so untamed and so unbelievably, exquisitely perfect. As Adrian’s hands guided her hips down upon him in deeply rhythmic, sensuous motion she was suddenly ferociously glad that she hadn’t slept with Michael.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he told her with a heated, possessive glance. ‘A golden girl. So…hot and…tight…’ As much as he prided himself on making sure his lover had just as good a time as he did, Adrian knew without a shadow of a doubt it wouldn’t be long before this lovely, fascinating girl took him over the edge. Her body was sinfully beautiful. She surprised him with a wanton sensuality that he could hardly have believed, her long hair flowing over her lovely satiny breasts as she bent her head once more to receive his kiss, and Adrian knew he wouldn’t easily be able to give her up when the time came. The thought made him thrust even more deeply inside her as if staking a claim for all eternity and Liadan cried out as Adrian felt the hot, rhythmic contractions of her muscles holding him fast. Then he was quickly following her, groaning out loud with the ecstasy of it as his body succumbed to wave after wave of the most turbulent, erotic pleasure known to man.

CHAPTER TEN

‘ARE you sure you wouldn’t like a hot drink?’

Liadan was wrapped up once again in her soft towelling robe, and her glance was nervous as she watched Adrian reaching for his waterproof at the back of the door. Although she hadn’t really expected him to stay the night, she still couldn’t help feeling hurt that he was leaving so abruptly after their passionate union. But she wasn’t insensitive to the fact that there had been a definite cooling in his manner towards her since he had got dressed, and now she was going through the torments of hell wondering why.

‘I need to get back. I have to work.’

Scraping his fingers through his hair, he managed a smile of sorts: a smile that barely reached the suddenly frigid depths of his unsettling brown eyes. Liadan’s hand fluttered nervously to her throat.

‘Adrian, I hope you don’t—’

‘It’s not you, Liadan. I don’t want to hurt you but if you were expecting something more…’ He shrugged his wide shoulders and grimaced. ‘To be brutal, sex is all I can offer you. I just can’t give you anything more meaningful than that. You’re a lovely girl and some day you’ll no doubt meet the right man who’ll fulfil all your expectations of love and romance…but that’s not me, sweetheart. That’s not me.’

As he turned and opened the door the wind rushed in with a vengeance, bringing with it a spray of ice-cold rain that made Liadan shiver violently beneath her inadequate robe. But it wasn’t just the freezing rain that made her blood run cold. It was the bleak, haunted look in Adrian’s eyes that was taking him even further away from her than physical distance ever could.

‘They’re beautiful, George, thank you.’

Liadan dropped her gaze to the abundant bunch of daffodils George had just presented her with. Her heart went out to the older man. As he stood in the front hall, his cap in his hand, his embarrassment was plain to see, and clearly painfully acute. Liadan had already planned on visiting him this morning to put his anxieties at rest, to assure him that she didn’t blame him in any way for what his son had done. But she hadn’t yet had the opportunity, because Adrian had had a long list of things for her to do on her return.

He obviously thought that if he kept her as busy as possible she wouldn’t have time to brood on whether she’d made the right decision to come back or not. He was wrong.

Although they’d shared the ultimate intimacy, he’d made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t to expect much else, and, although Liadan was heartsick about such a decision, she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Not when she now knew with all certainty that she loved him more than she could ever imagine loving anyone else on this earth…They had a deep connection—even if Adrian was too blind to see it. She didn’t buy that ‘all he could offer her was sex’ baloney. He was merely hiding behind that harsh assertion to prevent himself from ever being emotionally hurt again. Liadan knew that as surely as she knew her own name.

So, even now when Adrian was already laying down new ground rules as to how he expected their relationship to continue, Liadan was determined to stay put and weather the storm. Did he regret making love to her last night? The mere idea scared her senseless. If only there were some way of getting through to him, of proving to him that she would never let him down or break his heart…

She tried to convince herself that what really mattered, practically speaking, was that she still had a job and would be able to meet her mortgage payments. But she knew she’d be willing to live in a tent if it meant that she could be with the man that she loved for ever.

‘Nothing I could say or do could make it up to you, lass…for what Steven did.’ George lifted his head as though determined to face whatever punishment Liadan cared to mete out, and his pale blue eyes went strangely glassy when she merely smiled and pressed his hand warmly with her own.

‘You don’t owe me anything, George. You aren’t responsible for what your son did. He’s an adult. I certainly don’t think we should let it come between our friendship, do you?’

‘That’s very good of you, lass…more than I deserve. You know Mr Jacobs fired him, of course? I’m only grateful that he didn’t call the police, even though the stupid little bugger deserved it—pardon my language. I just wanted to reassure you that he wouldn’t be bothering you again. I’ve paid for him to go and stay with my sister Marge for a while down in Wales. Her and her husband are farmers and they’ll keep him busy, don’t you worry. He knows if he ever sets foot up here again, I’ll be the first one to call the police.’

‘All right, George. I’m sure you must have plenty of work to be getting on with—particularly now when we’re short-staffed. Liadan has work to do, too.’

Adrian walked up beside her, taking her by surprise, his tone ringing icy command and clearly expecting those commands to be instantly met. As she glanced sidelong at his formidably stern profile her stomach clenched hard at the pain of the little knot that was currently twisting her insides together.

Placing his cap back firmly on his head, George muttered, ‘I’ll be seeing you then, lass,’ and stepped rigidly back as though every inch of his body were covered in painful bruises. When he had gone, Adrian shut the doors firmly behind him, surveying Liadan with a cool regard as if the intimacy they had shared had never even taken place.

‘I’d find a vase to put those in and get on with lunch if I were you. My editor’s coming to see me this afternoon so I’m going to be pretty tied up for the rest of the day.’

Liadan had trouble swallowing down her shock and outrage—at his cavalier treatment of George as well as at the cold disdain with which he all but ordered her back to work. She felt as though she were having a bad dream. Her hands were clutching the daffodils too tightly, and her candid blue eyes couldn’t disguise her hurt and disappointment.

‘Did you have to speak to George so roughly? The poor man is obviously going through agonies over his son.’

‘The poor man’s son assaulted you in my house!’ Adrian snapped back through gritted teeth. ‘I would be perfectly within my rights to sack him too, under the circumstances!’

Unable to bite back the gasp that came to her lips, Liadan stared in disbelief. ‘You wouldn’t be so cruel, surely? George has worked here a long time and as far as I know he’s done a wonderful job. Where would he go? What would he do?’

‘That’s not my concern.’

‘Then what is your concern, Adrian, if you don’t mind my asking?’ Clutching the flowers tightly to her chest, Liadan finally couldn’t halt the flow of anger that was bubbling up inside her. The man wasn’t an automaton…he had to feel something, didn’t he? It wasn’t human not to feel anything at all. ‘All I can say is that it must be very cold in that empty place inside your chest where your heart should be. You seem to think you can protect yourself from every bit of hurt and trouble by shutting off all your feelings and emotions like a tap. But nobody can pretend not to feel things, Adrian. Not even you!’

‘I don’t have time for this pointless conversation. Just get on with your work, will you, and leave my feelings out of this?’ With a contemptuous glare that made Liadan feel as if an icy wind had just swept over her, he strode away as if the matter were completely at an end.

He hadn’t been able to concentrate on a damn thing that Lynne Scott, his editor, had said and he certainly couldn’t share in her excitement that, in her opinion, his current work in progress was going to be his biggest and most lucrative book yet. Truth to tell, Adrian had fallen completely out of love with the damned thing. When he should have been all fired up because he was so very near the graphically gruesome shock ending he’d been planning on, all he could think about was his lust for his pretty housekeeper.

Making love with Liadan had been amazing. The sexual drought he’d deliberately imposed upon himself after the messy entanglement with Petra couldn’t have been more thoroughly or satisfyingly brought to an end as it had been last night in Liadan’s cottage. Whenever Adrian closed his eyes—even briefly—all he could see were those sensuously darkened blue eyes of hers, all her feelings bruisingly laid bare as she gave herself to him over and over until he was sated.

To speak to her as coldly as he had done, to treat her almost with contempt when she had so readily jumped to George’s defence this morning, had been both despicable and unforgivable. But Adrian was still furious about that whole business with Steven Ferrers, uncontrollably enraged that Liadan had been hurt under his roof when he should have been there to protect her. Just as he should have been there to take the consequences of that explosion instead of Nicole…

Cursing out loud as he pushed out of his chair, he strode out of the room, determined to take a walk under the stars and to quell the rising sense of panic that was threatening to engulf him.

Hearing the front doors slam, Liadan paused in the task of removing her make-up. She glanced down at the slim gold wrist-watch she’d taken off and left on the edge of the sink, and saw that it was just after midnight. Didn’t the man believe in rest? Biting her lip and telling herself she must be some kind of masochist, she put down the cotton-wool pad she’d started to use and went back into the bedroom. She didn’t really know what she intended or whether she was actually going to make matters worse, but she pulled her short sheepskin jacket from the wardrobe, quickly stuck her stockinged feet into black leather loafers and hurried downstairs to the ground floor.

Bathed in moonlight, the gardens were an ethereal, magical place. As Liadan adjusted her gaze to the moonlit paths her heart raced a little as she searched for Adrian. She knew that the gardens were full of secret little places to make oneself scarce, and she realised she had a task on her hands if she was to find him. But find him she would. After his pleasant-looking editor had left, the atmosphere in the house had been as if somebody had just died. The weight of the gloom that had descended was making Liadan feel jumpy and miserable.

She might be determined to weather the storm, but how was she supposed to work when Adrian could hardly bring himself to speak to her with a civil tongue? Was he angry because he believed she might have some expectations where he was concerned? Especially now because they’d made love? Her sigh making a little cloud of her breath in the chill night air, Liadan shivered and turned up the warm collar of her jacket to ward off the cold.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing out here alone?’

‘Don’t do that! You almost gave me a heart attack!’

Her blue eyes huge, almost luminous in the moonlight, Liadan stumbled backwards in shock as Adrian came up beside her. Grabbing her arm tightly, he pulled her hard against his chest without thinking—his reaction automatic and unequivocal. Staring down into her startled face, he laughed harshly.

‘You should take better care where you wander. This garden is full of ghosts that only come out at night.’

Liadan believed him. Feeling his grip on her arm tighten with no indication that he intended releasing her any time soon, she nervously wet the seam of her lips with her tongue and tried to smile to show she wasn’t scared. Not of him or the supposed ghosts that haunted his garden.

‘I’m not scared of ghosts,’ she answered softly, a lock of red-gold hair drifting across her forehead.

‘Not even from your past?’ His warm breath fanning her cheeks, Adrian’s gaze narrowed darkly. He seemed to be searching for answers, but what answers could Liadan give him that would appease the voracious hunger in his eyes?

‘Perhaps I’ve made peace with my past? Maybe that’s what we all need to try to do so that we can move on.’

‘Easy for you to say. You’re twenty-seven years old and your face and your body are like places on maps hardly visited by life at all. Wait until you lose someone you love and you can’t bear the loss.’ His voice growing huskier, he suddenly released her and stepped away.

Feeling deathly cold, Liadan hugged her arms across her chest and tried desperately to find the words—any words—to ease his pain. He looked wretched. Wretched and haunted, and she longed for him to find some peace.

‘I came across the newspaper you had in your office the other day when I was in there. I saw that Petra Collins had retracted everything she said about—about your affair. So you see? You’re not the bad man you like to try and pretend to be.’

Adrian’s scowl was derogatory. ‘Don’t be fooled by appearances. I rang Petra and threatened her with a lawsuit if she didn’t retract her statement.’ That was what he’d been intending to do, anyway, but two minutes into the conversation he’d quickly realised that the once-vivacious actress had plenty of problems on her plate to be going on with. Adrian certainly wasn’t going to add to them with threats of any kind. She’d simply decided to retract her slander all by herself, apparently.

‘Why are you so determined to paint yourself in the blackest light possible?’ Liadan asked in frustration.

‘Did you read what else was in that report?’ Looking edgy and ready to break something, Adrian jerked his head disparagingly.

‘Yes.’ Her voice was a mere whisper floating on the breeze, her throat all but seized with tension. ‘I read that you lost the woman you loved in a terrible accident.’

‘Is that what you call the murder of an innocent woman? It was no accident, goddammit!’ His anger bounced off the air around him, hitting the walls of the house and echoing back to them. His lean, good-looking face was contorted with rage. ‘It was a terrorist bomb planted deliberately to cause maximum damage at one of the busiest times of the day! We’d had warnings that something might go off. We’d had warnings and we ignored them. I ignored them.’

‘You can’t go on blaming yourself for what happened. You were with a news team, weren’t you? They must have made up their own minds about whether it was a good idea to go ahead with your assignment, surely?’

Her quiet, reasonable voice should have soothed him. But instead all it did was press every explosive button inside him that could be pressed. Adrian saw red. ‘I thought I was indestructible. A golden boy. I was riding on the crest of my so-called brilliant career and I got carried away with the idea of my complete infallibility, my invulerability towards danger. I persuaded a young woman who I loved with all my heart that it was safe to go ahead into the embassy. Only moments before it happened she was laughing…laughing.’ He turned away from Liadan to hide the pain that shone starkly from his eyes.

‘It wasn’t your fault, please will you listen? How long must you go on blaming yourself? If anyone is to blame surely it’s the cold-blooded killers who planted such a terrible device? Adrian…do you think that your—your Nicole would want you to spend the rest of your life so racked with pain that you can’t enjoy a single moment of happiness ever again?’

Clearly wrestling with the impact of her words, Adrian turned slowly back to face her.

‘Go to bed, Liadan. It’s been a long, trying day and you must be tired.’

‘Don’t dismiss me so easily!’ Now it was her turn to be angry. He was shutting her out again. Shutting her out as surely as if a wall were being deliberately constructed, brick by brick, between them. If he was left alone, soon it would be too high for her to climb and she might never be able to reach him again. The knowledge terrified her. ‘You veer between treating me like some silly little schoolgirl with cotton wool for brains, or some foolish airhead who somehow drifts through life without a care in the world and without ever being touched by pain or sorrow or sadness! That’s a mighty dangerous assumption from a supposedly intelligent man. Even a two-year-old feels pain, Adrian—whether it’s actual, physical pain or the pain of rejection from a mother or a loved one. Without a doubt that leaves scars. So please don’t write me off as though I had no right to empathise with your sorrow. I do. If I could turn back the clock and bring Nicole back for you, I would! Do you hear me? I would!’ Her voice broke then, and tears, hot and relentless, momentarily blinded her.

He’s still in love with a ghost, Liadan thought chillingly. And he’ll never love me like I love him…Unable to stay, she turned and ran back up the path towards the house.

Adrian stood outside her room. His mind had told him to go straight to bed and forget her, but his body clearly had other ideas. Past the point of understanding any of it—his life, his work, his failure to move on in any meaningful way—all he craved right now was the temporary peace he knew he would find in Liadan’s arms. Even if she hated herself for it in the morning, he knew she wouldn’t deny him what he sought. He would hate himself for using her in that way if he didn’t despise himself enough already.

He knocked briefly, listening for sounds of life from behind the door. He told himself if she didn’t answer in the next ten seconds he would leave and go back to his room. But the door opened before he even finished the thought.

Her russet hair tumbling all around her shoulders, her blue eyes red with crying, she glanced up at him forlornly like a child who’d lost a beloved pet and didn’t understand why it had had to die.

‘Yes?’

Adrian didn’t speak. Instead he commandingly swept her up into his arms as if she weighed less than a feather and carried her to the bed. Without words, he laid her down on the white lace counterpane, then stripped off his shirt and sweater. Kicking off his shoes, he climbed onto the bed on all fours, positioning himself above her with all the precise intention of a man who was certain that his desperate need for comfort would not be repelled—even though he no doubt deserved it to be.

Liadan’s heart was thumping so hard inside her chest that she was grateful for the fact that she was lying down. Now, staring up at Adrian as his gaze burned down at her, hotly and without tenderness or mercy, she gulped and bit down hard on her lip. She drew blood and in the next instant felt his tongue against her flesh licking it clean. The eroticism of that sexy little gesture all but paralysed Liadan, and set up such a clamouring of raw, naked lust inside her that she barely knew herself. Then, his hands settling on her shoulders, his mouth moved across hers, barely touching at first, teasing her response and stoking her desire with a ruthless expertise that right then she wanted to kill him for. He had no right, she thought a little desperately, no right at all to do this to her body and her mind, to enrapture her with delights of the flesh that she was pathetically helpless to deny.

‘I want all of you,’ he breathed against her mouth. ‘No half measures.’

‘No.’ Liadan twisted her face away only to feel her jaw captured by warm, firm fingers and brought round again. Her blue eyes went round as saucers as she looked dazedly up into his handsome face. ‘How dare you? What makes you think I want you after the way you spoke to me? Get out!’

He silenced her with a crushing, passionate kiss that obliterated the rest of her world in one fell swoop and filled her with a fire so burning hot that she thought they would both ignite. Seconds later, he raised his head to glance down at her with sardonic amusement. ‘Still want me to go?’ he asked.

Silently cursing every weak, malleable bone in her body, Liadan slid her arms up around his neck and urged him recklessly down towards her again.

‘God help me,’ she whispered brokenly as his hands shockingly ripped the front of her antique lace nightgown straight down the middle, ‘I don’t want you to go.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘LIADAN?’

Adrian woke from the soundest sleep known to man to find the bright rays of the morning permeating the curtains like laser beams and the woman he’d made love to with such furious passion…gone. Combing his fingers dazedly through his thick dark hair, Adrian swung his long, muscular legs out of the bed and sat there for a few moments with his head in his hands. Her scent was all over him and he didn’t feel like washing it off, not yet. Right now he simply wanted to bask in the feeling of aliveness that seemed to be flowing through his body, when every other morning he woke with the weight of dread around his shoulders and almost didn’t want to face the day. It was obvious who had brought about such a miraculous change in him.

Liadan. Even her name had the power to infuse him with an excitement so great he barely knew what to do with it. His lips twitched into a smile before he realised it. Hardly able to contain his anticipation at seeing her again this morning, he reached for his trousers, buckled up his belt and wandered back down the corridor to his own suite of rooms to take a shower.

‘You want me to go out with you—tonight?’ Raising her astonished blue eyes to Adrian’s perfectly serious dark gaze, Liadan experienced a giddy rush of blood to the head, not sure she had heard him aright.

He shrugged those wide shoulders of his and smiled down at her with a slow, mouth-wateringly sexy smile that both angered and excited her. Liadan frowned back at him, her chest tight. She could hardly believe that he was behaving as if that scene in her bedroom had never happened. She might have responded to his urgent lovemaking with equal passion and need, but this morning her emotions felt as if they’d been scraped raw with sandpaper, while Adrian appeared completely unaffected by such turmoil. What was angering her most was that she’d risen at dawn as usual to light the fire in his study and get his breakfast ready, and left him to sleep on—not knowing where the hell she stood with anything. Right now she hardly knew whether she should go or whether she should stay and yet there he stood, supremely confident in his arrogant maleness and superiority, no doubt imagining she’d be swept off her feet with excitement at the idea he had invited her out.

Plucking the yellow duster she’d been polishing with out of her hands, he tossed it carelessly onto the piano. ‘We’re going to the opera, La Bohème, at the Royal Albert Hall. Courtesy of my editor, Lynne, who fears that I’m turning into Dracula, staying in the house too long and only walking abroad at night.’

Liadan found no humour in his statement. Inside she was wondering if she was simply going to let Adrian dictate to her in the way that Michael had loved to do—no doubt whatsoever in his mind that she might have any objections. ‘What makes you think that I want to go anywhere with you, Adrian? Unless you make it a habit of inviting your housekeeper to the opera? Well, do you?’

Irked by her resistance to what he had automatically assumed would be a good idea, Adrian was deeply unsettled by Liadan’s apparent frostiness. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked irritably.

‘It means I need a little clarification here. You hired me to work for you—correct me if I’m wrong? Now we’re sleeping together and obviously our relationship has changed, so I need to know where I stand. Am I your housekeeper or your girlfriend, Adrian? I can’t be both.’ She couldn’t keep the trembling out of her voice. Her throat was threatening to close and her mouth was stripped bare of moisture, but she was determined to let him know that she was nobody’s fool. If he wanted a proper relationship with her, then so be it. It might mean having to look for another job, but why should she worry about that when she would have the satisfaction of knowing she was with someone who really wanted to be with her? But right now she didn’t know that for sure. All Liadan did know was that she wasn’t prepared to be used again by any man—even one she was crazy about.

Alarm bells were ringing very loudly inside Adrian’s head. Was she considering leaving him if his answer was not to her satisfaction? More to the point—was he in danger yet again of screwing up another woman’s life with his arrogance and blithe disregard for her feelings? This was an ultimatum he hadn’t expected to be confronted with, he was ashamed to admit, but at the same time he was unreasonably annoyed at Liadan for presenting him with it. Especially when his mood had been brighter and more optimistic this morning than it had for ages.

‘You’re right,’ he acknowledged, his dark gaze wary. ‘We should discuss this.’

Letting out a soft, slow breath, Liadan nodded. At least he hadn’t denied the necessity for talking about their relationship—even though he was clearly reluctant. She was doing the right thing, she told herself. She owed it to herself to speak up and not be pushed around as she had been in her disastrous relationship with Michael. The situation between herself and Adrian urgently needed clarifying. It was one thing being in love with the man and unable to resist his incredibly compelling powers of seduction, but it was quite another him expecting her to continue working in his employ and still be his lover. Like it or not, this potentially disastrous situation simply could not continue. Natural common sense made her face the truth that was staring her in the face.

‘So…what do you think?’ she asked nervously.

Frowning, Adrian folded his arms across the midnight blue sweater that he wore with black jeans and sighed. ‘What do I think?’

If someone had predicted that when Kate left he would find himself embroiled in a very different, less-than-professional relationship with the next woman he employed, he would have been openly scornful. He had a healthy libido, he’d have said, but he wouldn’t be so foolish as to indulge it with someone who worked for him. He needed a housekeeper, that was all. And that was all, until Liadan showed up.

Not that she wasn’t good at her job—that was half the trouble. Right now he couldn’t imagine anyone else taking care of himself or his house so well. At the same time, he’d succumbed to his lust and craving for her body and made her his lover. By doing so, he’d placed both himself and her in an untenable predicament. Yet how could he not have capitulated to his desire for her? Liadan only had to walk into the same room as Adrian to make him so turned on it was practically physical torment, and right now he refused to contemplate doing without her for one second, let alone for good…

He seemed to be stalling for some reason, and Liadan’s stomach turned an anxious cartwheel.

‘I can’t stay here working for you and continue having an—an intimate relationship. You must see that.’ Her curling red-gold lashes downcast, she studied her hands intently, torn between running out of the house as fast as her legs could carry her, or throwing herself into his arms and confessing that she loved him. A course of action that would be clearly disastrous in the face of his indecision about their relationship.

‘Yes, you can.’

‘How?’

Glancing up, her heartbeat rapidly increased at the determination on Adrian’s impossibly attractive face. The pulse in one perfectly sculpted cheek throbbed momentarily before he spoke.

‘You can marry me,’ he said without emotion.

‘Marry you?’ Liadan was glad the piano stool was situated just behind her. Her trembling limbs dictated she sat on it whether she wanted to or not. ‘But you don’t love me.’ You love a ghost…she finished in her mind.

He looked astonished, as though her assertion was entirely irrelevant. His next comment drove it home.

‘We have other equally powerful inducements, don’t we?’ A knowing smile kicked up the corners of his usually stern mouth. ‘You can’t deny that we’re good together and your company is more pleasing to me than most women I know. You don’t talk my ears off and you have a quiet way about you that I find soothing.’ Liar. She was in his blood and what he felt for her right now was anything but soothing…more like a raging fever. Damn it all to hell! Why can’t you just be honest with the woman? he demanded silently of himself. Tell her how you feel!

But how could he be honest when fear of failure was demanding he stay silent on that score? One way or another, eventually he was bound to make a mess of things. Hadn’t he done so with both Nicole and Petra? Only one thing was certain. If he didn’t act soon to the contrary he would possibly wreck the only chance at happiness that had come his way in a long, long time and it would be entirely his own stupid fault.

A small, disappointed shiver ran down Liadan’s spine at Adrian’s statement and she twisted her hands together in the lap of her jade-coloured skirt as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them. ‘My company is pleasing?’ Was that all he could find to say about her? What was it about her that men couldn’t commit to her as they could to other women? she reflected despondently. First Michael’s judgemental rejection both of her body and her person and now this—this lukewarm litany of some of her supposedly more attractive attributes that was supposed to add up to a proposal of marriage. ‘You must be desperate for a housekeeper if you’re prepared to marry me in order to keep me in your employment,’ she said in a detached voice, barely able to bring herself to look at him.

His hard jaw clenched, Adrian couldn’t disguise his annoyance. ‘What are you talking about? If I married you I would look to employ someone else as my housekeeper, naturally. You would be my companion…my wife.’ If a possessive tone had crept in at his use of that last word, Adrian deliberately ignored it. Instead, he latched onto the realisation that it was probably the best idea he’d had in ages, under the circumstances. Liadan was a kind, beautiful girl whose loving nature had stolen a march on him when he hadn’t been looking. Plus the sexual chemistry between them was combustible. He’d got used to her being around and the thought of her not being around was—unthinkable. If they married, he would provide her with financial stability for life and neither of them would have to be alone any more. Perfect. Only, when Adrian gazed into Liadan’s troubled blue eyes, it didn’t seem at all as if she agreed with him.

‘I appreciate the thought but…no, thanks.’ Getting to her feet, she pushed away a wayward curl and picked up the discarded yellow duster from the top of the piano. ‘I have to be getting on. I have plenty of work to do.’ If her voice was flat, she couldn’t help it. Inside Liadan was crushed. His cold proposal of marriage had done nothing for her self-esteem. In fact, right now she hated herself because she couldn’t understand why the man she loved couldn’t seem to return her affection on any level except a sexual one.

‘Liadan?’ A frown between his perfect black brows, Adrian caught her arm as she passed him, to waylay her. ‘I’ve obviously offended you. Tell me! I want to know.’

‘Offended me? Whatever gave you that idea? I mean, why on earth should I be offended by such a cold, unfeeling suggestion as to marry you and be your little “companion”? Your editor is right, Adrian. You really do need to get out more. You’re so caught up in your dark, depressing stories that you’ve forgotten how to relate to people emotionally. I may not have much money, and I may not have another job to go to if I should leave here, but at least I have a heart full of love rather than no heart at all. At least I’m not scared to express my feelings! Now, if you don’t mind…’ she wrenched her arm free and swept towards the door ‘…I have work to do.’

‘Liadan!’

‘What?’ Turning at the door, she willed her feet to stay still even though she’d like nothing better right now than to escape to her room—lock herself in and cry her heart out. He might be an expert on running away from life’s problems, but she wasn’t. She would face whatever she had to face and afterwards she wouldn’t have any cause to feel ashamed.

‘I don’t want you to go, so please don’t talk of leaving. If my offer of marriage was less appealing than you’d like, then please forgive me. I may be a writer but I don’t always necessarily choose the right words to express my feelings.’

‘So you do have feelings, then?’ Liadan was unable to bite back her sarcasm, then saw Adrian flinch, as if her words had contained a poisonous tip that had deeply wounded him. Inwardly, she cringed. She didn’t want to hurt him any more than he’d been hurt already. So he might not be the most emotionally expressive man on the planet, but he still had a good heart. Liadan was convinced of that…despite what she’d said about him having no heart at all.

Clearly wrestling with those very feelings, Adrian unconsciously circled his chest with his hand as if trying to contain them. ‘Come to the opera with me tonight…please. Let’s at least enjoy a pleasant evening together and forget about everything else for a while. What do you say?’

Music was one of his greatest passions, Kate had told her that first afternoon when they’d met. And the chance to see La Bohème was not to be missed. Even if Liadan was in turmoil about his less-than-loving proposal of marriage.

‘All right, then. I’ll come.’ Her lip quivered a little as she tucked some hair behind her ear. The decision to go to the opera was easy. The marriage offer, on the other hand, was far more problematic to contemplate. Adrian didn’t love her, that much was obvious, and marrying him ultimately would only bring her down. Just being with him would solve one great need she had, but living with him and not having his love would surely destroy her utterly in the end.

Recoiling from the immense wall of pain that she emotionally slammed into, Liadan knew the decision she had to make. Buying a little time at the opera would be no bad thing, she told herself—because it would probably be the last evening they ultimately shared together in such an intimate way.

More relieved than he could say with her agreement, Adrian felt the tension in his muscles thankfully relax. ‘You won’t regret it,’ he promised.

Summoning up a mere ghost of a smile, Liadan nodded and said nothing.

‘Here.’ Adrian pushed his clean white handkerchief into Liadan’s hand, touched by her highly emotional response to the final scene where the heroine, Mimi, died in her lover’s arms. But he was also concerned. She’d been so quiet throughout the long drive into London and now, in the theatre foyer, as they collected their coats from the cloakroom her pretty tear-moistened eyes kept avoiding his inquiring gaze; she was clearly embarrassed by displaying such emotion in public.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’ She was lying. Especially since she looked as if she was about to burst into tears all over again.

‘Liar.’ Waiting until she’d finished dabbing at her eyes with his handkerchief, Adrian helped her on with her long tweed coat, her perfume stirring the air around him, immediately casting a spell he was helpless to resist. Not that the woman needed any artificial help in creating her magic. He was simply mesmerised by her.

‘How could anyone not be moved by what we’ve just seen and heard? It’s such a tragic story. Poor Mimi.’ Sniffing helplessly, Liadan glanced up at Adrian, at his extraordinarily compelling features and dashing appearance in his dark grey suit, white shirt, burgundy tie and long black coat that showed off his wonderful wide shoulders to perfection. She felt like Cinderella meeting the handsome prince at the ball for the first time, knowing that these precious stolen moments together would soon be relegated to painful posterity when the clock struck midnight, and she had to finally flee back to her old life without him.

‘Don’t forget poor Rudolph.’ For once, Adrian’s smile was unguarded and warm and Liadan wanted to capture the specialness of that moment and keep it close to her heart for ever. ‘Even though he should never have driven her away in the first place with his jealousy.’

‘Mr Jacobsen! Who’s your lady friend? How about a smile for our readers?’

They both turned at the demanding male voice and were temporarily blinded by the flash of a powerful camera. Immediately Adrian’s arm swept protectively around Liadan’s waist and she sensed every muscle in his body turn to iron.

‘Leave us alone,’ he said with a scowl, pushing past the impertinent photographer with ill-disguised resentment.

‘What’s your name, love? How long have you and Alexander been seeing each other?’

For a moment Liadan was surprised by the use of Adrian’s writing name, then she realised that that was the name that most of the public knew him by these days. Adrian Jacobs, war correspondent, had been replaced by Alexander Jacobsen, best-selling author of dark psychological thrillers.

‘Say nothing,’ Adrian warned her in a low voice as he steered her deliberately towards the heavy double doors of the exit. He needn’t have worried. Liadan was just as keen as he was to guard her privacy. The sooner they were in the car and on their way home, the better, as far as she was concerned.

‘Did you know that you’re a dead ringer for Alexander’s old flame Nicole Wilson, love?’

Beside her, Adrian froze. Liadan froze right along with him. Was that why he had hired her as his housekeeper—because she looked like the girlfriend he had lost in such tragic circumstances? The idea sent shock waves hurtling through her system like water rapids. Worse still…was that why he now professed to want to marry her?

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

Unable to contain his fury, Adrian turned on the hapless photographer, his hands possessively tightening around Liadan’s waist as if he expected her to suddenly bolt. The photographer, a middle-aged man with sandy-coloured hair thinning on top, and wearing glasses, smirked defiantly.

‘Come on, Alexander. It can’t have escaped your notice that she looks like Nicole? Still carrying a torch for the lovely Miss Wilson, are we?’

‘You print those despicable lies and you’ll never work again in the newspaper business…you understand?’

‘Is that a threat, Mr Jacobsen?’

‘No! It isn’t a threat!’ Breaking free of Adrian’s hold, Liadan stepped forward, her heart pumping wildly against her ribs—not just because she was furious, but because there was suddenly a small crowd of curious onlookers gathering around them in the plush theatre foyer, gawking. However she felt about Adrian’s reasons for wanting her, she still didn’t want him to be hurt any more than he was already. ‘Don’t you think he’s been through enough without you making his life even more difficult? Aren’t there more newsworthy stories that you could chase about real issues that affect real people, instead of making things up purely to sell your sleazy tabloid?’

Liadan didn’t know whether she’d imagined it, but the photographer seemed to go slightly red in the face, as though she’d inadvertently hit on something raw.

‘Liadan.’ Quietly but firmly insistent, Adrian reached for her hand and pulled her away. ‘Let’s go home, huh?’

‘Wait a minute.’ Her blue eyes focusing solely on the man in front of her with his cassette recorder and camera, she took a deep breath to try and calm her racing heartbeat. ‘Don’t print this nonsense…please. I’m appealing to the better nature that I’m sure you have underneath that hard-bitten façade. You don’t have to trade on people’s unhappiness to make a living, do you? We’ve just had the most wonderful evening at the opera. Please don’t spoil it for us by tarnishing the experience for ever.’

‘Let’s go home,’ Adrian said again, and this time Liadan allowed him to lead her through the thick double doors out into the street. When they glanced back, there was no sign that the photographer had made any attempt to follow them.

‘Liadan?’

‘I’m very tired, Adrian. We’ll talk tomorrow if you want to.’

‘No. This can’t wait until tomorrow. There are things that need to be said.’

Pausing to rub her hand across her eyes, Liadan took her hand off the curved balustrade of the staircase, feeling so emotionally drained that she hardly knew her own name.

‘Come into the study.’

There was no fire because they’d gone out for the evening, so the room was definitely on the chilly side. Glad that she hadn’t yet removed her warm coat, Liadan stuck her hands into the pockets and, with a dull ache in the centre of her chest, watched Adrian stride across to the drinks cabinet and pour them both a brandy.

‘Thank you.’ She accepted the drink dispassionately, not even desiring it. What she did desire was beyond all possibility of happening. She knew that now.

Adrian was still trying to come to terms with the fact that, yet again, Liadan had put his needs first. There had been no reason for her to jump to his defence with that photographer under the circumstances—even though he felt the utmost admiration of her courage for doing so. He’d made love to her with unrestrained passion but had firmly and deliberately kept other, perhaps more important, emotions under rigid control. Then, to make matters worse, he’d made a proposal of marriage that had sounded about as appealing as an invitation to the North Pole for a summer holiday. Taking a suddenly urgent sip of the fine French brandy in his glass, Adrian welcomed the raw heat that swirled into his stomach, then, taking a deep breath, he turned to regard the woman who stood so forlornly beside the piano.

‘You don’t look like Nicole. Your hair colour and build are similar, perhaps, but that’s all.’

‘I think what you’re trying to say is that I’m not a substitute for her?’

Leaving her brandy untouched, Liadan carefully placed the small glass on top of the piano. Her mouth curved into a tight, unhappy smile, and she shrugged, praying hard that her current feelings of despondency and heartache would not prevent her from walking away with her head held high. She was going to have to be very brave and very stoic to leave this place and the man she’d given her heart to, but leave it she must. It might be mere coincidence that she vaguely resembled Adrian’s lost love Nicole, but even so…Liadan knew that he still loved the woman and perhaps always would. Being second best was not something she was willing to accept, she realised. No matter how much she loved this man.

For a while she’d been second best to Michael’s faith until he’d finally made up his mind there was no reconciling his relationship and his calling. She wouldn’t repeat the same useless heartache with Adrian. If he didn’t love her, then eventually he could only come to despise her.

‘How could I be?’ she continued. ‘It was Nicole you gave your heart to. I know that.’

‘You accused me of not possessing a heart, remember?’

‘I remember. What was she like…Nicole?’

His hands tightening around his brandy glass, Adrian frowned. For the first time in years, his stomach didn’t plunge to his boots when he thought about his former girlfriend. The only part of his memory that recoiled in immediate pain was the part that recalled how she’d died. But that was a scene that was imprinted on his soul and would never disappear no matter how much he might wish it to.

‘She was a fine journalist. Great sense of humour and…beautiful.’ Deliberately keeping his description to the minimum, Adrian glanced at Liadan’s face and realised with a little frisson of shame that he could hardly remember what Nicole looked like. Instead, his gaze devoured the pale, almost ethereal beauty of Liadan’s bewitching features like a man who’d been invited to a sumptuous banquet, then told he wasn’t allowed to eat.

‘And she’s the reason you turned your back on being a war correspondent? The reason you locked yourself away in this huge house and started to write fiction instead?’

‘What happened to Nicole merely confirmed the futility and pointlessness of what I was doing. What was one more bloody death to people back at home who just accepted the inevitability of war and the casualties it wrought? People who could read about it in their newspapers over their toast and orange juice and then go to the office as if nothing had changed, because what did one more life taken in some Third World country mean to them in the grand scheme of things?’

‘But it meant something to you,’ Liadan said softly, registering the passionate fury in his voice.

A dark shadow seemed to pass across his eyes. ‘Yes. It meant something to me.’

And in that unguarded moment Liadan knew that Adrian wasn’t as totally cynical about life as she’d first believed him to be. Perhaps he was just the opposite? Maybe once upon a time he had been passionate and idealistic about people making a difference in the world. Maybe he had believed that if he brought the terrible details of war and the atrocities committed in its name to the attention of everyone else, they could share in his outrage and ultimately try and do something to stop it?

‘You two must have made a hell of a team.’ Her blue eyes shimmering, Liadan attempted a smile.

‘We did,’ Adrian agreed, his gaze distracted. ‘But that was then.’ Lifting his head, he levelled his gaze at Liadan, his dark eyes blazing back at her with an intensity of purpose that made her catch her breath. ‘It’s the present I’m more interested in right now.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘THE present?’

‘I asked you to be my wife.’ Putting down his brandy glass on the mantel, Adrian grimaced as though under a strain. ‘Will you marry me?’

‘No, Adrian. I won’t marry you.’ Her spine stiffening as hurt and anger swirled like a hurricane inside her, Liadan knew with the utmost certainty that she could not sacrifice her self-respect, even for the man she loved. He had all but graphically illustrated out loud that he was still in love with Nicole. He had highlighted her virtues—her accomplishment, her sense of humour, her beauty…and in stark contrast he had told Liadan that he found her presence soothing. Well, she was sorry, but the man she married would have to do a hell of a lot better than that to show her that he loved her. The problem was that Adrian patently didn’t love her. How could he when he had clearly built a mental shrine to a dead woman?

‘I won’t marry you because your proposal frankly insults me!’

‘Insults you?’ His brow creasing in shock, Adrian looked stunned.

‘Yes, insults me! As far as I can see, you are wallowing in your grief. As long as you carry a torch for Nicole that can’t ever be extinguished, you won’t ever allow yourself to be truly close to anyone else. You might play around with the idea of marrying someone because it’s convenient, but not because there’s an emotional connection like love! How could there be? You’re so…self-indulgent and self-pitying that it doesn’t even cross your mind you’re inflicting pain on others. The reason you won’t even entertain the idea of redemption and keep on insisting that you’re a bad person is because you can use that as an excuse for your selfishness! You can’t change the past, but you can change the future, Adrian—unless of course you’re too damn scared to try.’

His eyes darkening with fury, Adrian took a step towards Liadan, thought better of it, dragged his fingers savagely through his hair, then swore out loud. ‘What the hell are you talking about? You don’t know the first damned thing about me!’

‘I may not know a lot, but I do know that what I’ve said is true. You don’t need a wife, Adrian, and I don’t want to be some kind of second prize after Nicole.’

‘Second prize?’ Now he really did look furious. His mouth contorting in rage, Adrian stared at Liadan as though his gaze alone could turn her to stone. ‘How the hell do you figure that out, Liadan? Nicole is dead! It’s not like she just walked away and left me. How can you be jealous of a dead woman?’

Recoiling with hurt in her eyes, Liadan slipped her cold hands back into the pockets of her coat. ‘How can I? That’s easy when you wear her memory like some kind of invisible, impenetrable shield to prevent anyone else getting close. Think about it, Adrian. At least be honest with yourself, if not me.’ She walked to the door. ‘You’re a man of enormous drive and talent, clearly passionate about his beliefs. In my opinion you should be sharing all those gifts with the world—not shutting yourself up here in this vast house writing the stuff of nightmares! Anyway…I know it’s really none of my business.’

‘That’s right. It isn’t.’

Fielding the hurt that welled up inside her chest at his acid reply, Liadan glanced quickly away. She stared down at the beautiful parquet floor with its strategically placed Persian rugs, and reminded herself just who Adrian Jacobs was and how far apart they really were. He was clearly outraged that she had expressed her unstintingly frank opinions about him so readily. But after today, what did it matter? she asked herself. What more did she have to lose when she had lost everything already?

‘You don’t really want to marry me, Adrian,’ she said dully. ‘You don’t even really want a companion. As far as I can see you’re quite happy here in your magnificent solitude. You were right. All you really do need is a housekeeper.’

Liadan let herself quietly out of the room, and carefully closed the door behind her. Still reeling from her passionate words about Nicole, along with her damning accusations that he was still in love with her memory, Adrian let her go without even trying to stop her. Feeling chilled to the bone, he picked up his brandy glass from the mantel and dashed it into the fireplace, letting loose a violent expletive as it shattered into crystal shards in front of him.

Even though she told herself time and time again that she’d made the right decision, Liadan had still found it hard to come home. Opening the door of the cottage she’d been so eager to hold onto, she had no sense of joy or pleasure. Instead, her chest felt tight with pain and there was a hollow sensation of dread in the pit of her stomach that made her feel as though someone had just thrown a blanket over her head and bound her hands together with rope. Her beloved home felt like a prison and she an unwilling inmate inside it.

Since meeting Adrian and falling in love with him, how could anything be the same as it was before? The morning after the row—when she’d declared her decision to leave, explaining that she felt unable to work out two weeks’ notice under the circumstances—he’d merely nodded, disappeared into his study and returned with an envelope, which he’d brusquely told her contained her payment for ‘services rendered’. Then he’d carried her suitcase and bags to her car, loaded them into the boot, and, with a short, impersonal wave, watched her steer the car down the drive as if he were saying goodbye to a stranger.

Now, lowering herself defeatedly into the nearest armchair, Liadan wanted to cry, but somehow the tears wouldn’t come. There were some hurts that went too deep for tears and plainly this was one of them. What was going to become of him? What was going to become of her? Right now Liadan had no answers, only questions. Why hadn’t he stopped her from leaving? Surely he felt something for her other than physical attraction after what had transpired between them? Or was the man really as heartless and impossible to reach as he pretended?

Izzy came in through the cat-flap from the kitchen and leapt up on Liadan’s lap, clearly delighted to have her mistress home again. She automatically reached out her hand to stroke the whisper-soft fur, and tried to block out the memory of the face she had grown to love too well. Praying hard that whatever Adrian chose to do with his future it would make him a far happier man than now, Liadan shut her eyes and willed her aching heart to heal quickly. The thought of carrying around this dreadful pain for the rest of her life was surely too much for anyone to contemplate, no matter how stoic or determined.

‘What do you mean, you want an extension on your deadline?’ Lynne shrieked down the phone. ‘You never need extensions. You either deliver well in advance or dead on time. What’s going on, Adrian? Has all this horrendous business concerning you and Petra got you down? Is that what it is?’

His shoulders hunched over the telephone, his expression fearsome enough to frighten something wild, Adrian gritted his teeth and tried desperately to get to grips with the painful urge to break every piece of furniture in his study—including his damned computer! Right now he hated it. Just as he hated everything to do with his life—this house, this chair, this telephone, and most of all the gleaming grand piano that sat with such a superior air in the corner of the room and mocked him until he could barely stand it any longer. He would never play it again, he realised. Since Liadan’s fingers had caressed those keys and transported him to a peace and sanctuary that he’d never have believed possible, Adrian didn’t want to have anything to do with it. In fact, as soon as he got off the phone to his editor, he was going to ring a local dealer and get them to come and take it away as soon as possible.

How the hell was he supposed to work since she’d walked out on him? Turned her back on him as if the thought of him would never cross her mind again. And who could blame her? That was the thing. She had every right under the circumstances. He was hell on wheels to live with, he was bad-tempered and ungrateful, and to top it all—he’d buried himself too much in unhappy memories of his past, refusing to see the lustre of the glittering diamond that he had right under his nose…Liadan. Her name almost had him clutching his chest in torment at the pain of losing her.

‘It’s nothing to do with Petra or the press or anything like that. I just can’t work at the moment. I can’t think straight, never mind come up with some god-awful ending for the damned book!’

‘I thought you told me you already had the ending worked out?’ Lynne asked tolerantly, clearly deciding that getting anxious wasn’t going to get her the desired result. The publishing house made more money out of Alexander Jacobsen’s books than any other and the last thing she wanted to do was antagonise this particular golden goose.

‘I did.’ His expression ferocious, Adrian picked up a loose sheet of blank copy paper and screwed it up into a ball. ‘But I’ve changed my mind about it. I need some time to work something else out.’

‘Well, sure, Adrian, I can give you extra time, but just so long as you remember that your endings are your trademark. How about coming up to London to meet me for lunch? We can talk about things and it will do you good. You need to get out of that house more; you know that, don’t you?’

Yeah, he knew that. The last person who had told him that had been dead right but he’d been too damn belligerent to tell her so. What the hell did he think he was doing hiding away in this gigantic carbuncle of a house that would be better off as a museum than a home? It patently wasn’t a home. It was even less so now that Liadan had gone.

‘When did you want me to come?’ he asked wearily into the mouthpiece.

‘Tomorrow. Come tomorrow. I’ll book us a table for one o’clock. That all right with you?’

‘Fine. Tomorrow, then.’

True to his word, when Adrian got off the phone to Lynne he went restlessly in search of the Yellow Pages to get the number of a local dealer and hopefully get rid of his no-longer-wanted piano.

Scanning the newspaper in the little newsagents-cum-post-office in the village, Liadan frowned, unable to believe that she hadn’t been able to find anything about Adrian—let alone a picture—in any of the tabloid papers she’d diligently searched through. Could her heartfelt appeal for a little consideration have somehow sunk in with that photographer? Could he really have had an attack of conscience and let them go on their way without printing anything salacious about them? It had been a week since their outing to see La Bohème and…nothing. No story, no incriminating photograph of the writer Alexander Jacobsen and the woman who apparently bore a close resemblance to his dead fiancée. A week—and six days, nine hours and forty-five minutes to be exact since she’d walked out on Adrian.

Replacing the newspaper in the stand, Liadan went to the cluttered little counter, purchased some mints and a small packet of tissues, paid, then left the shop with the jangle of the doorbell sounding like the tinkling of a wind chime in her ears. Walking up the hill to meet the narrow lane where her cottage was situated, she dug her hands deep into her coat pockets and told herself she was pleased that Adrian would have one less thing to worry about since the press hadn’t printed the story of their outing to the opera. He’d be able to get on with his work free from the strain of media intrusion, even if he had to fend for himself until he could get another housekeeper in place.

Unable to hold back the tears that immediately sprang to her eyes at the thought, Liadan hurried on up the hill, welcoming the extra effort required in her legs and telling herself she was doing the right thing putting Drowsy Haunt up for sale. It would be far easier to find work in London than locally and, if she found a job in one of the big chain hotels, she might even be able to cut her costs by living in.

‘But you love this place, Liadan! Surely you don’t really want to sell it?’ Callum Willow, her tall, blond, handsome Adonis of a brother paced her diminutive front room and finally came to a restless standstill beside the fireplace. Somehow, Liadan found a smile. She’d been on her own for a fortnight now since leaving Adrian’s employ and, apart from her neighbour Jack, she’d spoken to no one. Not even Mel or Jennie. Both girls were on a winter skiing break in Italy—a holiday that Liadan had been adamant she couldn’t afford because she’d needed to find work instead. Jennie had urged her to come anyway—she had lost her business but she badly needed a break, she’d told Liadan. But the younger girl had declined. Her determination to hold onto her home come what may had been her prime motivation for staying put. Now, ironically, she was going to lose it anyway.

‘I can’t afford to keep it on any more, Cal. And I can’t get work around here, either. Believe me, I’ve tried.’ She’d briefly explained to her brother that she’d worked for a while as housekeeper to a writer, but that in the end things hadn’t worked out between them. Knowing her well and guessing there was a hell of a lot more that she wasn’t telling him, Callum had declined to press her for more details. When Liadan was ready she would tell him the full story, he was sure.

‘But London? It’s going to be a hell of a shock after this one-horse town.’

‘I’ll soon get used to it. Besides, you know what they say, a change is as good as a rest.’ If she said it often enough, she might convince herself. Except that she didn’t really want to go at all. Anywhere further than her little cottage was too far away from Adrian to bear thinking about…What was he doing right now? she speculated, chewing on her nails. Was he happy? Was his work going well? Did he ever think about her at all?

‘You look miles away,’ Callum chided, his blue eyes that were a shade darker than Liadan’s growing concerned. ‘What’s up, Liadan? We don’t have any secrets from each other, do we?’

He was right. She’d always been able to confide in her brother. Only now, she wouldn’t really know where to start. After the debacle that was her relationship with Michael, how could she tell him that she’d fallen for a taciturn famous writer whose heart was given to a woman no longer on this earth?

At the unexpected sound of the knocker on the door, she almost leapt out of her seat. His eyes narrowing, Callum registered surprise. ‘Expecting someone, sis? Want me to go?’

‘I’m not expecting anyone, unless it’s Jack next door.’

As she pulled the door wide Liadan’s knees went helplessly weak at the sight of Adrian’s broad shoulders dominating her doorway. He was wearing his long black coat over a black shirt and jeans, his mouth unsmiling and his gaze about as foreboding as a locked door to a shivering, hungry orphan. Her glance drank in the sight of him with a frantically beating heart.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Can I come in?’

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder into the room behind her. Following her anxious gaze and discovering to his dismay that she had company—good-looking male company—Adrian fought down the violent antagonism that rose immediately inside his chest and glared back at her. ‘I want to talk to you and what I have to say won’t wait.’

Liadan knew the dictatorial tone of that voice and resented it mightily. No matter how glad she was to see him, to know that he was alive and hadn’t moved on, he had no right to just show up at her home and speak to her like that. Especially after not hearing a word from him for almost two weeks.

‘I’ve—I’ve got visitors.’

‘Get rid of him,’ Adrian muttered through his teeth.

‘I will not!’

‘Who is he?’

‘Liadan…aren’t you going to invite your friend in?’ Callum loomed up behind her, unable to hide the interest in his eyes. Desperately glancing from her brother back to Adrian, Liadan hooked her fingers into the belt buckle of her jeans and shook her head.

‘Now isn’t a good time. Come back later if you insist you must talk to me.’

Biting her lip, she waited for the explosion. When it didn’t come, and to her alarm she saw a secret little smile curving that rather serious mouth of his instead, she felt as light-headed as if she’d just been whisked up to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

‘No, Liadan. I can’t come back later. Like I told you, I have something to say to you that just won’t wait.’

‘If you’ve waited nearly two weeks without saying it so far, surely a little longer won’t make much difference?’

How could Adrian have told her what was in his heart a fortnight ago when he’d practically convinced himself Liadan wouldn’t want to set eyes on him again—never mind listen to anything he had to say?

‘I don’t want to say what I’ve come to say standing out here on your doorstep,’ he said evenly, his tone resolute.

‘You’d better come in, then.’ Taking hold of Liadan’s slender shoulders and deliberately moving her out of the way, Callum grinned. ‘Want me to take a walk up the road for a little while? I’m Callum, by the way. Liadan’s brother, in case you were wondering.’ He stuck out his hand and he and Adrian shook hands like long-lost friends. Dumbstruck, Liadan stared at them both, unable just then to summon up one coherent word to indicate her disapproval and dismay. What was wrong with Callum for goodness’ sake? Why was he acting so strangely?

‘Callum, I don’t want you to go anywhere. I have nothing to say to Mr Jacobs! Absolutely nothing!’ When she finally did find her voice, Liadan couldn’t hold back her temper. How dared he just show up on her doorstep, after the agony he’d put her through! For all she knew, there might be more of the same to come and, the way she was feeling, Liadan had a right to wonder if she could bear it.

‘Fiery, isn’t she?’ Adrian remarked, his dark brows briefly coming together.

Reaching for his jacket, which was folded on the arm of the chair, Callum nodded in quick agreement. ‘She’s definitely not as demure as she looks. “Butter wouldn’t melt”, most people think. But that’s because they don’t really know my sister.’ Going to the door, he ruffled Liadan’s long red-gold hair as he passed. ‘Be gentle with him, sweetheart, won’t you?’

When the door shut ominously behind him, Liadan smoothed her hand nervously across her sky-blue sweater to finger the silver locket she wore on a chain round her neck and sighed.

‘I won’t pretend for one minute to understand what all that was about. You men seem to have a code all of your own.’

‘Your brother knows I mean business,’ Adrian said smoothly.

‘Oh, he does? And by that you mean what exactly?’

‘I’ve come here to tell you that I love you, Liadan. It took you walking out on me and telling me some very painful home truths to make me realise that I can’t live without you—let alone work! And I honestly do want you to be my wife. You’re not a substitute for Nicole or any other woman—I swear it! Does that clear up any confusion?’

Liadan gulped. Then she sank down on the plumped-up sofa behind her as her legs suddenly gave way beneath her.

‘This must be some kind of a joke.’ Her wide, puzzled blue eyes with their lustrous lashes tore at Adrian’s heart. After a two-week drought from not seeing her, he’d almost forgotten just how truly beautiful she was…

‘Do you think I’d joke about a thing like that? If you do, then you don’t know me at all.’

‘How could I possibly know you, Adrian? You put up too many walls for that.’

She was right. That was exactly what he had done…but not any more. From now on he wanted to let this woman into his heart. Wanted to let her in and keep her there for ever, because, as sure as the sun was going to rise in the morning, he was crazy about her. And he hadn’t lied. He really couldn’t live without her. It was just a shame that it had taken her walking out on him like that to make him realise it.

‘I know and I’m truly sorry. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Liadan.’

Drawing her to her feet, he smiled smoulderingly down into her startled blue gaze, delighting in the feel of her slender body underneath his hands again, feeling himself growing more and more aroused until he almost couldn’t stand it.

‘But what about—what about Nicole?’ Tears of happiness and confusion springing to her eyes, Liadan bit down tremulously on her lip.

His dark gaze growing even darker, Adrian stroked his hand down the side of her perfectly smooth cheek and smiled again. ‘Nicole is firmly in my past, Liadan. For a long time I couldn’t let the idea of her go because I blamed myself for her death. Holding onto the memory of how she died was like a punishment I was certain I deserved. It wasn’t until you came along with your insistence that there was redemption for everyone that I even started to believe I might be able to forgive myself, and move on. Whether there is redemption, I don’t know. But wherever Nicole’s spirit is now, I know one thing’s for certain. She wouldn’t want me to hold back from telling you how much I love you. Nothing in this world is as important as that—nothing.’

‘And you’re not just trying to butter me up so that I’ll come back and work as your housekeeper?’ Unable to suppress her grin, Liadan leaned in towards Adrian’s iron-hard chest, her whole body lighting up inside like a firework display at the sensation of being held close in his arms once again, when she hadn’t even known if she’d ever see him again.

‘Absolutely not.’ He kissed her then and it was quite a while before he came up for air. When he finally did, Liadan’s lips looked swollen and bee-stung and her lovely blue eyes were shining like twin silver lights that resembled candle-flame.

‘You still haven’t given me your answer. Is this waiting game some new kind of torture you’ve devised to torment me?’

Liadan couldn’t help dimpling as she glanced up into his impossibly attractive face. ‘Oh…you mean the marriage thing?’

‘Liadan…’ Adrian warned, a flash of impatience making him scowl.

‘Okay. I’ll put you out of your misery. Yes, Adrian. I’ll marry you…but only if we can live somewhere a little less ostentatious than that big house of yours. I’m a very simple girl. More cottages and cream than pheasant under glass.’

‘Is that so?’ Grinning in unashamed delight, Adrian swept her up into his arms and strode across the room.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘To your bedroom, hopefully. To get re-acquainted in the best way I know how. We’ve got two weeks to catch up on, remember?’

‘But Callum—’

‘If I’m right about your brother, he won’t be back for quite a while.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Call it gut instinct, but my guess is he wouldn’t be one to interfere in the course of true love.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s a gift I have.’

‘I’m his only sister. He’s very possessive of me, you know.’

His hands tightening round her body, Adrian’s expression was perfectly serious as he glanced heatedly down into Liadan’s bright blue eyes.

‘So am I, sweetheart. So am I…’

EPILOGUE

LETTING the hardcover book she’d been diligently reading drop back onto the cornflower-blue silk eider-down, Liadan stretched her arms wide before falling back against the plumped-up pillows with a sigh. With a contented little smile playing around her lips, she reflected what a lucky, lucky woman she was. Six months married and she was enjoying the kind of life that she’d only previously believed was to be found in fairy tales, or romantic movies at least. She had a gorgeous, insatiably sexy husband who kept her in bed more than she was out of it. She lived in one of the prettiest cottages in the village—albeit with an acre of garden and a Victorian folly that Adrian had had renovated just for her—and now she was going to have a baby, too. Her hands going automatically to the slight swell of her previously flat stomach, Liadan stroked it gently, marvelling at the astonishing changes that were taking place.

In a week’s time she was going on a nationwide book tour with her famous husband, happy to be at his side and to show her love and pride in his success. He was a complex but wonderful, talented man who had successfully put some of his darkest demons behind him and had had the courage to start life anew, and she was so thankful he’d been able to do that. Happily contemplating the pretty blue and white bedroom of their large country cottage, Liadan sighed again and closed her eyes. When she heard the door open again a few moments later, her eyelids flew open and she pushed herself up immediately into a sitting position.

‘I finished the book,’ she announced breezily to the man who was purposefully approaching the bed with a glint in his eye that only his wife knew the meaning of.

‘Oh?’ The glint disappeared and warily Adrian rested his hands on his hips, his mouth in a straight, sober line. ‘And what’s the verdict?’

‘The verdict is…’ Throwing back the covers and scooting across to where he stood, Liadan threw her arms around her husband’s neck and stroked her lips tantalisingly across his. Immediately sensing his inevitable response, she drew back with a cheeky, coquettish grin. ‘The verdict is, my darling…that I’m going to keep you in this bed for a very long time. So long, in fact, that somebody somewhere might have to send out a rescue party.’

His hands caressing the irresistible shape of her hips and pulling her pelvis flush with his, Adrian’s dark gaze smouldered. ‘And what if I don’t want to be rescued?’ he asked gravel-voiced.

‘Then that’s okay. I’ll simply take care of all your needs.’

‘I have no problem with that.’ Barely able to think about anything else but the promised delights to come, Adrian nonetheless paused when Liadan would have dragged him into bed. ‘You haven’t finished telling me what you thought about the book?’ he reminded her.

‘You changed the ending,’ Liadan said softly, her lovely face unable to hide her intense admiration and love. ‘You made it beautiful, Adrian. You gave your characters hope even though they were in an agonising situation. I’m so proud of you.’

‘That’s all right, then.’ Unbuttoning his shirt with lightning fingers, he discarded it carelessly onto the floor and climbed into bed beside his wife. From now on, he would thank his lucky stars every day for bringing this beautiful, animated, loving woman into his life and giving him the possibility of a brighter future than he could ever have dared to contemplate. Whatever the years ahead had in store for them both, he would do his best never to be cynical about life again. Even if there wasn’t redemption for everybody, as Liadan believed…at least there was hope. Because if Adrian’s life could turn around on a heartbeat—as far as he was concerned—then so could everybody else’s. His lovely, vivacious, warm-hearted Liadan had taught him that.

The Spanish Billionaire’s Mistress

Susan Stephens

For all my long-suffering friends. You know who you are. I couldn’t do it without you.

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

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

‘COME here—come closer so we can see you,’ the male voice commanded.

Cursing softly under her breath, Zoë Chapman slithered down to the ground and straightened up. Uncomfortable but invisible, or so she’d thought, she had been wedged into a smooth crevice between two giant rocks, discreetly observing the activity around the campfire.

She had located the flamenco camp and chosen her hiding place before anyone arrived. Her unique and popular cookery shows depended upon the co-operation of special interest groups, but the fact that she worked on a TV programme didn’t make her welcome everywhere. She had wanted to observe the dancing before she introduced herself, just to make sure it was as good as was rumoured in the village.

The man speaking now had arrived shortly after she had. Back turned, he had stood gazing out across the valley. She had seen nothing more than an aggressively tall male figure, a shock of inky black hair and a wide sweep of shoulders—in fact, everything she had vowed to avoid since gaining her freedom.

As more people had joined him, she’d realised he was the leader of the group. Why hadn’t she been surprised? She had wondered who he was, wondered about the quivers running through her as she stared at him. It had made her angry to think she had learned nothing since her divorce. She was still drawn to dangerous men.

Now, walking up to him, she saw he was everything she had expected: strikingly handsome, arrogant, and angry that she was here uninvited. If this hadn’t been work she would have done the sensible thing, and left.

During the course of her television series she searched out interesting people from all walks of life. Local people in whichever country she chose to film were the seasoning in her shows, the magic ingredient that lifted her above the competition.

Generally she enjoyed the research. This time she had to put her personal feelings to one side and hope the dancing started soon. She couldn’t let some local brigand put her off. Forget the man! This was her target group. The only thing that mattered was persuading someone to perform flamenco on her programme.

Dance was Zoë’s passion outside of work. She knew she would never make a professional, but part of her climb-back after the divorce had been to join a jazz dance exercise group. It had proved the best therapy she could have chosen—though right now it looked as if all her good work was being undone.

She could not have prepared for this, Zoë reminded herself. She had not expected to run up against such a strong character again quite so soon.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

He beckoned her forward with a short, angry gesture, and his voice was cold. It brought back memories she didn’t need, but she was like a terrier with a bone when it came to work, and she focused her concentration easily. They were attracting a lot of attention. Perhaps one of the people around the mountain hut would agree to audition for her programme?

The man held up his hand to stop her coming any closer. It was close enough for Zoë, too. He was quite something. Along with the aura of power and brute strength, she had to admit he had style. Why did she have to find such a man irresistible when she knew he had danger carved into the stone where his heart should be?

Somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, he was around six feet two or three, and his build was every bit as impressive as she had thought from some distance away. Everything about him was dark: his eyes, his hair…his expression.

‘Why have you come here?’ he demanded.

‘I heard this is where flamenco enthusiasts gather, and I want to learn more about flamenco.’

‘So you can go home to England and show off to your friends?’ He made a derisive sound and clicked his fingers, mimicking the worst of the shows she had seen down on the coast.

‘No, of course not. I…’ His steely gaze remained fixed on her face, but she couldn’t let that get to her. ‘I am genuinely interested in flamenco.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘I am at the moment—’

He cut her off. ‘At the moment?’

‘I know this looks bad—’

‘What do you mean, you’re alone at the moment?’

‘I’m working with a television crew. They’re not here right now.’

Could his expression darken any more? She tried to explain, but her voice came out as a croak. Unconsciously, her hand flew to her throat. She should have brought some water with her. She had been at the mercy of the sun all afternoon, and now she was desperate for a drink.

‘Do you think I could have some water?’ She gazed around.

‘What do you think this is? A café?’

But people were drinking all around her. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Did you think this was one of those cheap tourist places where you get a free drink along with your paella and chips?’

‘No!’ She calmed herself. ‘No, of course not—’

He straightened up and moved a menacing pace towards her, and all her courage drained away. Lurching backwards, she nearly stumbled. She was only saved by the sheer bulk of a man behind her. He was carrying a stone flagon and some pottery beakers. He didn’t understand when she started to apologise, and poured her a drink.

She didn’t want it. She just wanted to get away—back down the mountain to safety, to where people barely looked at her, where no one knew who she was or where she had come from.

But the man with the flagon was still smiling at her, and the situation was bad enough already. ‘Gracias, señor.’

Keeping watch on the brigand, Zoë took the beaker from the older man and gratefully drank from it.

It was delicious, and tasted harmless—like fruit juice and honey laced with some spice she couldn’t name. The beaker felt cool, and she was so thirsty she didn’t protest when he offered her more. The golden liquid gleamed in the light as it flowed from the flagon, and the elderly man filled her beaker to the brim.

‘Salud!’

The alpha male’s voice was harsh and unfriendly. Handing the beaker back to the man with the flagon, Zoë raised her chin. She felt better now, bolder. ‘Delicious,’ she said defiantly, staring her unwilling host in the eyes. ‘What was that drink?’

‘A local speciality, brewed here in the village.’

‘It’s very good. You should market it.’

‘On your recommendation I’ll certainly consider it.’

His sarcasm needled Zoë, but it also renewed her determination to go nowhere until she got the feature for her programme. At any cost?

At the cost of a little charm, at least. ‘I really should introduce myself.’

‘You really should.’

Brushing a strand of titian hair from her face, Zoë stared up and tried to focus. She hadn’t realised the drink was so strong. On an empty stomach, she was suddenly discovering, it was lethal. She was in no state to object when he reached forward to steady her.

His grip on her arm was light, but even through an alcohol-induced haze she could feel the shock waves radiating out from his fingertips until every part of her was throbbing. He led her away out of earshot, to where a wooden hut cast some shade.

‘So, who are you?’

‘Zoë—Zoë Chapman. Could I have a glass of water, please?’

Rico thought he recognised the name, then brushed it aside. It hardly mattered. She had damned herself already out of her own mouth: a television crew! He might have known. He grimaced, catching hold of her again when she stumbled.

‘I think you’d better sit down.’ He steered her towards a bench, and once she was safely planted turned and called to two youths. ‘José! Fernando! Por favor, café solo—rápido!’ Then, turning to her again, he said, ‘Welcome to the Confradias Cazulas flamenco camp, Zoë Chapman. Now you’re here, what do you want?’

‘It’s good to meet you too—’

‘Don’t give me all this nonsense about flamenco. What do you really want? Why have you come here? Are you spying on me?’

‘Flamenco isn’t nonsense.’ She reeled back to stare at him. ‘And I’m not spying on you. I’m researching.’

‘Oh, of course. I see,’ he said sarcastically.

No, he didn’t, Zoë thought, shading her eyes with her hand as she tried to focus on his face. Her head felt so heavy. It bounced instead of simply moving. Squeezing her eyes together, she struggled to follow his movements—he seemed to be swaying back and forth. ‘So, who are you, then?’ Her tongue was tied up in knots.

‘Rico. Rico Cortes.’

They were attracting attention, Zoë noticed again. Peering round him, she gave a smile and a little wave. He moved in closer, shielding her from his companions. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Rico.’ As she put her hand out to shake his, it somehow connected with a coffee cup. Raising the cup to her lips, she drank the coffee down fast. The hot, bitter liquid scalded her throat, but it couldn’t be helped. She had to pull round from this fast. The last couple of programmes based around flamenco were supposed to be the crowning feature of her series.

‘Here, drink some more.’

His voice was sharp, and then he made a signal to the boy with the coffee pot to fill her mug again.

‘Leave it here, José, por favor.’

He sounded different, warmer when he spoke to the youth, Zoë registered fuzzily.

‘We’re going to need every drop,’ he added.

And he was back to contempt when he turned to look at her! It wasn’t the best start she’d ever had to a programme.

This time, once she’d drained the strong black coffee, it was Zoë who asked for more. The second she had finished, the questions started.

‘If you’re with a television crew I take it you’re after an exclusive. I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why you were spying on us, sneaking about.’

Thanking the boy, Zoë gave him back her empty cup. Her head was clearing. She felt better, much more focused. She might still be a little under par, but she had no intention of being bullied by Rico Cortes—by anyone.

‘I’m here to see if flamenco will make a suitable item for my television series. Nothing more.’

‘Your television series?’

‘It’s my programme. I have full editorial control. I own the company that produces the programme.’

‘So, it’s you.’

‘Me?’

‘Staying at the Castillo Cazulas.’

‘Yes, my company has taken a short-term lease on the castle—’

‘And it’s there you’re going to create your masterpiece?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ She couldn’t keep the chill out of her voice now. Could he have been more disparaging? She had worked long and hard to raise her programme above the rest, to make it different and special. She had brought a great team together, and she was proud of what they had achieved.

‘Flamenco for Spain, opera in Italy, fashion when you shoot a programme in France—is that how it goes? Skimming over the surface of a country, using the name of art just to make money?’

‘I make money. I won’t deny it. How would I stay in business, pay the wages of the people who work with me, otherwise? But as for your other assumptions—frankly, they stink.’

‘They do?’

His voice was faintly amused now, and he was looking at her in a whole different way. She wasn’t sure if she liked it any better. Her thundering heart told her it was dangerous. ‘Look, Rico, if you’re not the person I should be speaking to about the dancing, then perhaps you could find me someone who will listen to what I have to say.’

‘And allow you to trample over my privacy? I don’t think so.’

‘Your privacy? I wasn’t aware that my programme was going to be made around you.’

His look was cynical. ‘It’s time you went back to your film crew, Ms Chapman.’

‘Are you asking me to leave?’

‘It’s getting dark—I’d hate for you to lose your way.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll go. Just as soon as I finish my business here.’

‘You have finished your business here.’

‘Why are you so touchy about my being here? I’m not doing you any harm!’

‘People have a right to space.’

‘And this is yours?’ Zoë gestured around.

‘If you like. I don’t have to explain myself to you.’

‘Correct,’ Zoë said, standing up to face him. ‘But I wasn’t aware that there were any private estates up here in the mountains. I’ve got as much right to be here as you have. And, for your information, I have never had a single complaint from a guest on my show. I treat everyone with respect.’

He shifted position and smiled. It was not a friendly smile. It was a ‘don’t mess with me’ smile.

‘I give you my word,’ Zoë insisted. ‘Nothing in my programme will invade your privacy—’

His short bark of laughter ran right through her, and his derision made her cheeks flame red.

‘You really believe that?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Then you’re dreaming.’

‘Perhaps if you’d allow me to explain how everything works—’

‘You still couldn’t come up with anything to reassure me.’

This was her most challenging project yet. But she had never failed before. Not once. No one had ever refused to take part in one of her programmes, and she wasn’t going to let Rico Cortes start a trend.

‘Have the effects of that drink worn off yet?’

He couldn’t wait to get rid of her, Zoë guessed. ‘Yes, they have.’ Hard luck. She was firing on all cylinders now.

He turned away. Evidently as far as Rico was concerned their discussion had come to an end. He couldn’t have cared less about her programme—he just didn’t want her blood on his hands when she tumbled over a cliff after drinking the local hooch at his precious flamenco camp. ‘We haven’t finished talking yet!’ she shouted after him.

‘I have.’

As he turned to stare at her Zoë wondered if he could sense the heat building up in her. His slow smile answered that question, and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not when he walked back towards her. ‘Please, let me reassure you. I don’t pose a threat to you or to anyone else here. I’m just trying to—’

‘Find out more about flamenco?’

‘That’s right.’

As their eyes met and locked Zoë shivered inwardly. Rico was exactly the type of man she had vowed to avoid. ‘It’s getting late.’ She looked hopefully at the sky. ‘Perhaps you are right. This isn’t the time—’

‘Don’t let me drive you away,’ he sneered.

She was painfully aware of his physical strength, but then something distracted her. A broken chord was played with great skill on a guitar, so soft it was barely discernible above the laughter and chatter—but this was what she had come for. Silence fell, and everyone turned towards a small wooden stage. Lit by torchlight, it had been erected on the edge of the cliff, where it could catch the slightest breeze from the valley.

‘Since you’re here, I suppose you might as well stay for the performance.’

Rico’s invitation held little grace, but she wasn’t about to turn it down.

He cut a path through the crowd, and Zoë followed him towards the front of the stage. She could see the man with the guitar now, seated on a stool at one corner of the stage, his head bowed in concentration as he embraced the guitar like a lover. Then an older woman walked out of the audience and went to join him. Resting her hands on her knees to help her make the steep ascent up the wooden steps to the stage, she looked her age, but when she straightened up Zoë saw an incredible transformation take place.

Giving the audience an imperious stare, the woman snatched up her long black skirt in one hand and, raising the other towards the sky, she stamped her foot once, hard.

A fierce energy filled the air as the woman began her performance. Zoë had no idea that Rico was watching her. She was aware of nothing outside the dance.

‘Did you feel it?’ he murmured, close to her face, as the woman finished and the crowd went wild.

‘Did I feel what?’ she said, moving closer so he could hear.

‘Duende.’

As he murmured the word she looked at his mouth. ‘Duende.’ Zoë tasted the word on her own lips. It sounded earthy and forbidden, like Rico Cortes. She sensed that both had something primal and very dangerous at their core.

‘You wanted real flamenco,’ he said, drawing Zoë back to the purpose of her visit. ‘Well, this is real flamenco. This is wild, impassioned art at its most extreme. Are you ready for that, Zoë Chapman?’

She heard the doubt in his voice. Perhaps he saw her as a dried-up husk, incapable of feeling passion of any sort—and why not? He wouldn’t be the first man to think that. ‘I’m just really grateful to have this chance to see flamenco at its best.’

‘You don’t see flamenco. You feel it.’

‘I know that now.’ He thought of her as a tourist out for a cheap thrill, Zoë realised. But she was a long way from the tourist trail here. She was a long way from her old life too— the old Zoë Chapman would have backed off without a fight, but there was no chance of that now. She knew what she could achieve, with or without a man at her side. And she hadn’t come to Spain to be insulted. She had come to make a programme, a good programme. She wasn’t going to let Rico Cortes distract her from that goal. ‘Can you explain this word duende to me?’

‘You’ll know it when you feel it.’

‘What—like an itch?’

‘Like an orgasm.’

Zoë’s mouth fell open. Not many things shocked her. OK, so she’d been less than reverent in response to his cutting remarks, but it had been a serious question. She had been right about him. Rico Cortes was a man of extremes—a man who was looking at her now with a brooding expression on his face, no doubt wondering if his shock tactics had been sufficient to scare her off.

‘An emotional orgasm, you mean?’ She was pleased with her composure under fire.

‘That’s right.’

There was a spark of admiration in his eyes. It gave her a rush—maybe because there was passion in the air long after the woman’s performance had ended. Vibrations from the flamenco seemed to have mixed with his maleness, taking her as close to duende as she would ever get. She held his gaze briefly, to prove that she could, and found it dark and disconcerting. Her body was trembling with awareness, as if an electric current had run through her.

‘So, you have taken a summer lease on Castillo Cazulas,’ he said, staring down at her as if he knew what she was feeling. ‘And you want to make a programme about flamenco. Why here, of all places? Hardly anyone outside the village knows about the Confradias Cazulas flamenco camp.’

‘People who know about flamenco do. And I enjoyed the walk.’

‘But how will you find your way back again? It’s almost dark.’

He was right, but she was prepared. ‘I have this.’ Digging in her pocket, Zoë pulled out her flashlight. Suddenly it didn’t seem adequate. She should have remembered how fast daylight disappeared in Spain. It was as if the sun, having blazed so vigorously all day, had worn itself out, and dropped like a stone below the horizon in minutes.

They both turned as some more dancers took the stage. They were all talented, but none possessed the fire of the first woman. She had already found her guest artist, Zoë realised, but she would still need an introduction.

Glancing up, she knew that Rico was her best chance. But there were man waves coming off him in torrents, and he smelled so good—like pine trees and wood smoke. His sexual heat was curling round her senses like a blanket. And lowering her guard! She hadn’t come to Spain to indulge in an adolescent fantasy over some arrogant stud. Her interest in flamenco was purely professional. Work was all she cared about; a new man figured nowhere in her plans.

By the time the stage had cleared again it was pitch-dark, with no moon. Quite a few people had come by car, parking in a clearing not too far away. Zoë watched with apprehension as their headlights glowed briefly before disappearing into the night.

‘You really think that little light of yours is going to be enough?’ Rico said, as if reading her mind.

Zoë glanced at him. ‘It will have to be.’ Shoving her hands in the pockets of her track suit, she tilted her chin towards the stage. ‘Was that the last performance for tonight?’

‘You want more?’

‘How much would it cost to hire someone like that first performer—the older woman?’

She saw an immediate change in his manner.

‘All the money on earth couldn’t buy talent like that. You certainly couldn’t afford it.’

Zoë bit back the angry retort that flew to her lips. This was no time for temperament: everyone was leaving—the woman too, if she didn’t act fast. Their gazes locked; his eyes were gleaming in the darkness. This man frightened her, and she knew she should turn away. But she couldn’t afford to lose the opportunity.

‘I’m sorry—that was clumsy of me. But you can’t blame me for being carried away by that woman’s performance—’

‘Maria.’ His voice was sharp.

‘Maria,’ Zoë amended. She felt as if she was treading on eggshells, but his co-operation was crucial. She generally made a very convincing case for appearing on the show. Right now, she felt like a rank amateur. There was something about Rico Cortes that made her do and say the wrong thing every time. ‘Maria’s performance was incredible. Do you think she would dance for me?’

‘Why on earth would she want to dance for you?’

‘Not for me, for my show. Do you think Maria would agree to dance on my programme?’

‘You’d have to ask her yourself.’

‘I will. I just wanted to know what you thought about it first.’ Zoë suspected nothing happened in Cazulas without Rico’s say-so.

‘It depends on what you can offer Maria in return.’

‘I would pay her, of course—’

‘I’m not talking about money.’

‘What, then?’

A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘You would have to win her respect.’

Did he have to look so sceptical? ‘And what do you think would be the best way to do that?’

They were causing some comment, Zoë noticed, amongst the few people remaining, with this exchange, conducted tensely head to head. It couldn’t be helped. She had to close the deal. She wasn’t about to stop now she had him at least talking about the possibility of Maria appearing on the show.

‘You’d have to bargain with her.’

An opening! Maybe not a door, but a window—she’d climb through it. ‘What do you suggest I bargain with?’ She smiled, hoping to appeal to his better nature.

‘Are you good at anything?’ Rico demanded.

Apart, that was, from joining the hordes who spied on him and the idiots who thought an important part of his heritage had the same value as the cheap tourist tat along the coast. She had manoeuvred him into starting negotiations with her, though. She was sharper than most. He should have got rid of her right away, but his brain had slipped below his belt.

He shouldn’t have stayed away from Cazulas for so long. He should have kept a tighter hold on who was allowed into the village. But he had trusted such things to a management company. He wouldn’t be doing that again.

‘I don’t just make programmes,’ she said, reclaiming his attention. ‘I present them.’

‘I apologise.’ He exaggerated the politeness. ‘Apart from your ability to make programmes and present them, what do you have to bargain with that might possibly interest Maria?’

‘I cook.’

Removing her hands from her pockets, she planted them on her hips. She smiled—or rather her lips tugged up at an appealing angle while her eyes blazed defiance at him. Her manner amused him, and attracted him too. ‘You cook?’

‘Is there something wrong with that?’

‘No, nothing at all—it’s just unexpected.’

‘Well, I don’t know what you were expecting.’

Just as well. He had been running over a few things that would definitely make it to the top of his wish list, and cooking wasn’t one of them. Outsiders were practically non-existent in the mountains. It was a rugged, difficult terrain, and yet Zoë Chapman, with her direct blue-green gaze and her wild mop of titian hair, had come alone and on foot, with a flashlight as her only companion, to find—what had she expected to find?

Rico’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. In his experience, women made careful plans; they didn’t just turn up on the off chance. ‘We’ll discuss this some other time. I’ll have someone see you home.’

‘When I’ve spoken to Maria.’

Her mouth was set in a stubborn line. He liked her lips. He liked her eyes too—when they weren’t spitting fire at him. She was about five-five, lightly built—but strong, judging from her handshake. The rest was a mystery beneath her shapeless grey track suit. Maybe it was better that way. There were very few surprises left in life.

But this was one mystery parcel he had no intention of unwrapping. The gutter press could use subtle tactics to succeed. Zoë Chapman might be working for anyone—how did he know? The television company, even the programme she was supposed to be making, could all be a front. Cazulas was special—the one place he could get some space, some recreation—and no one was going to spoil that for him.

‘So, you’ll introduce me to Maria?’

She was still here? Still baiting him? Rico’s jaw firmed as he stared at Zoë. The sensible thing to do would be to cut her, blank her out, forget about her. But she intrigued him too much for that. ‘It’s not convenient right now—’

‘Who says so?’

‘Maria!’ Rico turned with surprise. ‘I didn’t hear you coming.’

‘That is obvious.’ The older woman’s eyes were bright and keen as she stared curiously at Zoë. ‘But now I am here why don’t you introduce us, Rico?’

‘She won’t be staying—’

‘I will!’

Maria viewed them both with amusement.

‘I didn’t think you would be interested in what Ms Chapman had to say,’ Rico said with a dismissive shrug.

‘So now you are thinking for me, Rico?’

There was a moment when the two of them stared at each other, unblinking, and then Rico pulled back. ‘Maria Cassavantes—allow me to present Zoë Chapman to you.’

‘Zoë,’ Maria repeated, imbuing Zoë’s name with new colour. ‘I have heard rumours about your television programmes and I would like to talk to you. Forget Rico for a moment. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement?’

It was everything Zoë had hoped for—but forget about Rico? That was asking a bit too much. She saw him tense and she couldn’t resist a quick glance of triumph.

Rico was seething. What was Maria thinking of? They knew nothing about this Zoë Chapman—nothing at all. What set her apart from all the other female sharks, with their bleached teeth and avaricious natures? Maria hadn’t a clue what she was letting herself in for—she was playing with fire…

‘We should know more about your cookery programme before Maria agrees to do anything.’ He took a step forward, deliberately putting himself between them. ‘I don’t see how flamenco could possibly be relevant.’

‘If you’d only let me explain—’

‘How can I be sure you’re not wasting Maria’s time?’

‘I said I don’t mind this, Rico.’ Maria put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I would like to talk to Zoë and hear what she’s got to say—’

‘I promise you, Maria,’ Zoë cut in, ‘I’m not in the habit of wasting anyone’s time, least of all my own. And if you need me to prove it to you—’

‘I really do.’ It was Rico’s turn to butt in.

Maria was forgotten as they glared at each other. Then Zoë broke eye contact, allowing him a brief moment of satisfaction.

‘I’ll make everyone in the village a meal,’ she declared, gesturing extravagantly around the clearing. ‘How does that suit you, Rico?’

Now he was surprised. ‘That’s quite an offer.’ There was just enough doubt in his voice to provoke her, to brighten her green eyes to emerald and make her cheeks flare red.

‘I mean it.’

‘Fine.’ He lifted up his hands in mock surrender, then dipped his head, glad of the opportunity to conceal the laughter brewing behind his eyes. Somehow he didn’t think Ms Chapman would appreciate humour right now. But there were about one hundred and sixty souls in the village. She would never pull it off.

Ms Chapman. Who knew what was behind a name?

Rico’s gaze flew to Zoë’s hands. Clean, blunt fingernails, cut short, but no ring, no jewellery at all. He drew an easing breath. That was all he needed to know. It gave him the freedom to overlook his vow never to court trouble on his own doorstep again. ‘I shall look forward to it, Ms Chapman.’

‘Rico,’ Maria scolded him, ‘why don’t you call our new friend Zoë, as we’re going to be working together?’

‘So we are going to be working together, Maria?’

She sounded so excited. Rico ground his jaw and watched with concern as the two women hugged each other. Zoë Chapman wouldn’t win him round so easily.

‘I have never appeared on television,’ Maria exclaimed.

‘I’m going to make it special for you, Maria.’

Zoë’s promise grated on him. If she let Maria down—

‘I think we’ll make a good team.’ Maria looked at him and raised her eyebrows, as if daring him to disagree.

For now it seemed he had no choice in the matter. Zoë Chapman had won this round, but he would be waiting if she stepped out of line. Maria might have been taken in, but he wasn’t so easily convinced. The thought of an artist of Maria’s calibre appearing on some trivial holiday programme with a few recipes thrown in made him sick to his stomach.

As far as he was concerned, Ms Chapman had identified her quarry and had stopped at nothing until she got her own way. She was no innocent abroad. She had all the grit and determination of the paparazzi. That wary look he had detected in her eyes when she looked at him didn’t fool him for a minute. It was all an act. She was as guilty as hell. But Maria was right. He wouldn’t presume to make decisions for Maria Cassavantes, though in his experience third-rate television companies only dealt in plastic people; treasures like Maria were out of their league.

If he had to, he would step in to protect her from Zoë Chapman. But for now he was sufficiently intrigued to give Ms Chapman enough rope to hang herself. He would watch her like a hawk, and the first time she tried to cheapen or trivialise what Maria Cassavantes stood for both she and her television cameras would be thrown out of Spain.

CHAPTER TWO

‘CAN we talk business now, Maria?’

‘That sounds very formal,’ Rico cut in.

He was suspicious of her motives. She had to curb her enthusiasm, take it slowly, Zoë reminded herself. She usually got to know people first, before talking business. Building confidence was crucial. Contrary to popular opinion, not everyone wanted to appear on television. Usually she was good at choosing the right moment, but having Rico in the picture was making her edgy, making her rush things.

‘I know it’s late—I won’t keep you long.’ She glanced at Rico. ‘Perhaps if Maria and I could talk alone?’

‘It’s all right, Rico,’ Maria said soothingly.

‘I’d rather stay.’

Zoë looked up at him. ‘It’s really not necessary.’

‘Nevertheless.’ He folded his arms.

For Maria’s sake Zoë tried to bite back her impatience, but she was tired and stressed and the words just kept tumbling out. ‘Really, Rico, I can’t see any reason why you should stay. Maria and I are quite capable of sorting this out between us—’

‘It’s better if I stay.’

She could see he was adamant. ‘Are you Maria’s manager?’

‘They call him El Paladín,’ Maria cut in, interposing her not inconsiderable body between them.

‘El Paladín?’ Zoë repeated. ‘Doesn’t that mean The Champion?’ She only had a very basic knowledge of conversational Spanish to call upon. ‘What’s that for, Rico? Winning every argument?’

‘Rico is everyone’s champion,’ Maria said fondly, patting his arm.

That seemed highly unlikely—especially where she was concerned, Zoë thought. ‘Champion of what?’ she pressed.

‘Zoë likes her questions,’ Rico observed sardonically, ‘but she’s not too keen on giving answers about why she’s really here in Cazulas—’

‘And Zoë’s right about you,’ Maria cut in. ‘You don’t like losing arguments, Rico.’

‘I like to win,’ he agreed softly.

Lose? Win? Where was all this leading? Zoë wondered, suppressing a shiver as she broke eye contact with Rico. ‘We’re never going to win Rico’s approval, Maria, but I believe we can make great television together.’

‘What have you been telling this young woman, malvado?’ Maria demanded, turning her powerful stare on him.

‘Nothing. If you want to dance and she wants to cook, that’s fine by me. Only problem is, we know you can dance.’

‘Rico!’ Maria frowned at him.

‘My third television series says I can cook!’

‘There—you see, Rico,’ Maria said, smiling at Zoë.

‘And the connection between dancing and cooking is what, exactly?’ He raised his shoulders in a shrug as he stared at Zoë.

He would never go for her idea, but at least she had Maria’s support. She had to forget Rico’s insults and build on what she had. But he was one complication she could do without. He probably crooked his finger and every woman around came running. Well, not this woman.

Turning to Maria, Zoë deliberately cut him out. ‘This is the connection, Maria: the people around me inspire the food I cook on television. In this part of Spain the influence of flamenco is everywhere.’

‘So cooking isn’t just a hobby for you?’ Rico said.

Zoë stared up at him. He refused to be cut out. ‘No, Rico, it’s a full-time career for me.’

‘Along with your television company.’

Maria stepped between them again. ‘So you would like me to dance on your television programme to add some local interest to the dishes you prepare? Is that right, Zoë?’

‘Exactly.’ Zoë’s face was confident as she flashed a glance at Rico. ‘I’ll cook, you’ll dance, and together we’ll make a great team.’

‘Bueno,’ Maria said approvingly. ‘I like the sound of this programme of yours. Of course, any payment must be donated to the village funds.’

‘Absolutely,’ Zoë agreed. ‘Whatever you like.’

Maria smiled. ‘Well, that all sounds quite satisfactory to me.’

But not to Rico, Zoë thought. At least he was silent for now. ‘I have never seen anyone dance like you, Maria. You are fantastic.’

‘Gracias, Zoë. And you are very kind.’

‘Not kind, Maria, just honest.’ Zoë stopped, hearing Rico’s scornful snort in the background. What did she have to do to convince him?

She turned to look at him coldly. There were a couple of buttons undone at the neck of his dark linen shirt, showing just how tanned and firm he was. She turned back quickly to Maria. ‘When you appear, I just know the programme will come to life…’ Zoë’s voice faded. She could feel Rico’s sexual interest lapping over her in waves.

‘Don’t worry, Zoë,’ Maria assured her, filling the awkward silence. ‘It will be fine—just you wait and see.’

Zoë wasn’t so sure, and she was glad of Maria’s arm linked through her own as the older woman drew her away from Rico, towards the bright circle of light around the campfire.

‘Have you offered Zoë a drink?’ Maria said, turning back to him.

‘She’s had more than enough to drink already.’

‘Surely you didn’t let her drink the village liquor?’

‘It’s all right, Maria,’ Zoë said hastily. She could see the hard-won progress she had made winning Maria’s trust vanishing in the heat of a very Latin exchange. ‘Thank you for the kind offer, but I’ve already had some coffee.’

Rico was staring at her almost as if he was trying to remember why she made him so uneasy. But they couldn’t have met before. And he couldn’t know about her past; she was anonymous in the mountains. Television reception was practically non-existent, and there were no tabloid papers on sale at the kiosk in the village.

‘So, Zoë, when do I dance for you?’ Maria said, reclaiming Zoë’s attention.

‘How about Tuesday?’ Zoë said, turning back to thoughts of work with relief. ‘That gives us both time to prepare.’

‘Tuesday is good for me.’ Maria smiled broadly as she broke away. ‘On Tuesday you cook, and I dance.’

‘Are you sure you know what you’re taking on, Zoë?’

Rico’s words put a damper on their enthusiasm.

‘Why? Don’t you think I’m up to it?’

‘It’s what you’re up to that I’m more interested in.’

‘Then you’re going to have a very dull time of it,’ Zoë assured him. ‘I’m going to cook and Maria is going to dance. I don’t know what you’re imagining, but it really is as simple as that.’

‘In my experience, nothing is ever that simple.’

Zoë’s gaze strayed to his lips: firm, sensuous lips that never grew tired of mocking her.

‘Today is Saturday—no, Sunday already,’ Maria said with surprise, staring at her wristwatch. ‘It is well past midnight. I have kept you far too long, Zoë.’

‘That’s not important,’ Zoë assured Maria, turning to her with relief. ‘All that matters is that you’re happy—you’re the most important person now. I want to make sure you have everything you need on the night of your performance.’

‘Such as?’ Maria said.

‘Well—would you like to eat before or after you dance?’

‘Both. I need to build up my strength.’ She winked at Zoë. ‘Some people don’t need to build up strength, of course.’ She shot a glance at Rico. ‘But you had better feed him anyway. I’m sure he’d like that.’

‘I’m sure he would.’ Zoë’s gaze veered coolly in Rico’s direction. She might find him a few sour grapes.

‘Don’t take me for granted, Zoë,’ he said, ‘I might not even be there.’

‘Don’t worry, Rico. Where you’re concerned I won’t take anything for granted. I’ll expect you at the castle around nine?’ she confirmed warmly with Maria.

‘And I will dance for your cameras at midnight.’

Zoë felt a rush of pleasure not even Rico could spoil. She had accomplished her mission successfully, and there was a bonus—she had made a new friend in Maria. She just knew Maria would have what they called ‘screen magic’, and the programme in which she featured would be unique.

‘Rico, would you make sure that everyone in the village knows they are welcome to come and eat at Castillo Cazulas and celebrate Maria’s performance on Tuesday night?’ Zoë said, turning to him.

For a moment he was amazed she had included him in her arrangements. He had to admit he admired her guts—even if she did annoy the hell out of him. He should be there, just to keep an eye on her.

In fact, he could take a look around right now if he drove her back to the castle. Time to turn on the charm.

‘Don’t worry, no one loves a party more than we do in Cazulas—isn’t that right, Maria?’ He looked at Zoë. ‘You’ll be calling in extra help, I imagine?’

There was something in Rico’s eyes Zoë didn’t like. Something that unnerved her. ‘There’s no need. I’m not alone at the castle, Rico. I have my team with me—and don’t forget that cooking is what I do for a living.’

Turning away from him, she said her goodbyes to Maria, all the time conscious of Rico’s gaze boring into her back. He might as well have gripped her arms, yanked her round, and demanded she give him her life history. She could only think that having a woman set both the rules and the timetable was something entirely new to him.

‘How are you going to get home tonight, Zoë?’ Maria said.

‘I’ll drive her back.’

‘I’ll walk.’

Maria frowned, looking from Rico to Zoë and back again. ‘Of course you will drive Zoë home, Rico.’ She put her arm around Zoë’s shoulder. ‘It is too dangerous for you to walk, Zoë, and you will be quite safe with Rico—I promise you.’

There was something in Maria’s eyes that made Zoë want to believe her. But as she walked away Zoë could have kicked herself. Why hadn’t she just asked if she could take a lift with Maria?

‘Are you ready to go?’ Rico said.

‘I thought we’d already been through this.’ Digging in her pocket, Zoë pulled out her flashlight again.

‘Oh, that’s right. I had forgotten you were an intrepid explorer.’

‘I’ll only be retracing my steps—’

‘In the dark.’

‘Well, I’d better get going, then.’

She moved away, and for one crazy moment hoped he would come after her. When he did she changed her mind. ‘I’ll be fine, Rico. Really.’

‘What are you afraid of, Zoë? Is there something at the castle you don’t want me to see?’

‘Is that what you think?’ She ran her hand through her hair as she looked at him. ‘I can assure you I have nothing to hide. Come around and check up on me if you don’t believe me.’

‘How about now?’

‘I’d rather walk.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, Maria’s right. I can’t let you do that. It’s far too dangerous.’

Maria hadn’t left yet. Her friend’s truck was still parked in the clearing. She might just catch them. But Maria moved as fast as she had on the stage. Climbing into the cab, she slammed the door and waved, leaving Zoë standing there as the truck swung onto the dirt road leading down to the village and accelerated away.

‘Don’t look so worried.’

Don’t look so worried? I’m stuck at the top of a mountain in the middle of the night with a flashlight and the local brigand—who happens to have a chip on his shoulder labelled ‘media-types/female’—and I shouldn’t worry?

‘Like I said, I’ll drive you back.’

‘No way!’

‘You can cut the bravado, Zoë—there’s no moon, hardly any path, and this stupid little light won’t save you when you’re plunging down a precipice.’

‘Give that back to me now.’ Zoë made a swipe for her flashlight, but Rico was too quick for her.

‘It’s no trouble for me to drop you at the castle.’

‘Thank you, I’ll walk.’

She got as far as the rock-strewn trail leading down to the valley before he caught hold of her arm and swung her around.

‘You are not going down there on your own.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes, really.’

Their faces were too close. As their breath mingled Zoë closed her eyes. ‘Let go of me, Rico.’

‘So you can mess up a rock? So you can cause me a whole lot of trouble in the morning when I have to come looking for your mangled body? I don’t think so, lady.’

‘Your concern is overwhelming, but I really don’t need it! I know these mountains—’

‘Like the back of your hand? And you’ve been here how long?’

‘Nearly a month, as a matter of fact.’ That silenced him, Zoë noted with satisfaction.

As long as that? Rico ground his jaw. Another reason to curse the fact he had stayed away too long. He couldn’t let her go—he didn’t want to let her go—and he wanted to find out what she was hiding. ‘You don’t know these mountains at night. This path is dangerous. There’s a lot of loose stone, and plenty of sheer drops.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘The road isn’t half bad.’

Somehow he managed to grace his last words with a smile.

She stopped struggling and looked at him, her bright green eyes full of suspicion.

‘Come on, Zoë, you know you don’t really want to walk.’ Charm again? New ground for him, admittedly, but well worth it if she agreed. If he took her back he could take a look around. He knew her name from somewhere—and not just from the television. But how did she affect him? Was she a threat? ‘It’s only a short drive in the Jeep.’

‘OK,’ Zoë said at last.

She was relieved she didn’t have to walk back in the dark. But as Rico dug for his keys in the back pocket of his jeans she wondered if she was quite sane. If it hadn’t been for Maria’s reassurances she would never have agreed to anything so foolish. She didn’t know a thing about Rico Cortes, and the day her divorce came through she had promised herself no more tough guys, no more being pushed around, mentally or physically.

‘Don’t look so worried. You’ll be a lot safer going down the mountain in the Jeep with me. Are you coming or not?’ he said when she still hesitated. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’

‘That’s right—and I have things to get ready for Monday morning.’

‘What things?’ Maybe he was the local brigand, and Monday was his day for mustering the troops. And she had agreed to take a lift home with him…

Zoë frowned as he opened the passenger door for her. Rico Cortes was as much a mystery now as ever, and it wasn’t like her. She was an expert at winkling out information. It was the secret of her success—or had been in the past.

The moment he swung into the driver’s seat beside her she fired off another question. ‘What keeps you in this part of Spain?’ He was larger than life, which went with the dramatic scenery, but he didn’t fit into the small-town scene at all.

‘I have many interests.’

‘Such as?’

He didn’t answer as he gunned the engine into life. The noise was supposed to distract her, she guessed. He was dodging her questions like an expert—almost as if he was used to dealing with the media.

Local reporter, maybe?

No way! And better not to ask—better not to get involved. She had only just won her freedom from an unhappy marriage. Divorce had come at a high price, even if the break had been like a cleansing torrent that washed most of her insecurities away. And she didn’t want them back again. Ever. So why had she agreed to take a lift back to the castle with a man she didn’t know? The only answer was that Maria liked him, and she liked Maria.

Was that enough? It had to be, Zoë realised as they pulled away.

Maria had said he was a fighter. El Paladín. Was fighting his profession? Zoë felt a quiver of apprehension run down her spine as she flashed a glance at him.

No, it couldn’t be. Not unless he was the luckiest pugilist alive. He was built like a fighter but his face was unmarked, and his hands, as she had already noticed, were smooth. And in spite of his casual clothes, and his life up in this remote mountainous region, he had polish. But then quite a few boxers did too…

‘Seen enough, Zoë?’

‘I’m sorry, was I staring? I’m so tired I hardly know what I’m doing.’

Rico could feel the sexual tension between them rising fast. Any other time, any other woman, he might have swung off the road and fixed it for them both. But he had to know more about a woman before he got involved. He wasn’t about to commit some reckless indiscretion Zoë Chapman could broadcast to the world.

He had learned not to court disaster on his own doorstep. She was luscious, but she would keep, and she backed off every time he looked at her. If she had kept her legs crossed all this time she would wait a little longer.

What if she was innocent? It seemed unlikely, but— No. Life wasn’t like that. Fate never dealt him an easy hand.

Guilty, innocent—it hardly mattered which. He would still go slow until he’d worked out what made her tick… Go slow? So he was going somewhere with her?

Rico smiled. He could feel Zoë looking at him. Life got too easy at the top of the mountain. He hadn’t had anything approaching a real challenge to deal with in quite some time.

Normally Zoë was a confident passenger, but Rico Cortes scared the hell out of her driving back down the steep track. He really did know the mountains like the back of his hand. And the speed he took the road, it was just as well—because the only faster way would have been over a cliff.

She was relieved to arrive back in one piece at the castle, and even more relieved when she talked him out of staying. He’d wanted to look around, but he couldn’t argue when she pointed out how late it was and that they would wake everyone up. But he would be back on Tuesday for the party—he made that clear.

This mess had to be sorted out before then.

Zoë groaned as she looked round the set. She had discussed the layout with her chief designer. But, according to the note she’d found propped up on the kitchen table, Carla had been called home to attend a family emergency and her young assistant had stepped in.

Zoë couldn’t be angry with him; she could see he had tried. But he had fallen a long way short of achieving the authentic look she had decided on with Carla. How could she expect Maria to take part in a show that featured a fake Spanish kitchen decorated with imitation fruit? It might look real enough through a camera lens, but it would never pass close scrutiny, and it would only reinforce Rico’s misconceptions about her work.

Why should he barge into her thoughts? She had more important things to consider—like rescuing the programme from disaster! Men like Rico Cortes were no good—great to drool over, maybe, but worse than lousy in real life.

Planting her hands on her hips, Zoë looked round again, but things didn’t improve on closer inspection.

Posters brashly proclaiming the title of her latest bestselling cookery book were tacked up everywhere, while garish bunting was strung overhead. The exquisite marble-tiled floor had been hidden beneath a hideous orange carpet, and in the centre of the shag-pile the open-fronted area where she would be filmed sat in all its plywood and plastic glory. Hardly any attempt had been made to mask the fact that it was blatantly fake. There was lurid fake greenery draped around the top, with plastic fruit tacked in clumps to the backdrop.

It would all have to come down, but it could wait until the morning. She couldn’t concentrate while she was so tired. She couldn’t concentrate while her thoughts kept straying back to Rico Cortes. A good night’s sleep would help her get over him, and then she would get down to work.

As soon as it was light Zoë leapt out of bed. The crew were due on set at nine for a technical rehearsal. That was when the lights, camera angles and sound levels would be decided upon. The best she could hope for was that they would sleep in. She didn’t have much time to strip the set and redress it, but it was important she had an authentic set in place for the rehearsal so there would be little or no change when she recorded the programme. She didn’t like surprises when the red light went on.

Half an hour later she had picked fruit straight from the trees and brought in a basket full of greenery from the shady part of the castle gardens. Each time she’d visited the market in Cazulas Zoë hadn’t been able to resist buying another piece of the local hand-painted pottery, and she now laid out her hoard on a working table along with the fresh produce.

She stared up at the plastic bunting.

Balancing halfway up a ladder wasn’t easy, but, working quickly, she got the bunting down, then moved to the ‘fishing net’ on the back wall of the set to flip out some more tacks. Then she still had to tackle the plastic castanets pinned up with the plastic fruit on the same wall. Proper wooden castanets were miniature works of art. They came alive in the hands of an artist like Maria. These plastic efforts were about as Spanish as chop suey!

Sticking the screwdriver she had found in a kitchen drawer into the back pocket of her jeans, Zoë glanced at her wristwatch and made a swift calculation. If she could get the rest of them down without too much trouble, she might just finish in time.

‘Talk about a relief!’

‘Are you speaking to me?’

‘Rico!’ Zoë nearly fell off her ladder with shock. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her knuckles turned white as she gripped on tight. She watched transfixed as he swooped on the clutch of castanets she had just dropped to the floor.

‘Very nice,’ he said, examining them. ‘Which region of Spain do these represent?’

‘Bargain basement,’ Zoë tried lightly, trying to regulate her breathing at the same time. How could any man look so good so early in the morning after hardly any sleep? It just wasn’t human. ‘How did you get in?’ she said, as it suddenly struck her that she would never have gone to bed and left the front door wide open.

He ignored her question—and her attempted humour. ‘What is all this rubbish?’

Coming down the ladder as quickly as she could in safety, Zoë faced him. ‘The set for my television show.’ Her appreciative mood was evaporating rapidly. She had never seen such scorn on anyone’s face.

‘I gathered that.’ He stared around with disapproval.

OK, so it was a mess—but it was her mess, and she would sort it out. Zoë could feel her temper rising. According to the lease, at this moment Castillo Cazulas belonged to her. She could do with it what she liked. And if plastic castanets were her style, Señor Testosterone would just have to put up with it.

Reaching out, she took them from him. ‘Thank you.’ His hands felt warm and dry. They felt great. ‘Can I help you with anything?’ Her voice was cool, but she was trembling inside.

‘Yes, you can. You can get all this trash out of here.’

‘Trash?’

‘You heard me. I want it all removed.’

‘Oh, you do?’ Zoë said, meeting his stare. ‘And what business is it of yours, exactly?’

Ignoring her question, Rico paced the length of the set, shoulders hunched, looking like a cold-eyed panther stalking its prey. ‘You can’t seriously expect an artist of Maria’s calibre to perform in this theme park?’

‘No, of course I don’t—’

‘Then get all this down! Get rid of it! Do whatever you have to do to put it right—just don’t let me see it the next time I’m here.’

‘Next time? There doesn’t have to be a next time, Rico,’ Zoë assured him with a short, humourless laugh.

‘Oh, forgive me.’ He came closer. ‘I thought you invited me here for Tuesday.’

‘If you feel so bad about all this—’ Zoë opened her arms wide ‘—there’s an easy solution.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ll just withdraw my invitation, and then you won’t have to suffer another moment’s distress.’

‘That would be too easy for you.’

‘Easy?’ Zoë rested one hand on her head and stared at him incredulously. What the hell was easy about any of this? As far as she was concerned, nothing had been easy since she’d run up against Rico Cortes.

‘If you want Maria to dance, I’ll be here.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Zoë said sarcastically. ‘You own Maria. You make all her decisions for her—’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’

‘So what do you think is going to happen here, Rico? As far as I know we’ll be making a television programme. I’ll be cooking, Maria will dance, and everyone in the village will have a great time at the party. Is that so terrible?’

He made a contemptuous sound. ‘You make it sound so straightforward.’

‘Because it is!’ What was he getting at? Why didn’t he trust her?

They glared at each other without blinking, and then Rico broke away to stare around. His expression hardened. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to allow my friends to come to a place like this on Tuesday night.’

‘Oh, so now you own the whole village? I didn’t realise the feudal system was alive and well in Cazulas. I suppose it’s never occurred to you that my neighbours might be capable of thinking for themselves?’

‘Your neighbours don’t know what you plan to do here.’

‘What do I plan to do, exactly?’

‘You don’t respect them.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘You don’t respect their culture.’

‘How dare you say that?’

‘How dare I?’ Rico’s voice was contemptuous as he glared down at her.

He was close enough for her to touch—or attack—but she would never lower herself to that. She wasn’t about to lose control, like every man she had ever known, and let Rico add that to her long list of shortcomings.

‘You come here to Cazulas—Cazulas, of all the flamenco villages in Spain! And you try to tell me it’s just a coincidence? And then you bring Maria into it. Another coincidence? I don’t think so.’

She’d had enough. She wasn’t going to stand by and let him rant. ‘You’re right, Rico. Bringing Maria into my plans was no coincidence. The reason I asked her to appear on my programme is because she is easily the best dancer I have ever seen. She is certainly the best performer in Cazulas. That’s no coincidence; it’s a fact.’ Zoë couldn’t be sure if Rico had heard her or not. He was so tense, so angry—like a wound-up spring on the point of release.

‘You come here with your television cameras and your questions.’ He gazed around the half-finished set contemptuously. ‘You throw together some cheap items and pass it off as a Spanish setting. You really think that’s going to convince me that you’re putting together some worthy programme about cultural influences on Spanish cooking? You must think I’m stupid.’

‘You’re certainly mistaken.’ But she could see that he might think she was putting up the plastic rubbish, rather than taking it down.

He was so still, so keyed up, he reminded her of a big cat before it pounced. Zoë was beginning to ache with holding herself so stiffly. She sagged with relief when he pulled away from her with a jerk.

‘I’ll be back to check up on you later. If this rubbish isn’t removed by then you can forget Tuesday. Maria will not be dancing for you.’

‘Doesn’t Maria have a mind of her own?’

Rico was already striding towards the door. He stopped dead. He couldn’t believe that she would still dare to challenge him. ‘Yes, of course Maria has a mind of her own. She will take one look at this mess and refuse to dance.’

‘Oh, get out!’

As he wheeled around he saw the local produce—fresh fruit, greenery, even some attractive pieces of hand-painted pottery. His lips curled in a sneer of contempt. Someone had planned to do something classy for the programme, something appropriate to the area. What a shame Zoë Chapman didn’t have any taste.

She really was no better than the rest. Even if she didn’t work at the gutter end of television, he would not stand by and see her discard Maria the moment her usefulness was at an end. Maria was too soft-hearted for her own good. It was up to him to protect her from people like Zoë Chapman.

Zoë jumped as the door slammed. Contempt for the disastrous set was about where her dial was pointing, too. But that didn’t give Rico Cortes the right to come storming in, ordering her about.

Snatching a plastic parrot down from his perch, she tossed it into the bin bag with the rest of the rubbish. She hated being caught on the back foot, hated leaving Rico Cortes with the impression that this was all her doing. Most of all she hated the fact that he was coming back to check up on her later. Who the hell did he think he was?

But it would have been far worse still if he hadn’t planned to come back at all.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS all Rico could do to stay away from the castle. It was barely noon. He had planned to return around late afternoon, but every moment since leaving the castle had been torture.

He had never witnessed such desecration in his life. That was the only reason he was pressing his heel to the floor now. He ground his jaw with satisfaction as the Jeep surged forward. Zoë wouldn’t expect him until later, and a surprise visit always revealed more than a planned return. With any luck he would catch her unawares.

Maybe she wasn’t the type of tabloid journalist he loathed, but she was still as shallow as the rest, still ignorant of the precious heritage Maria carried forward in the village.

Before he’d left the castle that morning he’d found a member of the television crew, who had assured him they would still be in rehearsal at midday. The youth had also confessed that he was responsible for the set design.

What type of television company used boys fresh out of college for such responsible work? If she owned a decent television company, why didn’t she have a proper set designer? Plastic parrots! What the hell did she think she was filming? Treasure Island? And what kind of programme had sets dressed with garish rubbish? He could think of a few cable channels that might have gone down that route, and none of them was respectable.

He’d seen Zoë up a ladder dressed in figure-hugging jeans and a skimpy top, instead of her shapeless track suit—and he’d heard her harangue him. He knew now she could play angel or vamp with equal zest.

Glancing at his watch, Rico smiled grimly. He had timed it just right. The rehearsal should have started. He would check out what line of entertainment Zoë Chapman was really in. Anticipation surged through him. Even through the red mist of his rage this morning she’d looked sensational. Pin-thin women weren’t his style, and there was nothing pin-like about Ms Chapman. What would she wear to play her plastic castanets? She had curves that would have done credit to a Rubens.

Slowing the Jeep as he approached the ancient stonework, Rico picked up speed as he hit the long main drive. Accelerating down the avenue of cypress trees, he gave a final spin of the wheel and turned into the familiar cobbled courtyard.

Leaning back with his arms folded against a door at the far end of the Great Hall, he didn’t announce his presence, just stood watching in silence. No one noticed him in the shadows. All the focus was on Zoë, in front of the camera.

Even he had to admit the transformation to the set was marked. In place of the fairground bunting and fake castanets there was a plain wooden butcher’s block upon which she appeared to be chopping a mountain of herbs. She had a collection of wine bottles at her side, and from their shape he recognised a couple as coming from pretty decent cellars.

Rico began to feel increasingly uncomfortable as he watched Zoë working—and he never felt uncomfortable. But then, he had never misjudged anyone quite so badly before.

She couldn’t possibly have thrown all this together in a few minutes. It had to be how she always worked—she was too familiar with everything around her for it to be a sham. Brass pots gleamed brightly on the cooking range, and the implements suspended from an overhead rail were all steel, with not a single gimmick in sight. There were wooden bowls close to hand on the counter where she was working, as well as several white porcelain saucers—bearing a selection of spices, he supposed. Next to them a large, shallow blue and white ceramic bowl overflowed with fresh vegetables. Maybe there were a lot of other things he couldn’t trust about her, but this was real enough. He had to give her credit for that.

Zoë worked quickly and deftly, her small hands moving instinctively about the necessary tasks as she addressed herself cheerfully to camera. She had charisma as well as beauty, Rico thought, and he felt a sudden longing to harness her smiles and turn them in his own direction.

But how was he supposed to believe she had turned up in Cazulas by chance? If he could talk her into having dinner with him, maybe he could find out. But it wouldn’t be easy after their ill-tempered exchange that morning… Easing away from the door, he decided to go. He had seen all he needed to see.

In between takes, Zoë’s glance kept straying to the door. Half of her wanted to see Rico again, while the other half dreaded him walking in unannounced. But she needn’t have worried because her director, Philip, had just wrapped the day’s filming and there was still no sign of Rico. Empty threats, Zoë presumed. Rico’s Spanish pride had taken a hit when she’d stood up to him. Or maybe she was just beneath contempt. That was probably it. His face when he’d seen the apprentice set designer’s attempts to recreate a ‘typical’ Spanish setting had said it all. He’d thought she meant to trivialise everything he held dear.

And what was the point of trying to explain when he never listened? But he might have let her know if the others still planned to come on Tuesday night. If he had put them off… She would have to make sure he hadn’t talked Maria out of appearing on the programme or she would be facing disaster. Perhaps she should go back to the mountains and find out what was happening?

Zoë was still frowning when one of the girls in the crew asked if she would like to eat with them in the local café that evening. ‘I’d really love to come with you,’ she said honestly, ‘but there’s something else I have to do first.’

Was all this totally necessary for a trek into the mountains? Zoë asked herself wryly as she craned her neck to check her rear view in the elegant console mirror. Of course she could always take off the snug-fitting jeans and replace them with a dirndl skirt… No way! And what about the blouse: ever so slightly see-through, with just one too many buttons left undone? OK, so maybe that was going a step too far. She fastened it almost to the neck. Reaching for a lightweight cotton sweater from the chair, she checked her hair one last time and then added a slick of lipgloss and a spritz of perfume.

Her eyes were glittering like aquamarine in a face that seemed unusually pale, Zoë noticed—apart from two smudges of red, high on each cheekbone. That was thanks to excitement at finally bringing the programme together. It was the culmination of a year of hard work. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that she might be seeing Rico Cortes again.

She had come to him. Rico subdued the rush of triumph before it had time to register on his face. ‘Ms Chapman,’ he said coolly. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’

Leaning back against a gnarled tree trunk, arms folded, he watched Zoë’s approach through narrowed eyes. Her unaffected grace was so like that of the dancers she admired, and she looked great in casual clothes. She wore little make-up, and her skin was honey-gold from her time in the sun. She was beautiful—very different from the glamorous women he was used to outside Cazulas, but all the more beautiful for that. The light was slipping away fast, and the sky behind the snow-capped mountains was more dramatic than any he had seen for a while: a radiant banner of violet and tangerine—the perfect backdrop for their latest encounter. The night breeze was kicking up, rustling through the leaves above his head as she walked up to him.

‘You said you would come back to the castle.’

Her blunt statement took him by surprise—a pleasant one. ‘I did come back, but you were working.’

That rather took the wind out of her sails, Zoë thought, but her heart was still thumping so violently she felt sure Rico would be able to hear it. ‘I see.’ She was relieved to sound so cool. ‘I trust the changes I made met with your exacting standards?’

He gave a short laugh and relaxed. ‘You did a great job, Zoë. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Nothing stronger than orange juice!’

‘Fine by me.’

He gestured that she should follow him, and his impressive rear view led her to silently praise the inventor of close-fitting jeans.

It was too early for the campfire to be lit, but there were still quite a lot of people around. Most of them were waiting for the children to finish their dance class. This meeting place served a number of functions, Zoë realised. There was the social side, and the performance opportunities, as well as the very valuable teaching that went on to preserve tradition.

She could see the youngsters now, tense with excitement and anticipation as they clustered around their dance teacher, listening to what she had to say. In another area a couple of the boys were sitting at the feet of the guitarist who had played for Maria, watching engrossed as his agile fingers rippled across the strings.

Pouring them both some juice from a covered jug that had been left for the children on a trestle table, Rico handed a glass to Zoë and then took her to sit with him on a flat rock out of the way. Crossing one leg over the other, he rested his chin on his hand as he listened to the music.

The low, insistent rhythm of the solo guitar was the perfect soundtrack for Rico Cortes, Zoë thought, glancing at him surreptitiously as she sipped her drink. Dressed in simple black jeans and a black top, he made her heart judder, he looked so good. The close-fitting top defined every muscle and sinew across the wide spread of his shoulders, and the jeans moulded thighs powerful enough to control a wild stallion, or a woman…

‘You’re far too early to see any of the adult performers dance, you know,’ he said, his gaze lingering on Zoë’s face as the guitarist picked out a particularly plangent arpeggio.

‘I haven’t come to see them,’ she said, meeting his gaze steadily.

‘Oh?’ A crooked smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

‘Or you,’ she said immediately. ‘I hoped I might find Maria.’

‘Well, you will—but you can’t talk to her yet. So you might just as well settle back and enjoy the children rehearsing for our fiesta.’

‘Fiesta? That must be fun.’ Zoë turned to watch them. ‘Does everyone take part in the fiesta?’

‘Why don’t you come along and see for yourself?’

She wanted to. She really wanted to feel part of Cazulas. Since the moment she’d arrived in the village she had felt an affinity with the area, and with the people. Rico made it sound so easy for her to become part of their way of life, but she wouldn’t be staying that long.

‘When will everyone else arrive?’ Zoë looked around. There were a few cars parked already, notably Rico’s rugged black Jeep.

‘Most people take a long, lazy siesta in the afternoon, when the weather gets hot.’

‘So Maria’s still in bed?’ Zoë could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. Where was she going with this line of questioning?

‘Many people are still in bed—but Maria is not one of them.’ Standing up, he beckoned to Zoë to follow him, and, walking ahead of her, he made for the stage where the children were still learning their steps.

Once again, he reminded Zoë of a big black panther. He had the same grace and stealth of a big cat, and made her feel very small by comparison. It was impossible not to imagine how it might feel to be enclosed in his arms and held safe. Or to be pinned down by those long, hard-muscled legs, and— Stop it! Stop it now! This was dangerous.

‘Zoë?’

‘Maria!’ Zoë exclaimed, throwing her brain into gear. ‘I’m sorry, I was daydreaming. I didn’t realise it was you dancing with the children. It’s good to see you again.’

‘Why have you come here? Not to see the children, I think,’ Maria said, tapping the side of her nose.

‘No—no, of course not,’ Zoë said, recovering fast. ‘I came to see you.’

‘Ah,’ Maria said, staring at her keenly.

‘I wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind.’

‘Changed my mind? About dancing on Tuesday, you mean?’ Maria said. ‘Why would I?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Zoë said, suddenly embarrassed at the weakness of her supposed mission. She was conscious of Rico watching them, arms folded, with the same brooding look that made her quiver. ‘I just wanted to be sure no one had put you off the idea.’ She stopped, thinking frantically for something to explain her visit. ‘After all, you don’t know me—’

‘Stop worrying,’ Maria insisted. ‘I will be there for you on Tuesday, Zoë. Your television programme will be made, and everything will turn out for the best in the end.’

Would it? Zoë wondered. There were moments when she wished she had never come to Spain. A fresh start was supposed to be just that—not a rerun with a matching set of characters that just happened to have different names.

Was she overreacting? She really hoped so. Men like Rico had always been her downfall: big, powerful men like her ex-husband. Men who oozed testosterone through every pore; men who made her believe she could be desirable and might even find sexual fulfilment with them.

Unconsciously, Zoë made a small sound of despair. She was a sexual oddity—and likely to remain so. She was frightened of sex, it always hurt, and she wasn’t sure how to improve the situation. Her husband had grown tired of her excuses. She had made him hate her. Small wonder they had divorced.

But that was behind her now. She had rebuilt her life. She couldn’t allow anyone, especially Rico Cortes, to fan her past insecurities into flame…

‘Zoë?’ Maria asked softly. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ Collecting herself, Zoë spoke firmly and smiled. ‘Now,’ she added quickly, before Maria could probe any deeper, ‘I’d like to discuss my outline plan for the programme in which you’re to appear. I want to be quite sure you’re happy with everything.’

‘Bueno,’ Maria murmured softly, frowning a little as she allowed Zoë to lead her away from Rico.

The two women remained deep in conversation for some time. They were both on the same wavelength, Zoë realised. Maria was only too pleased to have the opportunity to bring genuine Spanish culture to a wider audience, and Zoë liked to present her food in context, rather than offering individual, unconnected recipes. This was her definition of lifestyle TV—a show that was genuine in every single respect—and now she had control over the content of her own programmes it was exactly what she delivered.

It was going to be really good, she realised with a sudden rush of excitement. Maria’s talent would imbue the show with her own special quality. Rico had correctly identified it as something that no amount of money could buy.

Glancing around, Zoë looked for him. But he must have left while she was talking to Maria.

‘Don’t look so sad,’ Maria insisted, chucking her under the chin. ‘I know what we will do,’ she added, getting to her feet.

Once again Zoë was struck by the difference in mobility between the Maria who had been sitting next to her and the Maria who performed on the stage—the one so fluid and graceful, the other showing definite, if gracious, signs of her age. ‘What will we do, Maria?’

‘We will dance together.’

‘Oh, no, I can’t—’

‘You can walk, you can run, and you can jump?’

‘Well, yes, of course—’

‘Then you can dance,’ Maria told her sternly. ‘But first we must find you some clothes. Those will not do,’ she said, eyeing Zoë’s slim-fitting jeans and top. ‘You look like a boy. I want to make you look like a woman.’

Zoë’s eyes widened. She was too polite to argue. And far too curious to see what Maria meant to refuse.

Now she knew the secret of the wooden mountain house around which people congregated. It was packed to the rafters with the most spectacular clothes: rows of shoes, boxes of hair ornaments, cascading fringed shawls, and dresses by the score in every colour under the rainbow.

‘You’re so lucky to take performing under the stars for granted.’ Zoë peered out of one of the small windows at the darkening sky. Someone had lit the campfire, and flames were just beginning to take hold. It was such a romantic scene, like something out of an old musical film. The children were still rehearsing—not because they had to now, but because they wanted to. Their heads were held high, faces rapt, their backs were arched and their hands expressive. ‘The children are a credit to you, Maria.’

Maria paused as she sorted through the dresses packed tight on the rail. ‘They are a credit to themselves and to each other,’ she corrected Zoë gently. ‘And if they can do it, so can you.’

‘Oh, no, really—I can’t—’ Her dancing was confined to her classes.

‘Who said you can’t? Here, try these on.’

Maria brought her an armful of clothes and Zoë’s face broke into a smile. Maria was like a gust of fresh spring air behind a heavy rain cloud. It was impossible to be hooked by the past when she was around.

‘The colour of this dress will look good on you.’

Zoë exclaimed with pleasure as she gazed at the beautiful lilac dress. Maria’s confidence was infectious.

‘You can put the dress on over there.’ Maria pointed across the room. ‘That’s where the children get changed—behind that screen. When you have it on, come out and choose some shoes to fit you from this row here. Don’t worry—I will help you to finish fastening the dress, and then I will do your hair.’

For once it was a pleasure to do as she was told. Zoë knew she would dance, because Maria would give her the confidence to do so. She was excited at the prospect of trying something new, especially now Rico had gone. She wouldn’t have wanted to make a show of herself if he’d still been around.

Maria was right; the low-cut lilac dress did look good against her titian hair. It moulded her figure like a glove down to her hips, where it flared out, and then was longer at one side than the other. She was showing quite a bit of leg, Zoë saw in the mirror, raising the skirt with a flourish. Just wearing the dress made her stand straight and proud, made her want to toss back her hair with the same defiant move she had seen Maria perform on stage.

Dipping her chin, Zoë tried out her expression, staring fiercely into the mirror through a fringe of long lashes. A poster on the wall behind her caught her attention. The dark-haired young woman was incredibly beautiful. Passion blazed from her eyes as she glared straight into the camera. She had the sinuous frame of a top model, though was more striking than any model Zoë had ever seen. Her full lips were slightly parted and a strand of her long ebony hair had caught across them, giving her flamenco pose a sense of movement. There was a single word stretched across the top of the fiery background: Beba.

‘Bueno!’ Maria said with approval when Zoë finally emerged from behind the screen. ‘That dress really suits you. I knew it would. Let me just finish the hooks and eyes at the back for you. They are hard for you to reach.’

‘I feel different. It’s ridiculous, but—’

‘It’s flamenco.’ Maria laughed happily and stood back to look at Zoë. ‘Now you feel proud and confident, like a woman should. Come, I will arrange your hair for you. And then we dance!’

Taka taka taka tak tak tak…taka taka taka tak… She was doing it! They had practised for about an hour on the dusty ground, and now Maria had deemed Zoë ready for the stage where, working together, the heels of their shoes made a crisp, satisfying sound on the hard wooden floor.

Breathing hard, her face fierce with concentration, Zoë thrust her head back as Maria had directed. One arm sweeping behind her back, she raised the other hand stiff, in a defiant pose, as if calling up some invisible energy…

‘Olé!’

‘Rico!’

‘Don’t stop now,’ Maria ordered sharply.

But Zoë suddenly felt exposed and foolish. ‘I’d much rather watch you,’ she said, moving to the back of the stage. ‘You haven’t danced a solo yet.’

‘I’m saving myself,’ Maria said sardonically. ‘Whereas you, Zoë, are hiding yourself.’

‘That’s not true…’

‘Isn’t it?’ Maria demanded as Rico approached the stage.

‘Why did you stop?’ He stared up at Zoë.

‘I’m very much a beginner—I’m not ready to perform in public.’ Her heart lurched at his assessing look.

‘But from what I have seen you have potential—don’t you agree, Maria?’

‘Mucho potential,’ Maria agreed, but she made a disapproving sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth when she looked at Rico, as if she sensed some double meaning behind his words.

‘So, will you dance for me, Zoë?’

Rico’s question had an alarming effect on Zoë’s senses. It was like every seduction technique imaginable condensed into a few short words. She would love nothing more than to dance for him, with this new and abandoned feeling rushing through her. Just the thought of being so uninhibited in his presence was tempting. She felt strong, and in control, and highly sexual—as if the dance had enabled her to plunge head first into a world of sensuality for the first time in her life. Sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, Zoë realised she loved the feeling. It was intoxicating—and extremely dangerous.

‘I’m waiting for your answer,’ Rico reminded her.

Zoë glanced around, but Maria had melted away, lost in the crowds already gathering for that night’s performance.

‘Come down from there.’

She looked at him and hesitated.

‘Please, Zoë?’

She was surprised. His voice had gentled.

‘I don’t bite, and—’

‘Are you apologising to me?’ Zoë said, cocking her head to one side as she looked at him.

‘Me?’ Rico half smiled at her as he touched one hand to his chest.

His eyes were different now, she noticed. Darker, still a little guarded, but warmer—definitely warmer. ‘Yes, you. Who else has doubted my motives in Cazulas, Rico?’

And he still doubted her motives. But he could handle it. He could handle her too. ‘So, you’re too timid to dance for me?’

‘I don’t do private exhibitions.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘Is it? Would you really think more of me if I made a habit of dancing for men? I don’t think so. You’ve already shown your contempt for me—I can just imagine what you would make of that.’

‘I admit we’ve got off to a bad start—’

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘So, here’s our chance to start again.’

‘Should I want to?’

She saw his mouth quirk at one corner, as if he wanted to smile.

‘I hoped you might.’

Zoë half turned away, lifting her chin as she considered his words. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said, turning back to him again with a frown. ‘Why should I? I don’t need the aggravation.’

‘Who said anything about aggravation, Zoë? Come on—come down from there and let’s talk.’

She couldn’t stand up on the stage all night. People were beginning to stare at her. She would have to do something soon—dance a solo or get off the stage. Picking up her skirt, she walked briskly down the steps.

‘Zoë, please.’

She looked down at Rico’s hand on her arm. ‘This had better be good.’

‘I hope you think so.’

She gasped when he drew her in front of him. ‘Rico, what—?’

‘I think I’ve behaved rather badly.’

‘Yes, you have.’ It was harder than she had thought to meet his gaze this close up.

‘I can understand why you don’t feel like trusting me now.’

‘Can you?’ She didn’t trust herself either when he was around.

‘Will you let me make amends? Have dinner with me.’

Zoë stared at him. Was he serious?

‘Zoë?’

She had to get herself out of this somehow. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

‘Which is?’

He seemed amused. But hopefully this would get her off the hook. It was the only challenge she could think of that Rico wouldn’t want to take up. ‘If you cook for me, I’ll dance for you.’

‘Bueno.’ He didn’t waste any time over his answer. ‘Shall we say later tonight?’

‘Tonight?’ All the breath seemed suddenly to have been sucked out of her lungs.

‘We eat late in Spain.’ Rico was quite matter-of-fact about it. Did he think her hesitation was due to ignorance of local customs? ‘Shall we say ten o’clock?’

‘Ten o’clock?’ Zoë repeated, staring up at him blankly.

‘Yes, let’s say ten. That will give you enough time to prepare.’

To prepare what? She bit her lip. Unaccountably, her brain stalled, and not a single word of refusal made it to her lips.

‘Then it’s agreed,’ Rico said with satisfaction. ‘We will meet again, later tonight, at Castillo Cazulas.’

CHAPTER FOUR

THIS was the last thing she had expected to be doing, Zoë thought, as she tested the small four-wheel drive she had just hired to its limits. Rico had said he would follow her back to the castle later, to cook the meal and watch her dancing. She could only hope he was joking. The idea of dancing for him already seemed ridiculous.

Glancing in the driver’s mirror, she saw the bundle of clothes Maria had insisted she take with her, assuring her that she would feel more comfortable dancing in them than jeans. More comfortable? Maybe—until Rico saw her wearing the flimsy low-necked blouse and ultra-feminine practice skirt!

She knew she was playing with fire, but where Rico Cortes was concerned it seemed she couldn’t resist courting danger. Fortunately the film crew would be out partying until late, so no one would even know what she planned to do—or what kind of fool she made of herself.

As she pulled into the courtyard she thought about cancelling. But she didn’t know how to get hold of Rico—and why should she pull out? She was more likely to dance than he was to cook. It was an opportunity to redress the balance between them…he would never doubt her will again.

The heavy iron knocker echoed ominously through the long stone passages as Zoë hurried to open the front door. Prompt at ten o’clock, Rico had said, and he was bang on time, she saw, glancing up at the tall grandfather clock on the turn of the stairs.

She was shivering all over with excitement and apprehension, and, reaching the hallway, she made herself slow down. She didn’t want to appear too keen.

But as she walked her hips swayed beneath the ankle-length skirt, and as the swathes of fabric brushed her naked legs she knew the clothes Maria had given her to wear made her move quite differently. Even the simple peasant blouse was enough to make her want to throw her head back and walk tall. No wonder the women of Spain looked so magnificent when they stepped onto a stage when all their clothes were designed to make the most of the female form.

‘Zoë.’

She could feel her face heating up as Rico stared at her. She tried for cool and unconcerned as she stood aside to let him pass. ‘Welcome. How nice to see you.’

Nice! Zoë felt as if a furnace had just roared into flame somewhere inside her. She felt weak, she felt strong, and her legs were trembling uncontrollably beneath her skirt. She registered the flash of a dark, imperious gaze, and then he was gone, walking past her towards the kitchen.

He seemed to know his way—but then he would. Who knew how long he had been hanging around the castle earlier that morning? And so far he seemed to be keeping his side of the bargain: he had a box of provisions, as well as a guitar case slung over his shoulder.

‘That was absolutely delicious,’ she said, some time later.

‘You seem surprised.’

She was, Zoë realised. Not only had Rico kept to his part of their bargain, he was an excellent cook. ‘I am.’

‘Because I can cook?’

Zoë smiled. It was hard to concentrate on anything apart from Rico’s face as he stared at her. It wiped her mind clean, made her long to know him better. Physically, he was everything she knew to avoid. But they were alone together, and she wondered if she had misjudged him. He was still proud, male and alpha, but he had a sense of humour too—something she hadn’t anticipated. ‘I’m not surprised you can cook. I’m just surprised that you can cook so well.’

‘Is there any reason why I should be incapable of feeding myself?’

‘Of course not. It’s just that most men—’

‘Most men?’

She loved the way one of his eyebrows tilted a fraction when he asked a question. She’d been thinking of her ex, sitting at the table waiting for his meal after they had both put in a long day at work. He’d only commented on her food when it hadn’t been to his liking. She had never received a compliment from him for her cooking.

‘Most men wouldn’t know their way around a warm barbecued vegetable salad with anchovies.’

‘Escalivada amb anxoves?’ Rico translated for her. ‘It’s a great dish, isn’t it? My mother is a fabulous cook, and she taught all her children how to prepare food. It is no big deal.’ He got to his feet to collect their plates.

‘Your mother?’ Instantly Zoë was curious. Either Rico ignored her interest, or he didn’t notice. But she noticed the fact that he was clearing up after them. He wouldn’t even allow her to help, just pushed her gently back down in her chair again.

‘Save your strength for the dancing.’

His eyes were glinting with humour again. Not mockery, humour—humour shared between them. Feeling her confidence returning, Zoë smiled back. ‘You know your way round a dishwasher too. I’m impressed.’

‘You must have known some very strange men in your time, Zoë.’

Zoë smiled faintly. You don’t want to know how strange.

Rico insisted on doing everything—even wiping down the surfaces and clearing the condiments from the table. Only when the kitchen had been returned to its former pristine condition did he turn to her.

‘Now it is time for you to dance, Zoë.’

His eyes, she noticed, were already dancing—with laughter and with challenge. But somehow it gave her courage. He gave her courage.

‘I’m ready. After that meal I’ve got a lot to live up to, so I’d better limber up before I begin. I would hate to disappoint you.’

‘I will tune my guitar while you prepare.’

How long would that take? she wondered. Not long enough for her to be ready to dance for him, that was for sure!

As fast as Zoë’s courage had returned, it vanished again. She wanted to impress Rico, and doubted she could. She wanted his gaze to linger on her, to bathe her in his admiration. She wanted him to want her as much as she wanted him.

She wanted to know more about his mother, Zoë corrected herself fiercely.

‘Why don’t we have pudding first, and talk a little longer?’

‘You can’t put it off all night. Are you having second thoughts, Zoë?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Then no more delaying tactics,’ Rico said, reaching for his guitar. ‘Sweet things come later, when we have earned them.’

How good his command of English was! His few words had set her on fire. She hadn’t given a moment’s thought to later, but clearly Rico had.

Subduing a rush of apprehension, Zoë led the way into the Great Hall. Rico sat on the stool she had placed there for him, and began adjusting the strings of his guitar.

‘You have a beautiful guitar.’ Under Rico’s hands it had come to life, producing sounds that were rich and lovely.

‘It’s a flamenco guitar, made of spruce and cypress.’

‘So it really does represent the music of the region?’

‘Absolutely,’ he murmured.

Zoë looked away first.

While Rico strummed some chords, testing them for clarity and tuning, Zoë centred herself, bending and stretching before the dance began.

Rico seemed to sense when she was ready to begin, and turned his head. With a brief nod, she walked to the centre of her improvised performance space in the centre of the vast square hall.

At first she was stiff and self-conscious, but Rico second-guessed her every move. She had never danced with such a sympathetic accompanist before—in fact she’d never danced with a real live accompanist before, and certainly not one who made her thrill even more than the music.

Rico made no allowances for the fact that she was new to flamenco, and in truth she didn’t want him to; after just a short time she didn’t need him to. Their partnership was as tight as Zoë could have wished, and after a few minutes all her tension disappeared.

There were some large ornate mirrors in this part of the hall, which was why she had chosen it. She could see Rico sitting cross-legged on his stool. He appeared lost in the music, but then he looked up and Zoë was lost in his eyes.

Instead of hesitating, Rico picked up the pace, his gaze boring into her as he drew rhythms hotter and more powerful than Zoë had ever thought possible from his guitar. His fingers moved at speed across the fretboard, producing an earthy sound that throbbed insistently through her. She could feel herself growing more abandoned with every step, until she was whirling in time to a rhythm of Rico’s choosing. Then, abruptly, he slowed the tempo so that it rose and fell in waves of sound that dropped at last to a low and insistent rumble.

The sound was so faint Zoë could barely hear it. She might not have known he was still playing had it not been for the fact that she could still feel the music in every fibre of her being.

‘That’s enough for tonight,’ he said suddenly, damping the strings with his hand.

She had been so absorbed in the dance, so lost in the sound he was creating, it took her a moment to come round and realise that Rico had stopped playing. She watched him prop his guitar against the wall, and was still in a sort of trance when he walked across the floor to her.

And then she came to with a bump, realising she was so aroused that her nipples were pressing tautly against the fine lawn top. Instinctively she lifted her hands to cover herself, but she could do nothing about the insistent pulse down low in her belly.

‘I think you enjoyed that, Ms Chapman…and you’re very good.’ He stopped a few feet away, and made no attempt to close the gap.

Zoë licked her lips. Rico knew she was aroused. She could feel his response to that arousal enveloping her. He might as well have undone the ties on her blouse and exposed her erect nipples. Or lifted her skirt high above her waist and seen her there… He could arouse her as easily as that—without even touching her. And now she didn’t want him to stop or turn away. This could be her one and only chance to push past arousal and see if she could handle the next stage…

‘I think it’s time for our dessert, Zoë.’

Zoë tried to hide her disappointment when Rico held out his hand to her. Her face was on fire at the thought she had made such a fool of herself. ‘Dessert? Yes, of course.’

‘Spanish-style.’

She saw the look in his eyes and felt a rush of heat flood through her as she realised that the last thing on Rico’s mind was a return visit to the kitchen. Oh.

Her gaze fixed on his hand. He was waiting for her to clasp it. Was this what she wanted? Could she go ahead with it? Wasn’t it better to stop now, before she proved to herself as well as Rico that as far as sex went she was one big disaster area? She didn’t want to spoil the evening—which was what would happen if she allowed things to go any further.

For some reason the young flamenco dancer on the poster in the mountain hut flew into Zoë’s mind. Beba was a proper woman, a sexual woman… But then Rico’s arms closed around her and it was too late.

Zoë shuddered with desire as his mouth brushed her lips. She felt so small, so dainty—and desired. This far was fine—it was as far as she could ever go: a kiss, a light caress… She closed her eyes as he applied a little more pressure, his firm lips moving over her mouth until she softened against him.

Could so much pleasure come from a simple kiss? But there was nothing uncomplicated where Rico was concerned.

He felt her tense, and stroked her back with long, light strokes until she eased into him again. He tugged lightly with his teeth on her bottom lip until the tremors rippling through her reached her womb. She whimpered, wanting more, and, teasing her lips apart, he deepened the kiss.

Zoë accepted the pace Rico set just as she had accepted the music he had played for her—music that had begun so gently, so calmly… It was like that now. He was so strong she could sense the powerhouse contained beneath his tracing fingers and wonderfully caressing hands. His touch was as light as the softest chord on the guitar, and as if she was his instrument now the vibrations through her body went on and on.

As their kisses grew more heated she was swept up in the need to rub against him, to feel the hard bristle on his face scoring her cheeks, rasping her neck. Their breathing was hectic and there were sounds welling from deep inside their throats as the pace quickened like the fiery rhythms of flamenco. Need was overwhelming them. They were as rough now, and as mindlessly passionate, as the final furious torrent of demanding chords.

Then a flash of reality intruded, brutal and strong. She didn’t know if she could stop him. He frightened her. She frightened herself. Things were getting out of control. What the hell was she doing?

Zoë tensed as the floodgates of the past gave way beneath the weight of ugly memories. ‘No, no! Stop it! I can’t—’ She tried desperately to push him away.

‘What do you mean, you can’t?’ Rico said sharply, holding her fast as he stared intently into her eyes.

‘I just can’t,’ Zoë said, snatching her face away from his as she struggled to break free.

But he wouldn’t let her go, and, cupping her chin, brought her back to face him again. ‘What can’t you do, Zoë? Answer me.’

She knew he sensed her fear.

‘Tell me, please.’

His voice was gentle, and when she looked up at him their faces were almost touching.

‘Tell me what’s wrong, Zoë. Is there someone else?’

‘I can’t tell you what’s wrong.’ Zoë pressed her lips together. That was true. How could she? Where were the words to explain how some giant switch had simply turned off inside her, so that all she felt now with him was fear and apprehension?

‘Has someone hurt you? Or do you already have a man? Did he do something to you? Did he hurt you?’

‘No!’ Zoë covered her ears with her hands, protecting herself against the barrage of questions, trying to shut out the ugly scenes replaying in her mind. She wasn’t ready for this. Would she ever be ready?

But none of it was Rico’s fault. Her gaze flew to his face, and she knew he saw the answer in her eyes.

‘Zoë…Zoë.’ He brought her close. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘We don’t know each other.’ Her voice was muffled against his chest.

‘I’d like to change that.’

She wanted to believe him. She wanted desperately to believe him, to think he might be different. But her past kept on insisting she was wrong. ‘Can we change the subject?’ She straightened her hair. ‘What about if I make the pudding?’

‘Zoë—’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Stop it, Zoë.’ Pulling back, Rico held her in front of him.

‘It won’t take me long.’ She couldn’t look at him.

‘Not tonight.’

There was a sharp note in his voice that drew her gaze, and she saw his face was serious and troubled.

‘All right, you make the pudding,’ she said.

She was determined to stick to the mundane, Rico realised. That way she could pretend it had never happened. He stared at her, wishing she would tell him everything, knowing that would never happen. ‘OK. I did promise to cook for you tonight.’

He could feel the relief radiating from her, but the easy atmosphere they’d shared earlier had gone; they both knew it. He had opened an old wound, and he shuddered to think what that wound might be.

Rico occupied Zoë’s mind throughout most of that night. She couldn’t sleep and she couldn’t think about anything apart from him. She had gone cold and he had gone—no surprises there. His bright golden fritters dressed with fresh lemon juice and vanilla sugar had been a surprise. They’d been truly unforgettable—as had his swift departure the moment he had bolted them down!

He hadn’t been able to get away fast enough. She couldn’t blame him. They had shared one lovely evening, thanks to Maria. And now, with The Kiss out of the way, at least he knew she wasn’t interested in that sort of thing.

She had laid her cards out in front of him. She couldn’t be like other women—women who took their right to enjoy physical love for granted. Women like the flamenco dancer on the poster. It was better Rico knew that.

Her ex had been right. She was frigid. And it wasn’t that she didn’t try—she felt sexy, and she hoped she looked at least a little bit appealing, but as soon as things turned hot she went cold. That was what had happened tonight. No one could change what she was—not even Rico. Thumping her pillows into submission, Zoë settled down to sleep.

Zoë’s hands flew to her face. The stinging slap had jolted her whole frame. She could never beg; that was her problem. She could never ask for forgiveness, for understanding, when she didn’t know what she had done wrong.

She backed away, stumbling in the darkness, feeling for the furniture to guide her. Finally there was nowhere else to go. She was pressed back against the cold, hard door. She could only stand now, and wait for her punishment. There was no escape. The door was locked. She knew that too, without trying the handle. She knew it just as surely as she knew what was coming next.

She looked at him then, but his face was shadowed and she couldn’t be sure who it was. She searched her mind desperately, trying to think of something that would make him change his mind, make him listen to her. But he was already taking off his belt.

This was always the worst part—the waiting. She could hear herself whimpering as she held up her hands to shield her face…

‘Oh!’ Zoë lurched up into a sitting position, reeling with shock. It took her a few minutes to get her bearings and realise she was safe in her bed at the castle.

Steadying her breathing, she looked around. Of course there was nothing unpleasant in the room. It was quite empty. The castle was completely still. She had heard several doors slamming when the film crew came back from their evening at the café, but it was the middle of the night now; everyone was sound asleep.

Glancing at her wristwatch on the bedside table, she saw that it was three o’clock in the morning. Slipping out of bed, she pulled back one side of the heavy curtains and gazed out to where the castle walls were tipped with silver in the moonlight. Where was Rico now? Where was he sleeping? Was he alone? He had never told her where he lived, and she had never asked. Did he live with anyone? Was he married?

A bolt of shame cut through her. She would never hurt anyone as she had been hurt—yet she knew none of the answers to these questions. She had let Rico kiss her without knowing anything about him, and then she had gone on to betray her innermost fears to him.

Zoë pulled away from the window. Unwelcome details of the nightmare were slithering back through the unguarded passages in her mind. She couldn’t shut them out. She had tried that before, but they always, always came back. Rico didn’t know anything about her, about her past. How would she bear the shame when he found out? His rejection tonight would be nothing compared to the scorn and contempt he would feel for her then.

In her mind’s eye Zoë could already see his face; it was cold and unforgiving. But even that was better than revisiting the dark side of her memories. She could only be grateful that by filling her mind with Rico Cortes she had finally found a way to blot the worst of them out.

Was this how it was always going to be—her ex-husband haunting her for ever?

Yes—if she allowed him to, Zoë realised.

Opening the window as far as she could, she leaned out, drinking in the healing beauty of the mountains.

The moonlight was like a blessing on her face. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply. There was a faint scent of blossom on the air.

CHAPTER FIVE

ZOË was up shortly after dawn on Monday. She was skilled at putting the dark shadows behind her, and, though she was tired after her disturbed night, her mind was full of the party the following day. She was determined to have everything ready in good time.

The local producers took a well-earned rest over the weekend, and Monday was the only day the market opened late. That played into her hands, giving her a chance to draw up a schedule and get organised before she went shopping for ingredients. She enjoyed supervising everything—even down to which flowers she would have on the tables.

Taking a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice with her onto the veranda, she perched on a seat overlooking the cypress grove to make her list. It was still cool, and she had taken the precaution of wearing a cosy sweater over her pyjamas. Her hair was still sleep-tangled round her shoulders and for a while she just sat idly, soaking up the view. The air was quite still, apart from the occasional flurry of early-morning breeze, and there were few sounds to disturb her tranquil state other than the birds chorusing their approval of another bright new day.

Closing her eyes, Zoë relished the touch of the sun on her freshly washed face. She breathed deeply and smiled as she inhaled the same scent she had enjoyed the previous night. The cicadas were just kicking off with a rumba. The perfume of the blossom was overlaid with the warm, spicy aroma of Spain. She couldn’t have been anywhere else. She didn’t want to be anywhere else. Feeling a sudden rush of joy, she stretched out her arms towards the sun—then another sound intruded.

Opening her eyes, she straightened up and looked around, and saw a horse and rider coming towards her at speed. Shading her eyes against the low, slanting rays of the sun, she could just make out the shape of a man crouched low over the neck of his horse. He was galloping flat out towards her, down the tree-lined grove, using the mile-long stretch like his own private racecourse.

‘Rico?’ Zoë murmured, getting to her feet. Her heart was pounding, and for a moment she panicked. Only an emergency could have brought him to the castle at such a pace.

But then he slowed abruptly, when he was still some yards from the entrance to the courtyard.

Almost as if he knew he was close to water, the horse pricked up his ears and pranced towards the trough located right beneath the veranda where Zoë was standing. The sound of his hooves on the cobbles made her smile. Did everyone dance to the rhythm of flamenco in Cazulas?

The black stallion and his rider were a magnificent sight. Rico was so much a part of his mount it was difficult to tell who made the decisions, and Zoë smiled again in admiration as she raised her hand in greeting. She could ride—but not like that.

Reining in beneath the veranda, Rico smiled up at her.

Zoë was surprised he looked pleased to see her. Had he forgotten what had happened between them the previous night? She had made a fool of herself. So why was he here? What had he come for?

‘Buenos días, señorita!’ Rico bowed low over the withers of his horse. ‘I trust I find you well this morning?’

His uncomplicated greeting bolstered Zoë’s determination not to slip back into her old ways. He wasn’t being scornful or cruel, he was just saying good morning.

‘Buenos días, señor.’ Planting her hands on the veranda rail, she smiled down at him.

‘You look tired,’ Rico observed as he sprang down to the ground. Swinging the reins over the horse’s head, he tethered him to a pole.

‘Do I?’ Zoë put a hand to her cheek. She had no intention of telling him why. ‘I haven’t had a chance to put my makeup on. That must be it.’ Then she remembered her shabby old pyjama bottoms, flapping in the breeze beneath her rumpled sweater.

‘You don’t need make-up.’ He took the steps two, three at a time. ‘But you do look tired.’ Pulling off his soft calfskin riding gloves, he slapped them together in the palm of one hand. ‘That juice looks good.’

‘It is. I’m sorry, would you like one?’

‘Thank you, that would be nice.’

The jug of juice was in the refrigerator in the kitchen. And he would need a glass. She would have the chance to slip out and change into a respectable outfit. ‘Please, sit down. I’ll go and get the juice for you.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No, that’s—’ Pointless arguing with him, Zoë thought wryly, leading the way inside.

Every tiny hair rose on the back of her neck at knowing Rico was behind her, and as he held the door for her she could picture his muscles flexing beneath the close-fitting riding breeches, the turn of his calf beneath the long leather riding boots. And that was before she considered the wide spread of his shoulders, the powerful forearms shaded with dark hair, the inky black waves caressing high-chiselled cheekbones, slightly flushed beneath his tan after the exertions of his ride.

She could picture everything about him—his mouth, his lips—she could feel the scrape of his bristle on her cheeks, and she could remember all too clearly that she had pushed him away when he had wanted to kiss her.

Because she was frigid.

It was no use, Zoë realised as they walked into the kitchen. She would never be able to relax with a man like Rico. She would never know what it felt like to be properly kissed by him. But that didn’t stop her wanting to.

‘The work for this meal isn’t proving too much for you?’ He looked around when she had given him a glass of fresh juice. ‘You seem to have made enough for an army already.’

‘I’m never happier then when I’m cooking.’ She stared at him as he went to wash out his empty glass at the sink. She was so used to clearing up after people she knew she would never get used to this.

When he had finished, Rico turned back to her. He slipped one thumb into his belt-loop, and before she knew what she was doing Zoë had followed the movement. Feeling her face flame red, she redirected her gaze into his eyes.

‘It all smells wonderful.’ Rico smiled.

‘Thank you.’ Zoë’s throat seemed to have closed up. The riding breeches moulded him precisely, revealingly—terrifyingly. ‘Why are you here?’ Her voice sounded faint, and she was glad there was a table between them.

‘It’s such a beautiful morning I thought you might like to ride out with me—if you’re not too busy…’

She could hardly pretend to be when she had been lazing on the veranda when he arrived. ‘I’ve thought about riding lots of times since I got here, but—’

‘But?’

‘Well, I can’t ride like you.’

‘There are plenty of quieter mounts than mine to choose from in the stables.’

‘I’d really like that.’ Zoë frowned. ‘But I’d have to change.’

‘Go right ahead. I’ll wait for you.’

‘All right, then.’

Closing the door behind her, Zoë leaned against it for a moment to catch her breath. What was she doing? She closed her eyes. She couldn’t let her old life get in the way. She had fought her way out; she wasn’t going to slip back now. There was nothing wrong in riding with Rico. She could do with the exercise. The rest of the day was for shopping and cooking, so an hour’s recreation would be perfect. In fact, it was just what she needed.

Zoë changed her clothes quickly, putting on jeans and a shirt. When she returned to the kitchen Rico was gazing around at the changes she had made.

‘I trust you approve?’ Zoë hoped she didn’t sound too defensive. He put the pottery dish he had been examining back on the shelf. The changes were small, but it made the place feel like home—and that was no easy task in a castle.

She spent so much time in the kitchen it had to feel right. It was where she prepared everything, painstakingly testing each dish any number of different ways long before the cameras rolled on set. So she had hung some new blinds at the windows to control the flow of light while she worked, and there was a row of fresh herbs lined up in terracotta pots along the window-sill. She loved the local pottery. It was precious in a world where everything was growing more and more alike.

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to do the filming in here?’

‘Yes, but my director felt there was more space in the hall, so I gave in to him on that point.’

‘Your director? He works for you?’

‘For my production company.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘No need to be. It’s not unknown in the television world for people to take the independent route.’

‘So whose fault was the set dressing?’

‘Mine,’ Zoë said quickly. ‘I own the company. The buck stops here.’

Rico’s lips pressed together as he stared at her, then curved as if he was amused. ‘Are you ready to go?’ He glanced towards the door.

As he held it open for her, and she walked past him, Zoë felt a tingle race down the length of her spine. The heady scent of saddle soap and leather laced with warm, clean man was overwhelmingly attractive, and her thoughts turned wilfully to what was beneath Rico’s breeches. She had never indulged in erotic thoughts before, always dreading where they might lead. But there was something about Rico Cortes that made it impossible to think about anything else.

Daydreaming was a dangerous game…

Once they were outside in the fresh air Zoë knew that at least for the next hour or so she was going to put every negative thought from the past out of her mind.

They stood on the veranda side by side for a few moments, enjoying the view. They were standing very close, close enough to brush against each other, but then Rico’s stallion scented his master’s presence and squealed with impatience.

‘I think he’s trying to tell us that he’s been kept waiting long enough,’ Zoë said.

‘We had better go down,’ Rico agreed, ‘before he pulls that post out of the ground.’

She followed him down the steps.

‘We should find you a horse.’ Rico tipped his chin towards the stables. ‘Before Rondeno breaks free.’

‘Rondeno?’

‘A native of Ronda. My stallion is named after the most famous of all the White Towns in Andalucia. Ronda is surrounded by rugged mountains that once sheltered bandits and brigands.’

‘How very romantic.’ And how perfectly suited to Rico, Zoë thought, looking up at him. He would have made a very good pirate, with his swarthy, dangerous looks. Had Rico’s career taken a similar path to her own, she could see him as a leading man, breaking hearts on the small screen as well as the large. There was always a hunger for new talent. ‘Have you ever thought of acting as a career?’

‘Never.’ He slanted her a look. ‘I prefer reality to fantasy every time.’

‘Flamenco, cooking, riding…’ She smiled. ‘Is there no end to your talent?’

‘You haven’t even begun to scratch the surface yet.’ He laughed. ‘Come on, let’s get you that horse.’

At a gentle canter, and with the warm wind lifting her hair, Zoë began to wonder if she had ever felt so carefree before. The countryside was bathed in a soft, golden light, and the sky was as clear a blue as she had ever seen.

In this part of Spain the ground was well fed by a fast-flowing river, but now it was approaching the hottest months of the year the water was little more than a sluggish trickle. The pastures in the shadow of the mountains, however, were still green, and provided the perfect ground for riding over.

‘We’ll stop over there by the bridge.’ Rico had brought his stallion alongside her horse, and was keeping pace at an easy canter. ‘There should just be enough water for the horses to drink.’

As she cantered ahead of him, Zoë couldn’t believe she hadn’t ridden one of the horses stabled at the castle before. She had assumed they were in livery for any number of local riders, and therefore not included in her lease. Not so, Rico had explained. They all belonged to the same person—someone he knew, presumably. He knew the horses, and had chosen a quiet gelding for her to ride, saying Punto was perfect for her.

And he was, Zoë thought, patting the horse’s dappled neck. Punto was just the type of horse she liked: he was kind, and willing, and wore an American-style high saddle, which was a lot more comfortable than the English saddle she was used to.

Rico’s stallion moved ahead as he scented water. Urging her own horse forward, Zoë caught him up by the slow-moving stream. She allowed the reins to fall loosely on Punto’s neck and gazed around. Apart from the gurgle of water and the sound of the two horses drinking there was utter silence. Lifting her face to the sun, Zoë closed her eyes, allowing the light to bathe her in its warmth.

‘It’s so beautiful here.’

‘I agree,’ she heard Rico murmur.

She longed for him to lean over in his saddle then, and kiss her as he had kissed her before. This time she wouldn’t pull back. No bad feelings could intrude here, on such a beautiful day.

But Rico didn’t kiss her. He didn’t even try to touch her. He just sat patiently, waiting for their horses to finish drinking.

Of course he wouldn’t kiss her. Men couldn’t stand women who pulled away at the last minute. It was every man’s idea of a turn-off. There were only so many knocks to his pride a real man could take. Wasn’t that what her ex-husband had told her? He was right, and this was the proof.

She collected up the reins. ‘I’d better get back to the castle. There’s still so much to do. I have to get to the market before all the best produce is sold.’ She turned Punto away from the water.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Rico insisted. ‘Why don’t I get someone to collect what you need?’

The breeze flipped Zoë’s hair from her face as she turned to him. ‘That’s very kind of you, Rico, but I prefer to choose everything myself.’

‘Force of habit?’

‘That’s right.’

They began to trot, and then the horses broke into a canter. ‘So, are you still coming tomorrow?’ She had to yell to make him hear.

‘Try and keep me away. Shall we race back to the castle?’

The challenge excited her. Urging Punto on, Zoë loved feeling the wind in her hair and hearing the sound of Rondeno’s hooves pounding after her. She knew Rico had to be holding back, and, snatching a glance over her shoulder, she laughed with exhilaration. Rondeno was far more powerful than her own mount, but she could almost believe Punto was enjoying this as much as she was.

The control Rico exercised over his mighty stallion was the biggest turn-on of all, and Zoë’s heart was thundering louder than the combined sound of both horses’ hooves. The friction of the saddle as she brushed back and forth was something new to her. She had never taken notice of it before, but now she was intensely and electrifyingly aroused. Leaning low over Punto’s neck, she begged the horse to speed up and carry her away from Rico—and away from temptation.

He had to dig his heels into Rondeno’s side to catch up with her. His laugh of pleasure and surprise was carried away on the wind because they were moving so fast. She was quite a woman. He liked her spirit. In fact he liked Zoë Chapman—a lot, Rico realised, easing up so they were galloping alongside each other.

Her lips were parted to drag in air, and there was a faint line of pink along the top of her cheekbones that had not been put there by the wind. Her lips were moist where she had licked them, and when she flashed him a glance he saw that her exquisite eyes had darkened to the point where only a faint rim of turquoise remained.

She was not leading him on even a little bit—she was sexually unawakened. The realisation sent arousal streaking through him like a bolt of lightning. So much sexuality packed into one woman with everything to learn about the art of love. Even if he’d cared nothing for her, he would still have had to find that a turn-on. But after Zoë’s fearful response to him sorting her out in the sex department was starting to feel more like a crusade. Her frustration was obvious—something had to give. And he wanted to be around when that happened.

As they approached the castle they both reined in, but Zoë kept the lead. She laughed, and smiled across at him in triumph.

The change in her was striking. Where was the cool professional businesswoman now? Where was the frightened girl who had pushed him away? Right now she radiated confidence. The grey cloud that sometimes hung over her had vanished; he hoped it stayed that way.

She wanted to feel this good for ever, Zoë thought as she sprang down from the saddle. ‘Thank you.’ She turned to Rico, smiling. ‘That was the best time I’ve had for—’

‘Ever?’ he suggested.

‘I should definitely try to ride more frequently. Perhaps I will, now I know I can take one of the horses from the stables here.’

‘The groom will always pick one out for you, or just tell him you prefer to ride Punto.’

‘I will.’ Zoë rested her cheek against Punto’s neck for a moment. ‘He’s the best—aren’t you, Punto?’

‘Don’t ride unaccompanied until you know the lie of the land better.’

Zoë’s pulse began to race as she gazed up at Rico. ‘I won’t.’ It was such an easy promise to make. With Rico riding next to her she would be in the saddle every spare moment that came her way.

‘The groom will ride with you if you ask him.’

Somehow she kept the smile fixed to her face. ‘That would be great.’

‘Adios, Zoë!’

‘Adios, Rico.’ He was too busy holding his black stallion in check to note her sudden lack of enthusiasm, Zoë saw thankfully. ‘I appreciate you taking me out.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ He wheeled Rondeno away.

I wouldn’t dream of mentioning it, Zoë thought, smiling to herself as Rico cantered away.

Turning, she viewed the elderly bow-legged groom with wry amusement. Riding was definitely crossed off her ‘must-do’ list for now.

CHAPTER SIX

TUESDAY was almost too busy for Zoë to give much thought to anything apart from cooking—cooking and Rico. Now she knew for sure he was coming, everything had gained an extra impetus. She wanted to make Maria feel she was part of something special, something that gave the exceptional flamenco dancer the recognition Zoë believed she deserved.

She was in the kitchen by nine, having been up at dawn to go to market to find the freshest ingredients for those dishes that could not be made in advance. On her return she had laid everything out on the counter to make one last check. But, however many times she looked at them, she couldn’t get past the feeling that there was still something missing.

She had decided upon a menu of clams à la marinara, in a sauce of garlic, paprika and fino sherry, with an alternative of zoque, the popular gazpacho soup made with red peppers and tomatoes. But for the main course she had called upon her secret weapon—a wise old man from the village who seemed to be everyone’s tio, or uncle. Zoë had been debating over the best recipe for paella, and the tio was the only person who could advise her properly, according to Maria, who had unexpectedly appeared at her side at the market.

Thanks to the introduction from Maria, the elderly expert uncle had approved Zoë’s choice of ingredients, after turning them over and sniffing for freshness. He had even demanded a heavy discount from the stallholders, reminding them, as Zoë would never have dreamed of doing, that they would be eating the food they had just sold to her when they came to the castle for the party that night.

‘Locals care more about the rice than the rest of the meal,’ the tio had said, patting his nose with one finger just as Zoë had seen Maria do. ‘It must be well washed if you want the grains to separate, and then the rice must be cooked in fish stock—never water—water is for soup. You must have caldo—sorry, broth—for your rice. And the yellow colour of paella comes as much from the noras—you would call them peppers—as it does from the strands of saffron you add to the broth. Did you enjoy your ride?’

Cooking methods and Rico in the same breath! Zoë knew her astonishment must have shown on her face.

‘It’s a very small village,’ the tio had explained with a smile, tapping his nose once again.

So it was, Zoë had thought, as she thanked him for his kindness.

Armed with quite a lot more local knowledge than she had bargained for, she had returned to the castle to prepare the main dish.

Balancing a cheap pan the size of a bicycle wheel on the counter, Zoë laid out pieces of chicken and squid, clams, scampi and rojas—large red prawns—with all the precision of a stained-glass window on top of a bed of rice, onion, garlic and peppers. Finally she added three types of beans and then some seasoning. Now the dish was almost ready for the oven.

She paused, inhaling the faint salty tang of the sea rising from the cool, fresh ingredients, her mind straying back to the earlier events of the day. How had the tio known she had been riding with Rico? Did everyone in the village know? Was it coincidence that Maria had found her at the market?

Suddenly Zoë wasn’t sure of anything. Had she imagined she could ride out with Rico, bathe in his glamour, and get away with it? Frowning, she turned back to her cooking. She had already made some rich fish stock laced with strands of deep red saffron, and she poured that over the raw ingredients. Standing back, she had to admit she was delighted with the finished product.

The tio’s last piece of advice had been to wrap the paella in newspaper once it was cooked. Then the finished dish should be left for ten minutes for the rice grains to separate. But wouldn’t the newsprint spoil the striking colours?

Newsprint. Banner headlines. Zoë actually flinched as she turned away.

The icy fingers of the past were with her again, clutching at her heart. Star Sells Sex. Three words that damned her for ever in her own mind, even though they were lies. As far as the world at large was concerned, the story had brought her to wider public notice, and, in the topsy-turvy way of celebrity, had actually boosted her career. Going along with public perception had actually helped her to get through things. Keeping a smile fixed to her face had become such a habit that gradually the reality that lay behind the headline had been consigned to the back of her mind like a sleeping monster.

The Zoë Chapman who didn’t appear on the television screen or at book signings was careful never to wake that monster—but she knew it would stir if she allowed herself to feel anything too deeply again. The shame, the failure, the brutality that lay behind it—all of that would rise up and slap her down into the gutter, where her ex-husband thought she belonged. So far she had frustrated his attempts to see her eat dirt, but it had been a long road back.

But she had made it back, Zoë reminded herself, and that was all that mattered. Every time the past intruded she pictured herself as a cork being held down in the water—she always broke free; she always bobbed up again. It was only men with brutally strong characters she had a problem with now. Men like Rico Cortes.

She had to get over this—get over him. She had to force her thoughts back on track. Perhaps she would wrap the paella in one of her huge, freshly laundered cloths when she removed it from the heat, and allow it to settle that way…

She could relax at last. The paella looked great on camera. It had been filmed at each stage of its preparation, and she had been sorry for the film crew, who had had to carry the loaded pan back and forth between the set in the Great Hall and the kitchen, where she was working.

Philip, her director, was demanding, but he was the best—which was why she had hired him. She trusted his judgement, and his decision to do things this way had kept everyone out from under her feet. Her own ‘to camera’ shots would be added later, when make-up and wardrobe had been let loose on her. It wasn’t easy to cook and appear as cool as a cucumber at the same time.

Now she had finished the paella, Zoë’s thoughts turned to pudding, which was her favourite part of any meal. She planned to serve a chocolate and almond ice cream, garnished with her own guirlache, which was crushed and toasted almonds coated with a sugar and lemon juice toffee. And there would be hot orange puffs dusted with sugar, as well as figuritas de marzapan, marzipan shaped into mice and rabbits for the children.

She concentrated hard, loving every moment of the preparation. Cooking was an oasis in her life that offered periods of calm as essential as they were soothing. She counted herself fortunate that her love of food had brought her success.

Resisting the temptation to sample one of everything she had made, Zoë finally stood back, sighing with contentment. It all looked absolutely delicious.

Someone else thought so too—before she knew what she was doing Zoë had automatically slapped Rico’s hand away as he reached for a marzipan rabbit.

‘Rico!’ She clutched her chest with surprise. ‘I thought it was one of the crew! I didn’t realise it was you…’ And then all she could think was that her chef’s jacket was stained and her face had to be tomato red from the heat in the kitchen. ‘I didn’t expect you until tonight.’

‘It is tonight.’ He gazed past her through the open window.

‘I must have got carried away. What time is it?’

‘Don’t worry. Not time to panic yet.’

Not time to panic? So why was her heart thundering off the chart? Zoë tried to wipe her face on her sleeve without Rico noticing. ‘What brings you here so early?’

‘I thought you might need some help. It looks like I was right.’

‘I’m doing fine.’

‘I brought drinks.’

‘Drinks… Drinks! That was what was missing!’ She turned to him. ‘I’ve made some lemonade to pour over crushed ice for the children, and for anyone who doesn’t drink…’

‘That’s fine, but you should have plenty of choice. It’s going to be a long night.’ Going to the kitchen door, he held it open and a line of men filed in. They were loaded down with crates of beer, boxes of wine and spirits, and soft drinks.

‘Cava, brandy, sherry, and the local liquor…’ Rico ticked them off, shooting an amused glance at Zoë as a man bearing a huge earthenware flagon marched in.

‘Oh, no—not that!’

‘You don’t have to drink it,’ he pointed out, smiling when he saw her expression.

‘You’re far too generous. Of course my company will pay for everything—’

‘We’ll worry about that later.’

‘The crew will drink everything in sight, given half a chance.’

‘Not tonight. Just worry about getting the white wine and cava chilled.’

‘What do you mean, not tonight? Once they’ve filmed Maria, and taken a couple of crowd shots, the crew will join in the party—’

‘Haven’t I told you not to worry?’ Rico slipped the lead man some banknotes to share around as tips.

‘You don’t know the crew like I do. I don’t want to spoil it for them, but, bluntly, with all this drink around—I just can’t face the mess in the morning.’

‘Let me assure you that your crew are going to be far too busy to get into any mischief. You have my word on it.’

‘Rico, what are you talking about?’

‘Your director has arranged for another feature to be filmed tonight. Hasn’t he told you yet?’

‘No…’ Zoë frowned. How could that happen when they always discussed everything in advance?

‘He is very enthusiastic.’

‘That’s why I hired him.’ She resigned herself. It had to be something good. She couldn’t imagine the man who was the mainstay of her team asking everyone to work late unless it was really worthwhile…

‘He’s got everyone’s agreement to work overtime,’ Rico added.

‘Can you read my mind?’

‘From time to time.’

Zoë looked at Rico, looked at his lips, then dragged her gaze away. ‘It must be an excellent feature.’

‘Last minute.’

‘Yes, I guessed that.’ She couldn’t be angry with Philip, though she was curious. She welcomed suggestions from anyone in the team. The strength of her company was that they worked together, with no one person riding roughshod over another. She knew from bitter experience that those tactics never worked. ‘Do you know what it is?’

‘A typical sport of this region.’

‘A sport?’ Zoë looked doubtful.

‘Something colourful and authentic for your programme.’

‘Don’t tease me, Rico. Tell me what it is.’

‘I’m going to get some extra glasses out of the Jeep.’ Before Zoë could question him further he added, ‘And by the way, señorita, your figuritas are delicious.’

So what was this surprise feature? Zoë flashed a glance at the door. Rico should have told her. He made her mad, and he made her melt too—a dangerous combination, and not something she should be looking for in a man. She wasn’t looking for a man, Zoë reminded herself firmly.

‘Tell me about this sport,’ she insisted, the moment Rico came back.

Putting the case of glasses down on the counter, he turned to look at her. Zoë tried not to notice the figure-hugging black trousers and close-fitting black shirt moulding his impressive torso, or the fact that there was something wild and untamed about him. It lay just beneath the sleek packaging, telling her he would never settle down. Men like Rico Cortes never did.

‘Wrestling.’

‘Wrestling!’ And then it all fell into place: El Paladín!

She shuddered inwardly. ‘Will you be taking part?’

‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve arranged for people to come and wash these glasses for you, and to serve tonight, so that after you finish filming you can have fun too. My people will clear up after the crew. You don’t have a thing to worry about. You should kick back a little, enjoy yourself for a change.’

‘Thank you,’ Zoë murmured, her good manners functioning on automatic pilot. Her brain was working on two levels: the first accepted the fact that she needed help on the practical side because she had promised the crew they could join the party after work; the second level was dragging her down to a place she didn’t want to go. Anything that smacked of violence, even a sport, made her feel queasy.

‘Wrestling is hugely popular in this part of Spain. When your director asked me about it, I knew I could help him.’

‘El Paladín?’ Zoë’s voice came out like a whisper, and she tried very hard not to sound accusing. It would make a good feature. If the programme was to reflect the area properly, it was just the type of thing she would normally want to include. ‘I’m always looking for authentic items to bring the programmes to life…’

‘It doesn’t get more authentic than this.’ Rico smiled at her on his way out of the door. ‘See you later, Zoë.’

Zoë watched with mixed feelings as the raised square wrestling ring was erected in the middle of the courtyard. A beautiful day had mellowed into a balmy evening, and there was scarcely the suggestion of a breeze. Wrapping her arms around her waist she knew she had to pull herself together and stop fretting. Half-naked men would definitely be a bonus for her viewers. She could do this. She had to do this. How hard could it be?

The ring was almost finished, and people were starting to arrive. Soon it would be showtime. Surely it couldn’t be that bad? She wouldn’t have to watch it all—though she would have to be in shot for at least some of the time.

Firming her jaw, Zoë took a final look through the ropes at the empty ring. She still had to take a shower and prepare for the programme. Turning back to the castle, she hurried inside.

By the time she returned to the courtyard it was packed. Men had come from all over the region to test their strength. She guessed it was something of a marriage market too, judging by the flirtatious glances several groups of girls were giving their favourites.

The thought of Rico stripping off and stepping half naked into the ring was enough to make anyone shiver. Zoë tried hard not to react when she spotted him at the opposite side of the courtyard, surrounded by a group of supporters. At first she thought he was just greeting friends and she relaxed, but then he stepped away from the others and she saw he was naked from the waist up. Maria and the wise old tio from the village were standing with him; it seemed every soul in Cazulas had come to support him. They were a good-natured group, and cheered him on as he strode to the ringside.

Zoë turned away, but then she guessed Rico must have vaulted over the top rope, because the applause around her was suddenly deafening. She looked up. She couldn’t help herself. She had to see him for herself.

He was everything she found attractive in a man—and everything that terrified her too. It was impossible to believe that any of the other men had a physique to equal Rico’s, or could match the fierce, determined look in his eyes. He was, after all, the champion. Rico Cortes was El Paladín.

Zoë fought down the panic struggling to take control of her mind. He was about to become a guest on her programme—no one said she had to sleep with him. She shivered, feeling fear and excitement in equal measure as she watched him flex his muscles in the ring. The woman standing next to her shouted something in Spanish, and then grabbed hold of her arm in her enthusiasm.

All the women wanted Rico, Zoë saw when she glanced around. For one crazy moment she felt like climbing into the ring and laying claim to him herself. And then the television lights flared on and she was working.

Smiling for the viewers, Zoë looked properly for the first time at the ring. She had to observe everything carefully so she could provide an appropriate voiceover for the film.

Clinging to her responsibilities certainly helped her through. But how to describe how she really felt at the sight of Rico’s smooth, bronzed torso without turning her cookery programme into something for late-night viewing?

His belly was hard and flat, and banded across with muscle, whilst the spread of his shoulders seemed immense from where she was standing. And she couldn’t stop her gaze tracking down to where his sinfully revealing wrestling shorts proved that it wasn’t just the spread of his shoulders that was huge.

She wanted to look anywhere but at the ring—but how could she when she knew the camera would constantly switch between her and El Paladín? She had to stare up at Rico Cortes, and she had to applaud enthusiastically along with the rest of the crowd.

As the evening wore on the temperature began to rise. Rico was red-hot.

She would see it through because she had to. It was only a sport, after all, Zoë told herself. But by the time the bell rang and the first bout was over she was shaking convulsively from head to foot.

Making her excuses over the microphone to Philip, she eased her way through the crowd and went back into the castle, where she hurried up the stairs to her bedroom. Sinking onto the chair in front of the dressing-table, she buried her face in her hands.

How could she go back? Lifting her head, Zoë stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was pallid beneath her tan, and her hands were still shaking. She tried to apply some fresh lipgloss, and gave up. She couldn’t risk a smudge of red across her face. And why was she trying to make herself look appealing? Did she want to attract trouble? Was she asking for it again, as she had done in the past?

When the shuddering grew worse, Zoë sat with her head bowed until she’d managed to bring herself back under control. She had to go back outside again eventually. She couldn’t let everyone down—not Maria, not the tio who had helped her so generously, nor the film crew. And, most of all, she couldn’t let herself down. She had fought hard to get her life back. She had to get over this.

There was a soft knock on the door. Marnie, the girl in charge of Wardrobe, had brought her a fresh top to change into. It was identical to the one she was wearing—low-cut and sexy—and the brash cerise looked good with her jeans. It was meant to stand out on camera when she was in a crowd. It certainly did that, Zoë thought as she viewed herself critically in the mirror. The colour was identical to the skintight flamenco dress the girl named Beba wore on the poster at the mountain hut.

‘I’m going to change.’ She started tugging off the top.

‘You can’t, Zoë. What about continuity?’

‘I don’t care. I’m going to put on a shirt. If we have to reshoot, so be it.’ Zoë saw Marnie’s expression, but nothing was going to change her mind.

‘Do you need me for anything else?’

‘Marnie, I’m really sorry. This isn’t your fault. Just tell Philip I insisted.’

‘Well, it’s your programme,’ Marnie pointed out.

‘Before you go, could you redo my lips?’

‘Sure.’ Marnie smiled at her.

Marnie applied the lipgloss expertly, with a steady hand. Zoë knew it was more than she could have done. She checked in the mirror. ‘That’s great. Thank you. I’m sorry to have dragged you up here just for that.’

‘As long as I’m back in time to see Rico Cortes in action—’ Marnie winked at her ‘—I’ll forgive you.’

Zoë felt a chill strike through her composure, but forced a laugh as Marnie left the room.

She looked fine for the camera. The ice-blue of the shirt looked good against her tan, and complemented her red-blonde hair. She looked far more businesslike. She didn’t look sexy at all. It was much, much better.

The shots on set inside the castle went smoothly—too smoothly, Zoë thought, cursing her professionalism. They didn’t need a single retake.

‘The change of clothes is fine for in here,’ Philip advised her. ‘But of course you’ll change back into that cerise top again for ringside?’

‘No, Philip.’ Zoë shook her head. ‘I’m keeping this shirt on. We’ll just say the second half of the competition took place on another day—I don’t care, I’m not changing.’ She could tell by his face that Philip was taken aback. It wasn’t like her to be difficult or unprofessional.

The competition was in its final stages by the time Zoë returned to the courtyard. The noise, if anything, had grown louder. Philip had to cut a path for her through the crowd. Then she realised that he meant her to stand right up at the front, as close to ringside as possible.

‘Is this my punishment for changing clothes without warning you?’ Zoë had to grab Philip’s arm and yell in his ear above the roar of the crowd. She even managed a wry smile. But the moment he left her to return to his cameras Zoë’s throat dried.

Philip’s voice came through on Zoë’s earpiece, testing the sound levels.

‘You OK, Zoë? You sound as if you’re getting a cold.’

‘No, I’m fine—absolutely fine.’

‘Then it must be the excitement at seeing all those muscles up close. You can’t kid me,’ he insisted, ‘I know you love it—just like all the other women.’

That was the point. She wasn’t like all the other women. She wasn’t normal.

It was surprising how well you could know people, and yet know nothing about their private lives, Zoë thought, remembering that Philip had once worked for her ex-husband. He had been surprised when she had called time on their marriage, having thought them the perfect couple.

‘Do you want me in shot for the presentation of the prizes?’ she said into her microphone, clinging to her professionalism like a life raft.

‘I’ll want a reaction shot. You should have chosen something more glamorous to wear than that shirt. You look so plain!’

Perfect, Zoë thought.

‘Never mind. It’s too late to do anything about it now. I’ll stick to head shots.’

She felt guilty because Philip sounded so grumpy, but it couldn’t be helped. She was more concerned about getting through the next few minutes.

Women on either side of her were clutching each other in excitement as they stared into the ring. One of them turned to her, gesturing excitedly, and Zoë looked up. Rico was standing centre stage.

The television lights drained everything of colour, but Rico’s torso still gleamed like polished bronze. The ghosts were hovering at Zoë’s shoulder as she stared at him. But he was laughing good-naturedly with one of his defeated opponents, and then, leaning over the ropes, he reached out to help the elderly tio of Cazulas into the ring.

Zoë frowned. She hadn’t expected that. Drawing on other times, other trials of strength, she had expected a grim face, a hard mouth and cruel eyes. But those trials of strength had been no contest. How could there be a physical contest between a woman and a powerful bully of a man?

Watching her elderly friend take Rico’s hand and raise it high in a victory salute, Zoë tried to piece together what the tio was saying with her very basic knowledge of Spanish. Finally she gave up, and asked the woman standing next to her if she could translate.

‘Our tio is announcing the prize,’ the woman explained, barely able to waste a second of her awestruck gaze on Zoë.

A heavy leather purse changed hands between Rico and the tio. ‘What’s that?’ Zoë shouted as cheers rose all around them.

‘A purse of gold,’ the woman shouted back to her.

But now Rico was passing it back to the tio. ‘What is he doing?’ Zoë said, looking at her neighbour again.

‘It is the same every year,’ the woman explained, shouting above the uproar. ‘El Señor Cortes always returns the purse of gold to the village.’

‘And what are they saying now?’ Zoë persisted, but the excitement had reached such a fever pitch she couldn’t hear the woman’s reply. After several failed attempts her neighbour just shrugged, and smiled to show her it was hopeless.

Rico was staring at her, Zoë saw, going hot and cold. What did he want?

Holding her gaze, he walked quickly across the floor of the ring, leaned over the ropes, and held out his hand to her.

Zoë glanced around. No one could tell her what was happening because everyone was cheering and shouting at the top of their voices.

Rico held up his hands and silence fell. Everyone was staring at her now, Zoë realised. She couldn’t understand it, but then Rico leaned over the ropes again and her face broke into a smile. She reached out to shake his hand, to congratulate him on his win. The next thing she knew she was standing beside him, with the spotlights glaring down on them both, and the tio was beaming at her while the crowd cheered wildly.

Rico’s mouth tugged in a grin and he held up his hands again to call for silence. After he had spoken a few words in Spanish the cheering started up again. ‘I choose you,’ he said, staring down at Zoë.

‘Me?’ Zoë touched her chest in amazement. ‘What for?’ Her heart was racing out of control. She couldn’t think what he meant. She couldn’t think—

‘You will find out.’ Humour warmed his voice.

Zoë laughed anxiously as she stared up at him. She could still feel the touch of his hands around her waist— Her thoughts stalled right there. She might have weighed no more than a dried leaf in his arms. Shading her eyes, she tried to read his expression, but he drew her hand down again and enclosed it in his own.

Taking her into the centre of the ring, he presented her ceremoniously to the tio, and Zoë forced herself to relax. What could happen with the tio standing there? She found a smile. These pictures would be flashed around the world. The last thing she wanted was to cause offence to an elder of Cazulas—a man who was her friend.

The tio seemed delighted that Rico had ‘chosen’ her, and embraced her warmly.

‘What’s all this about, Rico?’ Zoë asked the moment the tio released her and turned away to address the crowd. Someone handed Rico a black silk robe and she waited while he put it on.

‘You’re part of my prize,’ he said, when he had belted it.

‘I’m what?’

Before Rico could answer, the tio turned around. Television cameras were angled to capture every nuance in Zoë’s expression, and she cared for the tio’s feelings, so she forced a smile.

‘Do you understand our tradition?’ he said to her warmly.

‘I’m not sure.’ She didn’t want to look to Rico for answers.

‘Allow me to explain.’ The tio made a gesture to the crowd, begging their indulgence. Then, taking Zoë’s hand, he led her out of the spotlight.

‘It is our tradition. Having won the competition, Rico may choose any woman he wants. He chooses you.’

Incredible! Antiquated! Totally unacceptable! But the tio was looking at her so warmly, so openly, and he made it sound so very simple.

‘Don’t I have any say in the matter?’ Zoë was careful to keep her voice light.

‘Don’t worry—the custom is not open to the same interpretation it might have been fifty years ago, when I was a young man.’

Zoë managed a laugh. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ She smiled at him, and then glanced at Rico. The expression in his eyes suggested he would have preferred sticking to the old ways. Waves of panic and bewilderment started threatening to engulf her.

‘It is a great honour to be chosen,’ the tio coaxed. ‘Look how disappointed you’ve made the other women.’

Zoë gazed around to please him, but whichever way she turned she saw Rico.

‘All you have to do,’ the tio explained persuasively, ‘is to spend one night with him.’

‘What?’

‘I mean one evening with him,’ he corrected hastily. ‘My English is…’ He waved his hands in the air with frustration, making Zoë feel worse than ever.

‘I’ll do it for you—of course I’ll do it. Please don’t worry.’ This wasn’t about her own feelings any more, or just work. It was about showing loyalty to an old man who was only trying to uphold the traditions of his youth. ‘I won’t let you down.’

Zoë allowed the tio to lead her back into the centre of the ring. She wouldn’t let him down, but she was damned if she was going to play some antiquated mating game with Rico Cortes. She smiled tensely while the official announcement was made.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll take a shower before I come back for you,’ Rico murmured, the moment the applause around them subsided.

‘Let’s get one thing straight, Rico,’ Zoë said, turning to face him. ‘I’m grateful you took me riding, and helped me out here with staff for tonight. But I don’t like surprises—especially not surprises that affect my work. The television lights are off now, the tio has gone to join his friends, and as far as I’m concerned the show’s over.’

‘And?’ His eyes had gone cold.

‘And I have no intention of becoming another of your trophies!’

‘Bravo, Ms Chapman,’ he murmured sardonically.

‘Why don’t you go and take that shower now? There are plenty of bathrooms in the castle.’

Rico’s expression hardened as he looked down at her—and who could blame him? Zoë hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but there was an engine blazing away inside her, and a voice in her head that said, Drive him away.

What had happened tonight—all the fighting, the sounds, the tension, Rico overpowering everyone… It was just too close to her nightmares. She tried telling herself that all his strength was directed into sport. She had seen him ride; now she had seen him fight. But another side of her said: This is Rico Cortes, El Paladín, the man who conquers everyone with his strength… Her mind was fogged with fear. Unreasonable fear, maybe, but she couldn’t shake it off.

The only thing she could latch on to in a world that was slipping away beneath her feet was the thought that she must not let the tio down. She would keep her promise to him, spend the rest of the evening with Rico. But first she had to go and seek some space, some cool, quiet place where she could get her head together.

She should fix somewhere to meet up with Rico before she did that. ‘When you come back, Rico, I’ll be—’

‘I’ll find you,’ he said coldly, swinging a towel around his neck.

He vaulted over the top rope, dropped to the ground, and strode away from her without a backward glance.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE meal was everything Zoë hoped it would be. The tio stood up and told everyone that the paella was the best he had ever tasted.

Rico was sitting next to her at the top table. He turned when she sat down after accepting the enthusiastic applause. ‘Congratulations, Zoë. This has been a huge success for you.’

He was polite, but then, since he’d decided to trust her he was always polite. She wanted more. ‘It’s all thanks to the tio of Cazulas—’ But Rico had already turned away to continue his conversation with the young Spanish beauty seated on his other side.

Zoë’s smile faded. Rico had been cool ever since they’d sat down. It was understandable after her behaviour in the ring. But she couldn’t tell him why she’d felt so bad after the wrestling. The tio of Cazulas had embroiled her in some ancient fertility rite that had fallen flat on its face.

She had kept her part of the bargain, staying with Rico throughout the evening, though he preferred the company of the vivacious young woman sitting next to him. His back had been half turned to her for most of the time.

Zoë noticed people were still smiling at her and raising their glasses. She smiled back, raising her own glass, but it was a hollow victory. She was thrilled everyone had enjoyed themselves, but the one person whose enthusiasm really mattered to her was otherwise occupied. She had thought of changing tables, but it would only cause comment—and Maria would be dancing soon.

There were about twenty people seated around each of the long tables set at the edges of the courtyard. The tables were laden with food, as well as countless bottles of beer, still water, and jugs of wine. She had used red and white gingham tablecloths to add a splash of colour, and placed lofty arrangements of brilliantly coloured exotic flowers on every one. Strings of lights swung gently in the night breeze overhead, twinkling like tiny stars, and waves of conversation and laughter were flowing all around her.

Resting her chin on her hand, she saw Maria’s guitarist place his stool in a corner of the performance area. Sitting down, he began to strum some popular tunes. It was all perfect. She had asked to sit at the end of the table so that she could get up easily to supervise the food when necessary. Her plan had worked well—brilliantly, in fact. Though she might as well have stayed in the kitchen. Why hadn’t Rico chosen the ebony-haired beauty as his trophy in the first place?

Zoë was distracted from her thoughts by Maria’s entrance, and sat up. Straight away it was incredible. The air was charged with energy the moment she appeared. Framed in the doorway of the castle, Maria stood with one hand pointing towards the stars, calling up whatever mysterious energy fuelled her performance. Even Rico had turned to watch, forgetting, at least for a moment, the young beauty at his side.

The guitarist picked out an arpeggio, filling each note with incredible weight and passion. Maria stood unmoving until the last vibration from the strings of the guitar had faded away, and then she stepped proudly into the full glare of the television lights. Hovering like an eagle for an instant, she suddenly moved forward with all the grace of a much younger woman, crossing the courtyard with swift, precise steps.

She came into the centre of the performance area, raised her chin, and stared at some far distant point only she could see. The expression on her face was one of defiance, great pride, and anger, but there was pain and compassion too. Sweeping her crimson skirt off the floor in one hand, she made a powerful gesture with the other, and at the same time struck the floor one sharp blow with her foot.

Philip was by Zoë’s side minutes after Maria had finished her performance. ‘This programme will go down in history. That woman is superb—they’re saying she’s even better than Beba—though she’s old enough to be Beba’s mother.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Zoë frowned, tuning out for a moment. She had never heard of this Beba before in her life, and now she was haunted by the woman.

Philip dashed away before she could ask him anything, and then Maria had another surprise for them. She came back into the centre of the courtyard and invited everyone to join her in a dance.

Strictly speaking, this was country dancing, the tio said when he came over to explain what was happening to Zoë. All Zoë knew was that Rico’s seat, as well as the one next to him, was empty, and what he and his young partner were doing on the dance floor was more dirty dancing than country dancing.

‘Rico is good, eh?’ the tio said, following her interest keenly. ‘But the girl is too obvious. No subtlety.’

No subtlety at all, Zoë agreed silently. The young woman was like a clinging vine, all suckers and creeping fingers.

‘Why don’t you dance?’

Zoë turned to smile at the tio. ‘With you?’ She started to get to her feet.

‘No, not with me!’ The tio pressed her down in the seat again. ‘I mean you should dance with Rico.’

‘Rico is already dancing with someone,’ Zoë pointed out, trying her best to sound faintly amused and casually dismissive.

‘Here, in this part of Spain,’ the tio told her slyly, ‘women do not wait to be asked.’

Zoë turned to stare at him, wondering if she’d heard correctly, but instead of explaining himself the mischievous old man drew his shoulders in a wry shrug.

There were a million reasons why she could not—should not—do as the tio suggested, Zoë thought as she stood up. This was insane, she told herself as she walked towards the dance floor. Rico Cortes would simply stare at her and turn away. As for his young partner—Zoë could just imagine the look of triumph on her face when Rico told her to get lost. She was about to make a fool of herself in front of the whole village—the whole world, if you took the television cameras into account. But she just went on threading her way through the crowds on the dance floor.

‘Brava, Zoë! Eso es!’

‘Maria!’

‘You should have worn your performance dress,’ the older woman whispered in her ear before melting back into the crowd.

Too late for that now—jeans and a tailored shirt would have to do. She couldn’t stop to think about it, Zoë realised as she reached her goal. She tapped the young Spanish beauty lightly on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me. I’m cutting in.’

‘Qué?’

The girl couldn’t have looked more shocked. Zoë almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She didn’t have a chance to see the expression on Rico’s face; the next thing she knew she was in his arms.

‘Well, this is a surprise.’

She could feel his breath warm against her hair. ‘A pleasant one, I hope?’

‘Unexpected, certainly.’

He had changed into casual clothes for the party: blue jeans, shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open at the neck. He smelt divine, and he felt…

Zoë shivered as the music slowed to a sensuous rumba rhythm, as if responding to her mood. She saw that the young girl had quickly moved away to dance with some people of her own age, and didn’t seem too upset—though right at this moment Zoë had decided to be selfish. She only cared how she felt. And she felt wonderful.

Having so many people around them gave Zoë the confidence to relax in Rico’s arms. As they brushed past people smiled with approval. Whether that was to show their appreciation of the party or because she was in Rico’s arms, Zoë didn’t know, and right now it didn’t matter. Even with the difference in their size they fitted together perfectly. They were dancing as one, as if they had always danced like this, and the planes and curves of his body invited her to mould against him.

Rico had an innate sense of rhythm, and Zoë could only be grateful that Maria had given her the courage to dance in a way that made her feel seductive and desirable. Nothing existed in her universe outside of Rico as they danced on to the haunting music, and Zoë barely noticed when one of his powerful thighs slipped between her legs, bringing her closer still. She only knew that it felt right, essential to the dance, and now they were one—moving as one, breathing as one, and dancing as one…

He let her go when the melody turned to something lively. Zoë realised that they had been the centre of attention, and that now couples were turning to their own pleasures again. It was true, she had been so deeply and sensually aware of Rico she had forgotten for the space of their dance that they were not alone.

She trembled as Rico stared down at her. The tempo of the music had increased, but they were both oblivious to it. Nothing existed outside the ambit of his gaze, and as she watched his lips tug up in a smile Zoë realised she was hoping for something more.

‘Shall we?’ He tipped his chin in the direction of their empty places at the table.

She dropped back into the real world. Of course Rico didn’t want to dance with her all night. People were staring. The music had stopped again, and she was still standing on the dance floor like a fool.

‘I’ll…go and see if there’s any pudding left. Someone might be hungry.’

Rico didn’t try to stop her as she struggled to make her way through the whirling couples, but then she realised he was beside her, shielding her with his arm. When he stopped to talk to an old acquaintance she slipped away, making for the door to the kitchen. But she hadn’t even had a chance to close it when Rico came in behind her.

‘What’s wrong with you, Zoë? Why are you running away from me?’ He leaned back against the door, and she got the impression he wasn’t going anywhere until she explained.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ His voice was flat, disbelieving. ‘I think it’s time you told me what all this is about, don’t you? You were fine when we were out riding together, and then tonight you turn on the ice.’

‘You haven’t spoken to me all night!’

‘Do you blame me?’

Truthfully, she didn’t.

‘Then you come up to me and want to dance. And then you run away again.’ Rico made a sound of exasperation as he spread his arms wide. ‘Are you going to tell me what all this is about?’

‘I can’t—’

‘You can’t?’ He shook his head. ‘Why not, Zoë? You’ve never been short of opinions in the past.’

‘I can’t explain because you’ll just think I’m being ridiculous.’

‘Try me.’

She met his gaze, and this time neither of them looked away.

‘Violence frightens me.’ Her voice was just a whisper.

‘Violence?’ Rico frowned and straightened up.

‘Of any kind. I know how that must sound to you—and I do know wrestling’s just a sport—’

‘Are you saying I’m a violent man?’ His eyes narrowed, and she could see she had offended him deeply.

‘No—not you…’ Zoë’s voice dried. She looked away.

‘Are you saying I remind you of someone who was violent in your past?’ He looked stricken. ‘That’s it—isn’t it, Zoë?’

‘I can’t help it.’ She made a weak gesture with her hands.

‘Do you have any idea how insulting that is?’

She saw his hand tighten on the door handle until his knuckles turned white, and took a step towards him. ‘I’m sorry, Rico. I haven’t even congratulated you—’

He made an angry gesture, cutting her off. ‘I don’t know what shocks me the most—the fact that you can mention violence in your past as if it were nothing, or the thought that you could possibly confuse me with some snivelling bully who preys on women and others who are weaker than himself.’

‘I just don’t want tonight to be all about me. This is your night too, Rico.’

‘What you’ve just said overrides anything else.’

‘We can’t talk about it now. I can’t just abandon my guests.’

‘Forget the damned party!’

‘How can I?’ Zoë said, moving towards the door. ‘It’s wrong of me to keep you so long like this, Rico. Your young companion—’

‘Will do perfectly well without me.’ He caught hold of her arm as she tried to move past him. ‘You can’t leave it like this, Zoë. If you are protecting someone—someone who’s hurt you—’

‘I’m not,’ she said steadily, meeting his eyes. ‘I promise you, Rico, it’s all over now.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes,’ she said, holding his gaze. ‘Yes, it is.’

He shook his head, and his eyes were full of concern. ‘Know this, Zoë: I am not and never have been a violent man. I have never raised my hand in anger to anyone. When you have great strength the very first thing you must learn is control. Strength has not been given to me to use against a weaker person, or some helpless creature. It has been given to me to help other people when I can, and for me to enjoy. Nothing more.’

And before she could say another word, he added in a fierce undertone, ‘And don’t you ever confuse me with some other man again.’

Rico opened the door for her and stood aside to let her pass, and the happy noise and bustle of the courtyard claimed her.

‘Señorita?’

Zoë looked round to see that he had followed her out. It took her a moment of recovery after their highly charged exchange for her to realise what he meant to do.

Sweeping her a formal half-bow, he offered her his arm. ‘May I escort you back to the party, Señorita Chapman?’

The rest of the night passed in a blur of laughter and dancing for Zoë. By the time people started drifting away her feet were aching. She had joined in every traditional dance of the region—men, women and children, all on their feet, colourful skirts flying and proud hands clapping the irresistible syncopated rhythms.

Now she was exhausted, and more grateful than ever to Rico’s efficient staff, who had cleared away absolutely everything from the hall, leaving her with nothing to do there.

‘Why are you back in the kitchen?’

‘Rico—you caught me.’ Zoë turned, embarrassed that he had seen her stealing her own figuritas. Now it was her turn to get her hand slapped—the only difference was, Rico’s slap was more of a caress, and then he raised her hand to his lips. ‘You have earned a break, Zoë.’ He looked around. ‘My people are only too happy to clear up—I told them they could take anything that was left home with them.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I’m sure they can spare you one marzipan mouse.’

‘Why are you frowning?’

‘I just don’t have the knack of dismissing the things you told me—as you seem to have.’

‘Have I spoiled the party for you?’

‘Don’t trivialise what you said, Zoë. You can’t keep everything locked inside you for ever.’

Why not? She’d been doing a pretty good job up to now. ‘Let’s not talk about it tonight,’ she said, forcing a bright note into her voice. ‘We’re both tired—’

‘Are we?’

Heat flared up from Zoë’s toes to scorch her cheeks. ‘Is it a deal? Can we just leave all the other stuff for another time?’

Pressing his lips together, he frowned. He didn’t look keen. ‘If that’s what you want. I don’t want to spoil the night for you.’

‘You could never do that.’

The suggestion of a smile tugged at his lips.

They broke eye contact at a knock on the door. She couldn’t have given a better cue herself, Zoë realised as Rico’s helpers trooped in. It was impossible to talk about the past now. ‘Shall we go back to the party?’

‘Not for too long.’

There was something in the way he said it that made Zoë blush. ‘Why?’ She looked up at him, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Dipping his head close as he opened the door for her, he whispered in her ear: ‘I’m tired of playing games, Zoë. Can’t you see how much I want you?’

It was so unexpected. She couldn’t imagine anyone other than Rico even saying the words. No man had ever admitted to wanting her—he was the first. She didn’t know how to answer him. She didn’t know what was expected of her. ‘I don’t want to talk about—’

‘Who said anything about talking? And you have my word I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.’

Rico drew her out of the bustling kitchen through a door that led into the silent hall. ‘That’s better,’ he murmured, pulling her close to drop a kiss on her brow. ‘I like to see you smile. I don’t want to see you tense and unhappy ever again.’ Nudging her hair aside, he planted a second tender kiss on the very sensitive place below her ear.

When he rasped the stubble on his chin against her neck Zoë gasped, and allowed him to draw her closer still. It was so easy to slip beneath Rico’s seductive spell. She could have broken away at any time; but his hold on her was so light there was no reason to try.

She parted her lips, welcoming the invasion of his tongue, but he teased her gently, pulling away until she locked her hands behind his neck and brought him back again. And then their mouths collided hungrily, and it was Rico’s turn to groan as she moulded into him.

She was in a dream state as Rico led her swiftly by the hand through the castle. Every part of her was aching for his touch. His hand was firm and warm, and she went with him willingly through the archway that led to the luxury spa.

‘I haven’t been down here before,’ Zoë admitted as Rico let go of her for a moment to close the door. She couldn’t bear the loss, and reached for him.

‘Not yet,’ he warned, his fingertips caressing her cheek.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s better this way.’

She followed him down a short flight of marble steps.

‘Are you sure you have never been down here before?’ Rico stopped at the bottom and turned to look at her.

‘Never.’

‘Then you’re about to get a very pleasant surprise.’

Zoë watched Rico punch a series of numbers onto a panel on the wall. A door slid behind them. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’ve changed the code so we won’t be disturbed. Zoë?’ Rico touched her face with one fingertip when he saw the expression on her face. ‘The code is twenty-one, twelve—my birthday. Don’t look so worried. You can leave any time you want.’

‘I just thought if there was an emergency—and I needed to get out in a hurry—’

‘An emergency?’ Rico smiled. ‘What? You mean something like this?’

And then somehow she was in his arms again, and he was kissing her so tenderly, so thoroughly, Zoë wondered how she remained standing. Heat flooded through her veins, and when his tongue tangled with her own a soft moan came from somewhere deep in her chest, showing him how much she wanted him to kiss her.

When he pulled back, she reached up, wrapping her arms around his neck to mesh her fingers through his hair and draw him close again. When Rico kissed her she felt no fear. She wanted him to know how she felt, that she was ready for him: moist, swollen, hot. But then she remembered…

‘First ice, and now fire?’ Rico murmured, looking down at her.

He was so tender, so caring—but how could she be sure he wouldn’t be shocked or disappointed when she experienced the painful spasm that had always made fully penetrative sex impossible for her? She had to be sure she wouldn’t stop, Zoë thought as her hand strayed to his belt buckle…

Rico moved her hand away, bringing her fingers to his lips to kiss each tip in turn. Zoë’s eyes filled with hot tears of failure.

‘You need to slow down, Zoë.’

Glancing up uncertainly, she saw his lips were curving in a smile. She started to try and say something, to explain herself, but, putting one firm finger over her lips, Rico stopped her.

‘I’m going to find you something to wear in the hot tub.’ He broke away. ‘And then I’ll order some refreshments for us from the kitchen.’

Something to wear? Food from the kitchen? She was so naïve! She had expected to be naked, feeding on him.

‘And then we’ll sample the hot tub together.’

Better.

She gazed around. The ancient walls had been sandblasted in this part of the castle until they were pale yellow. The floor was a mellow golden marble, and all the tiles and fittings had been selected with a view to nothing startling to the eye or the senses. The temperature was perfect, the silence complete.

Rico reached inside a beautiful old oak chest and brought out some fluffy caramel-coloured towels, then black swimming trunks for himself and a swimming costume the same shade as her eyes.

‘That’s a lucky find.’

‘Or good planning,’ Rico said.

‘You know your way around here pretty well.’

‘I should. The castle belongs to a very good friend of mine. Do you want to go and change now? Music?’ he added, handing her the costume.

‘Why not? Something gentle and soothing would be nice.’

‘I’ll see if I can accommodate you.’ His voice was ironic as he moved to select a CD.

A sinuous melody started weaving its spell around Zoë as Rico took hold of her hand again, and she went with him, deeper into the spa.

The hot tub in the centre of the floor was illuminated by hundreds of flickering candles. Zoë gasped. ‘How—?’

‘You ask too many questions. Just accept you’re going to be pampered for a change.’

There were a million questions she would have liked to ask him, but for once in her life she bit them back.

They changed in beech-lined changing cabins, and she covered her costume with one of the white towelling robes hanging on the back of each door.

‘To think I didn’t even realise this place existed!’

‘The hot tub is kept locked up for most of the time.’

‘Your friend must like you a lot to let you use it.’

Loosening the belt on his robe, Rico let it drop to the floor. Zoë kept her gaze strictly confined to his face, but to her relief saw the black bathing trunks in her peripheral vision.

‘Aren’t you going to take your robe off?’

‘Yes…yes, of course I am.’

Zoë waited until she was up the steps of the hot tub and had one leg in the water before slipping off the robe. Then she was in like a flash, submerged beneath the water before Rico had even climbed in.

There were tiny lights above her head, winking on and off in a deep blue ceiling decorated with puffs of smoky cloud to give it the appearance of a night sky. ‘This is unbelievable.’ Zoë sighed, stretching out her arms along the top of the tub to keep her balance in the swirling water. She leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.

‘I prefer an open-air bathroom.’

She looked up again. Rico had settled himself across from her. ‘You mean the sea?’

A door opened before he could reply to her, and a waiter came in with a tray of refreshments for them.

‘Thank you,’ Rico said, glancing round at the man. ‘You can leave them here.’

Zoë blinked. There was champagne on ice, two tall crystal flutes, a bowl of sweet wild strawberries, some whipped cream and a bowl of chocolate sauce on the tray. ‘Now I have seen everything.’ She shook her head incredulously.

‘You really think so?’

Rico’s voice was challenging, and soft. She didn’t answer.

Wrapped in fluffy towels, and stretched out on a recliner next to Rico’s, Zoë sipped champagne while Rico lay back watching her through half-closed eyes.

‘If this is the Cazulas way of thanking people for giving a party, I may have to stay a lot longer than I planned.’ Putting her glass down, she relaxed back against the soft bank of cushions and stretched out her limbs in languorous appreciation.

Selecting a plump strawberry, Rico dipped it in rich chocolate sauce. ‘Open your mouth.’

He touched it to her lips, and she could smell the warm chocolate sauce. She wasn’t quick enough, and it started escaping in runnels down her chin. Leaning over her, Rico licked it off, and then he was kissing her—kissing her deeply.

It was the taste of Zoë that made him greedy. It made him want more, a lot more of her. It made him want everything. But he knew better than that. He knew he had to wait. Pulling back, Rico saw that her eyes were still closed, her lips still slightly parted as she sucked in breath, and there were smudges of chocolate all round her mouth.

‘Don’t be mean,’ she whispered, opening her mouth wider. ‘I want more.’

Smiling wryly, Rico began to feed her again. He kept on until she was begging him for mercy as she laughed; until she couldn’t keep up with the chocolate sauce and the cream, and it dripped onto her breasts, and slipped between them. Her lips were stained red with strawberry juice and her eyes were almost as dark as the chocolate. And then he couldn’t help himself. He was kissing her again, and she was clinging to him, not caring that her towel had fallen away.

Zoë gasped as Rico’s tongue began to lave between her breasts. She had sunk lower and lower onto the recliner, wanting him to continue until every scrap of chocolate had disappeared. Her breasts were streaked with juice and cream, and there was a coating of chocolate on each painfully extended nipple. His tongue was deliciously warm, and rasped against her sensitive skin in a way that was unbearably good.

She wanted more. But Rico was heavily into foreplay—something she had never experienced before. He knew how to tease and torment her; he knew every erogenous zone on her body. Her flesh sang with pleasure as she writhed beneath him, and she could no longer make any pretence at shyness. How could she, with his warm breath invading her ears? She cried out to him, shuddering uncontrollably, but just as she did so he pulled back.

Short of grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to suckle her breasts, she had no idea what to do next. She was getting desperate. ‘Shall I feed you now?’

Holding himself up on his fists, Rico looked down at her. ‘What did you have in mind?’

There was such a wicked smile tugging at his lips, Zoë couldn’t resist it. ‘Just this.’ Cupping her breasts, she held them out to him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

RICO stared at Zoë’s breasts. They were magnificent—a fact he had been trying hard to ignore from the moment he had seen her in a tight top pulling plastic oranges down from the walls. His control had never undergone such a painful test—especially now, when she was warm, soft, and more lovely than ever. But was she ready for this?

He couldn’t stop looking at her tight, extended nipples, currently reaching out to him in the most irresistible invitation.

‘Wrong colour?’ she teased him softly.

‘Perfect.’ And they were—the most delectable shade of shell-pink.

‘Wrong size for you?’

She was still smiling, waiting, her eyebrows arched in enquiry as she stared at him.

‘Zoë—’ Rolling off his recliner, he hunkered down by her side. ‘What would you like me to do, Señorita Chapman?’

‘Eat me.’

‘Eat you?’ He pretended surprise. ‘That’s very forward of you…’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’

Taking matters into her own hands, she sat up and locked her hands around his neck to bring him down to her.

Swearing softly in his own language, he pulled back, drawing her with him, staring into her face as he unlocked her hands. Laying her back down on the narrow couch, he took a long, lazy look down the whole lovely, naked length of her. ‘Wild cat!’ he murmured approvingly.

There was barely an inch of Zoë’s body that had been spared the chocolate, the cream, or the sweet red strawberry juice. He applied himself first to the task of cleaning her breasts, using long greedy strokes of his tongue. With each caress she cried out—he might have been inside her, so intense was her response.

Had she never experienced foreplay in her life? He thought not. When he suckled her nipples she moaned rhythmically in time with his actions until he knew he had to stop. He had never known anything like it before; he had never been so aroused before. His senses were on fire and his anticipation of his final possession of her was overwhelming in its intensity. But before he realised what she meant to do she had surprised him.

Scooping up some sticky chocolate sauce, she smeared a handful over his chest. When she began to lick it off, he knew he was in danger of losing control for the first time in his life. Capturing her in his arms, he rolled with her onto a soft rug on the floor, straddling her, and pinning her arms down above her head. Trying to keep her still while she wriggled beneath him was almost impossible. She was moving her head from side to side, laughing and threatening him in the same breath. Finally securing her wrists in one strong fist, he reached for the cream jug with his free hand, and emptied the contents all over her.

Shrieking with surprise, and laughing at the same time, she tried to break away, but when he started lapping at her belly she changed her mind. Meshing her fingers through his hair, she was all compliance, all sensation, as she told him she wanted more. And when he moved lower, nudging her thighs apart, she whimpered with pleasure and angled herself shamelessly towards him.

He stopped just short of where she wanted him to be, making her cry out with disappointment. Before she had a chance to complain any more, he sprang to his feet and swept her into his arms.

The moment had come, Zoë thought, laying her head on Rico’s shoulder. As he carried her across the relaxation room she knew she trusted him completely. By the time they reached the wet room she was shaking with anticipation. She had never been so aroused. This time Rico would make everything right.

Zoë shrieked as she landed with a splash in the hot tub. Moments later Rico was in with her, holding her safe above the water. Reaching for a sponge, he began soaping her down until all the chocolate and cream had disappeared.

He had never been called upon to exert so much control in his life, Rico realised when they’d got out and he had reclaimed his sanity beneath an icy cold drench shower. And he had never had so much fun with a woman.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stared at Zoë drying her lush red-gold hair. She looked more beautiful than ever. Her cheeks were still flushed from their seductive play-fight, and her eyes were gleaming as if her zest for life had suddenly increased. She was starting to trust him, Rico knew, and they could never make love until she did. He only had to touch her, to kiss her, to look at her, to know how inexperienced she was. And it troubled him to think what might have happened to her in the past.

She was humming softly to herself, staring clear-eyed into the mirror as she arranged her hair like a shimmering cape around her shoulders. When he walked up to her, and she looked at him, he could feel his heart pounding so hard in his chest it actually hurt.

It seemed that whatever ghosts there were in her past, or in his, they had no power when they were together. He felt a great swell of happiness inside him. It was a dangerous development, and one that made him feel unusually vulnerable.

Dropping a kiss on Zoë’s shoulder, he went to get his clothes. He felt a lot more than lust for her. Her innocence had touched him deeply. Was this love?

When he was almost dressed she came to him. Standing close behind him, she placed her hands on his shoulders. He felt her rest her face trustingly against his back. And in that moment he knew the whole world and everything in it was his.

He wouldn’t have agreed to spending the night in separate rooms at the castle for anyone but Zoë, Rico realised, calling a halt to his pacing. She might be a successful career woman, but beneath the gloss of achievement he knew she was terribly vulnerable, and it made him feel protective, even responsible for her.

It was unusual—no, unique—to find someone so tender and pure. Gold-diggers disgusted him, and there were so many of them around. He had closed his mind years ago to the possibility of ever finding someone who cared for him, and not for his money. Zoë didn’t need his money, but even if she had, he knew she would have been as sickened as he at the thought of using a person’s wealth as a measure for their worth. It warmed him just to be thinking about her. This was special. She was special.

Going to the open window, he planted his fists on the sill and leaned out. A silver-pink dawn was creeping up the sides of the snow-capped mountains, and the sight bewitched him. Zoë would be sleeping now. He smiled to think of her curled up in bed, sleeping the deep, untroubled sleep of the innocent.

Gazing along the balcony they shared, Rico noticed that her window was open. Her career absorbed her completely. She had to be exhausted.

He turned to look at the computer screen. There was nothing yet.

Natural caution made him investigate everyone who threatened his privacy. He knew already that Zoë was no self-seeking adventuress, but his night-owl investigator had been on the case since she’d arrived in Cazulas. It was a juggernaut he couldn’t stop now. He had keyed in his password, and expected an e-mail at any time. Once his mind was set at ease, he would go and wake Zoë in a way he knew she would enjoy.

Just the thought of rousing her from sleep, all warm and tousled, and kissing her into the new day had been enough to keep him from his bed. He was eager to be with her. Throwing back his head, Rico let out a long ragged sigh of frustration. It was hard to believe that here, in one of the remotest regions of Spain, fate had put him on a collision course with someone as honest and forthright as Zoë. He was tempted to go to her right now, without waiting for reassurance.

He tensed abruptly, all senses on full alert. Pushing back from the balcony, he strode quickly to the door. He stood outside his room, in the corridor, and listened intently. He thought he had heard a cry. But there was nothing. He turned, knowing everyone in the castle was asleep. Some nocturnal animal must have disturbed him.

Going back into his temporary study bedroom, Rico closed the heavy door carefully. That was it! He cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. The doors in the castle were so heavy no sound could possibly penetrate them.

Walking onto the balcony, he quietened his breathing and listened outside Zoë’s window. At first there was nothing aside from the soft swish of fabric as the fine voile curtains billowed in the early-morning breeze. Then he heard her cry out again, and, reaching through the window, he turned the key in the double doors and stepped into her room.

She was just awake, and clearly confused.

‘Zoë—what is it?’ He knelt down at her side. She was as beautiful as he had imagined, still warm from sleep and more lovely than any woman had a right to be if a man was to remain sane.

‘Rico.’ She pressed her hands against his chest. ‘Rico, I’m fine. I’m really sorry if I woke you—’

‘You didn’t wake me. I’m still dressed,’ he pointed out. ‘But as for your being fine—I’m sick of that word. You’re not fine.’

‘All right. I had a nightmare.’

‘A nightmare?’ He turned away. ‘You cried out, and I was worried about you—’

Her face went bright red, as if it was she who was in the wrong.

‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

He was amazed to see how quickly she could recover her composure. Then he remembered that she was used to covering up the truth.

‘As I told you, Rico. There’s really nothing to worry about.’

‘How long are you going to lie to me about this, Zoë?’

There was a long silence, and then she said, ‘I don’t know what makes you say that.’

‘I heard you this time. I heard you cry out. And then, as I came into your room, I heard what you said.’

She covered her face with her hands, but he couldn’t let it rest now. ‘Don’t,’ he said softly. Gently taking hold of her hands, he lifted them away. ‘You were in the throes of something much worse than a nightmare, Zoë. You were crying out, begging—’

‘No!’ She shouted it at him, and he waited until she grew calm again, holding her hands firmly between his own.

‘Begging?’ She forced out a laugh. ‘You’re mistaken, Rico—’

‘I am not mistaken. And I’d like to know what made you call out—‘‘Please, don’t hit me again.’’’

‘I’ve told you, you’re wrong. I would never say something like that. Why should I?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

She shook her head, and her eyes wore a wounded expression. ‘Is that why you were so gentle with me, Rico? Is that why you won’t make love to me? Is that why you agreed to stay over in a separate room? You feel sorry for me—’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ He raked his hair in sheer exasperation. ‘I don’t spend time with women because I feel sorry for them.’

‘How many women?’

‘Why are you doing this to yourself, Zoë?’

‘I tell you, Rico, you’re wrong about me.’ She scrambled upright with the sheet firmly clutched in her hand. ‘You don’t need to feel pity for me. It was just a nightmare. Nothing more.’ She shook her head, seeing the disbelief in his eyes. ‘I’m really grateful you came in to make sure I was all right. You’re kind—very kind—and thank you—’

‘Don’t!’ His voice was sharp as he put his hand up. He regretted it immediately, seeing her flinch. ‘I would never hurt you.’ His voice was just a whisper, but she had already gathered herself into a ball and pulled the sheet up to her chin. ‘Don’t ever thank me for being kind to you, Zoë. It’s the very least one human being can expect from another.’ He was consumed with relief when she lifted her head and looked at him.

‘Who hurt you, Zoë?’

‘No one…’

Her voice was tiny, like a child’s, and it hurt him more than anything he had ever heard. ‘Is that why you were crying out?’ he pressed gently. ‘Were you remembering what had happened to you?’

‘Rico, please.’

He could feel the anger pumping through him. His hands, balled into fists at his sides, ached with tension. Who could ever hurt her? It was inconceivable to him that anyone could wish to harm one hair on her head. He wanted to protect her—but how could he when she insisted on pushing him away? ‘Won’t you trust me enough to tell me, Zoë?’

‘I can’t. I just can’t.’

‘Please, don’t shut me out. I want to help you, but I have to know the truth—’

‘The truth?’ Zoë made a short incredulous sound. She hated herself as it was for her weakness. How could she know she would cry out when she was sleeping? ‘Do you always tell the truth, Rico? Do you?’

He couldn’t answer her. How could he when he had been staring at a computer screen half the night? They were both victims of the past in their own way. Suspicion was branded on his heart, but Zoë was damaged too, and her wounds had been carved far deeper and more cruelly than his.

Standing up, he moved away from the bed, carrying the image of Zoë in his mind. Her hair was like skeins of silk, gleaming in the moonlight, and her skin was so soft and warm. The room was filled with the scent of the orange blossom she always wore. As he turned, she turned too, and their eyes locked. He longed to tell her everything. He wanted nothing more in all the world than to take her in his arms and keep her safe for ever. But he could not. Instead, he would go back to his own room and maintain his vigil until the information he had asked for came through.

‘Goodnight, Zoë.’ He walked onto the veranda, closing the doors softly behind him.

Throwing his head back, with his eyes tightly shut, he let out a heavy sigh. For the first time in his life the price he had to pay for being Rico Cortes was far too high.

CHAPTER NINE

CLUTCHING the receiver between neck and shoulder while she scooped up her discarded nightwear from the floor, Zoë listened patiently. There was an opportunity to do a live interview with a national television show—a roving reporter had just arrived with a camera crew. Could she make it in time?

She looked like hell after her disturbed night. She felt like it too, especially remembering what had happened with Rico. But this was work, and there was nothing on her face that make-up couldn’t fix. Her heart was another matter, but that would have to wait.

She was curious, and she was tempted too. The publicity would be great for the series—and she was interested to find out why someone from such a well-known show had come all the way to Cazulas to speak to her. Of course the last series had been a big success, and it had generated a lot of media interest. That had to be it.

‘Of course I’ll do it,’ she said, decision made. ‘Half an hour suit you? OK, fifteen minutes,’ she conceded. ‘But get Marnie and the girls up here right away with the war paint.’

Philip had told her there would be a chance for a run-through first, so there would be no surprises and nothing for her to worry about. It was just what she needed to take her mind off Rico… He must have gone by now. There wasn’t much to keep him at the castle. But she still had her career. The thrill of the places it took her to, and the amazement that she had made something of herself after all, in spite of her ex’s assurances that she never would, had not diminished. She hoped they never would.

She had to stand under a cold shower to try and put Rico out of her mind. Finally, reasonably focused on work and totally frozen, she rubbed herself down vigorously with a towel.

There was a bad feeling niggling away inside her, Zoë realised as she dressed. It made no sense. She had done this sort of thing lots of times before, and knew that nothing was left to chance. It might all appear impromptu at home, but the groundwork had already been covered so that none of the questions came out of the blue. And yet…

‘To hell with it,’ she murmured, spritzing on some perfume. She was a seasoned campaigner and there was nothing to worry about.

Seasoned campaigner or not, she hadn’t factored quite such a bubbly young presenter into the equation. The latest in a long line of glamorous young women with an incisive mind, she was the type of person that Zoë found wearing, but fun in short bursts. They talked through the questions, and decided on the best strategy to adopt to promote the show. Zoë was confident she could keep things moving forward smoothly. They were going to film outside, with a backdrop of mountains behind them, and went on air almost immediately.

‘So, Zoë, how does it feel to be here in such a fabulous location, as opposed to being stuck in an overheated studio?’ The girl fanned herself extravagantly and smiled, as if this made them comrades in adversity.

Her openness made Zoë laugh. ‘It feels great, Lisa—but it’s hot outside here, as well as under the lights. Don’t forget this is Spain—’

‘You’ve got quite a glow going on there, Zoë.’ The girl cut across her, facing the camera to address the viewers. ‘Could this be something more than a suntan? I hear the Spanish men around here are quite something. Or man, rather,’ she added as Zoë stared at her. ‘Come on, you can tell us—we won’t tell a soul, will we?’ she exclaimed, turning again to include several million viewers.

‘Let’s talk about the programme first.’ And last, Zoë thought, keeping a smile on her face while her mind raced. They hadn’t planned to touch on anything other than her new television series. In fact she had made a point of insisting there would be no delving into her personal life. The past was just that—behind her. That was what she and the young reporter had agreed on.

‘You’re right, Zoë. Let’s talk about your programme. That’s what we’re here for.’

Zoë stalled. The look on the girl’s face was open, inviting… Inviting what? There was just enough guile in her eyes to churn Zoë’s stomach. ‘I think this series is going to be my best yet—’

‘You only think? Don’t tell me Zoë Chapman’s become a shrinking violet?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re not going to turn coy on us now, Zoë, are you? Disappoint the viewers?’ The girl turned to camera and made a moue, but there was a shrewd gleam in her eyes when she looked back. ‘After spending the night as the prize of a wealthy man?’

She had just managed to leave out the word again, Zoë thought, feeling the blood drain from her face.

‘That’s right, isn’t it, Zoë?’ The girl’s lips pressed down as she shrugged and managed to look ingenuous for the camera. ‘I’ve seen the footage.’ Her eyes opened really wide and she stared around, as if seeking confirmation that her reportage was absolutely accurate from some unseen source.

Zoë’s gaze iced over as she waited for the bombshell to fall. After all, the camera never lied…

‘Half-naked men wrestling beneath the stars in this sultry Mediterranean climate—and the champion, El Paladín, also known as Alarico Cortes, claiming you as his prize for the night.’ She stretched, showing off her taut young belly as if she had all the time in the world to deliver her coup de grâce. ‘Mmm, sounds pretty hot to me. He’s pretty hot!’

‘That was just an item.’ Zoë tried to laugh it off and put on a good-humoured smile for the camera. Inwardly she was seething. The girl’s agenda was obvious. This wasn’t about her series. There was still mileage in the old scandal.

‘Just an item!’ The girl cut her off with a short, incredulous laugh. ‘OK, Zoë, let’s cut to the chase. You bagged Alarico Cortes for one glorious night. I’m only quoting the age-old tradition here in Cazulas, Zo—no need to look at me like that. Alarico Cortes, if you don’t know of him at home, is only the most eligible bachelor in Spain—a billionaire, and a good friend of the Spanish royal family. So, what was it like? How does it feel, mingling with the aristocracy? And were you really just a prize for the night? Or is this love?’

Alarico Cortes? Aristocracy? Billionaire? Zoë was stunned. If what the young reporter said was true… The last way she would have wanted to hear it was like this.

‘I was lucky enough to be invited to take part in a traditional celebration that has been upheld here in Cazulas for centuries. It was great fun—nothing more than that. I’m really sorry to disappoint you.’ She finished with a good-natured shrug towards the camera. Game, set, and match, she thought, seeing the girl’s face turn sulky.

‘Well, you heard it here first, folks.’ The reporter quickly recovered. ‘The most beautiful celebrity chef on the circuit has something really special in the pipeline for all of us. Don’t miss Zoë’s new series, or you’ll miss those yummy men—and we’re talking drop-dead gorgeous in the case of Alarico Cortes, girls. Thank you, Zoë, for sparing us these few precious minutes away from your show.’

‘My pleasure,’ Zoë said, with a last cheery smile to the viewers. ‘Thank you all for your time.’

She even thanked the girl again when the cameras had stopped rolling. They both knew who had come out on top, and Zoë was determined to remain professional to the last. But she couldn’t quite believe she had allowed herself to be set up. It had been two years since the scandal broke. Two years to learn caution. She’d thought she was too wary to be trapped like this—but apparently not.

And Rico Cortes, all round good-guy and local one-man protection agency, had been lying to her all along: his friend’s castle, his friend’s horses, the down-homey camaraderie of the flamenco camp—and he was a Spanish grandee. Why wasn’t she surprised? It all made sense now. He had been lying to her ever since that first meeting, pulling the wool over her eyes, confusing her with his sweet talk and worthy notions. And wasn’t she a chump to have thought him any better than her ex? Rico Cortes was one smart operator.

‘Great job, Zoë!’

Zoë looked at Philip blankly as he clapped her on the back.

‘Our ratings will soar if you keep this up.’

‘That’s fantastic.’ She was already running towards the castle. She had no idea if Rico would still be there. Inside the castle—his castle!

Pausing for a moment in the middle of the courtyard, she looked around. Rico’s castle. His village, his horses, his spa, his kitchen, his bed, his office. Shading her eyes, she stared up at the balcony they had shared, and in that moment she hated him.

Zoë walked straight into the study bedroom where Rico had been sleeping. At least now he was gone she could use the computer to let her far-flung family members know the interview would be repeated on breakfast television throughout the morning.

‘Rico!’ Zoë’s heart lurched as she saw him, and her eyes filled with tears as he moved away from the computer screen. ‘I thought you would have gone by now.’

‘I came back.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Don’t you knock before you enter a room?’

The situation had an element of farce. He was looking at her with a face full of mistrust and anger when she was the one who had been wronged. Rico had been lying to her all along—misleading her, pretending to be a local man when he was… She didn’t even know who he was.

‘I still hold the lease on the castle. Technically this is my room, Rico.’

Tension stretched between them. Whatever he had on the screen, he didn’t want her to see it, Zoë realised. ‘I’d like to use the computer now, if you don’t mind.’

‘There’s some data on here I can’t afford to lose.’

‘So save it. My mails are urgent too.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘Plenty. But right now I want to contact my family, because I’ve just done an interview for TV—’ She stopped as he made a contemptuous sound. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘An interview?’ The look he threw her was full of disdain.

‘Yes, an interview, Rico—for my new cookery series. Now, if you don’t mind—’

‘Nothing else?’

Zoë looked at him. ‘What are you getting at? Are you worried I might have talked about you, Rico? Let the world know I bagged myself a really rich man—a billionaire? A real live Spanish grandee and good friend of the King?’

When he said nothing, it was Zoë’s turn to make a low, angry sound. ‘Have you finished with the computer yet?’ she demanded, planting her hands on her hips.

‘Help yourself,’ he said, moving away from the screen.

She didn’t need to read the tall, bold letters on the monitor. They had been branded on her mind two years ago. They were lies. Everyone who knew her, who cared about her, knew that. Facing up to them was the only way she knew to snuff out their power.

Star Sells Sex.

Turning to look at Rico, Zoë could read his mind. He had believed the truth about her, and now he believed the lies. And his pride wouldn’t allow him to accept that he had been so wrong about her. He believed she had sold herself for money. The thought turned Zoë cold, drained her of feeling. As Rico thought so little of her, perhaps he had her pegged as a gold-digger, after his money, all the time. Perhaps he had even set up the interview to shame her in public… He couldn’t believe he had been so mistaken about someone. Neither could she, Zoë realised sadly.

‘Are you expecting a reaction from me, Rico? Heated denials—hysterics, possibly?’ She could see he was surprised she was so calm. ‘This all happened a long, time ago.’

‘Two years ago, to be precise.’

‘Well, it feels like a lifetime to me.’

Time flew, Zoë reflected. Two years since her ex-husband had tried to destroy her career. She had been so set on rebuilding her life she had hardly noticed how quickly the time had passed. She could still remember the burn of shame when she’d first read the headline. How could she have known then that the old adage would prove true? There was no such thing as bad publicity; this morning’s interview had only proved it yet again.

It was two years since her notoriety in the ‘Star Sells Sex’ scandal had put her name on everyone’s lips. Almost immediately her cookery programme had begun to break every ratings record. Her next step had been to form her own company, and that had led to even greater success.

These days the headline was hardly ever mentioned, and on the few occasions when it was people laughed with her, as if it had all been nothing more than a rather clever publicity stunt. She knew the truth behind the headline, and it couldn’t hurt her now. Only Rico could do that, if he believed the lies.

‘So you’ve nothing to say in your defence?’ he said. ‘No explanation to offer me at all?’

‘Am I supposed to ask for your forgiveness?’

‘The whole scandal blew over quite quickly.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s why I couldn’t place you at first.’

‘True.’ Zoë smiled sadly at him. ‘Did you hope I was hiding something, Rico—so that you and I could be quits?’

A muscle worked in his jaw; other than that there was nothing, until he said, ‘Do you blame me for being defensive?’

A short sound of incredulity leapt from Zoë’s throat.

‘If I had told you who I was from the first moment we met—’

‘I wouldn’t have thought any more or any less of you.’

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then, leaning in front of Zoë, Rico clicked the mouse and cleared the screen.

Straightening up, he gazed at her. ‘My full name is Alarico Cortes de Aragon. I have many business interests, but flamenco is my passion, and Castillo Cazulas, as I’m sure you have already worked out, belongs to me.’

‘When were you going to tell me, Rico? After we’d slept together?’

‘Don’t speak like that, Zoë. You must understand I have to protect my position.’

‘Your position? And I have nothing worth protecting—is that it? I was nothing more than an entertaining diversion while you toured your estates in Cazulas?’

‘Zoë.’ Rico reached out to her, and then drew back. ‘Try to understand what it’s like for me. I have to know who I’m dealing with.’

‘What are you trying to say, Rico?’ Zoë said softly. ‘A man as important, as rich and influential as you, has to be cautious about the type of woman he takes to bed?’

‘It’s a lot more than that, Zoë, and you know it.’

‘Do I?’ She smiled faintly. ‘I’m afraid I must have missed something.’

‘Can you imagine my shock when I read this headline?’

‘It must have been terrible for you.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic.’

‘How do you expect me to be? You tell me you have to protect yourself from me as if I’m some piece of dirt that might tarnish your lustre.’

‘Don’t say that. I asked for this information before I knew you, Zoë.’

‘And now you do know me,’ Zoë said bitterly, glancing at the screen. ‘You must be glad that you took that precaution.’

‘You don’t know me very well.’

‘I don’t know you at all.’

The coldness in her voice, the bitterness in her eyes cut right through him. He wasn’t sure about anything any more, Rico realised. He had spent most of his adult life protecting himself from the gutter press. It was ironic to think that it was their common bond. He focused on her face as she spoke again, and was shocked to see the pain in her eyes when she gazed unwaveringly at him.

‘I don’t have anything concrete like a headline to shake the foundations of my belief in you,’ she said. ‘All I have are candles, a romantic night in a beautiful luxury spa, and the horrible suspicion that maybe you arranged all that because you wondered if you had what it took to seduce a frigid woman.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘You seem shocked, Rico. Why is that? Because I’m getting too close to the truth?’

‘No!’ The word shot out of him on a gust of loathing that she could even think such a thing. ‘It isn’t true. I don’t know what’s happened to you in the past, but you’re not frigid. And I don’t need the sort of reassurance you seem to think I do!’

‘You lied to me.’ Her voice was low, and cruelly bitter. ‘You made assumptions about me, Rico. You invaded my privacy—that same privacy that’s so precious to you, El Señor Alarico Cortes de Aragon! You had me investigated.’ She ground out each word with incredulity, and then gazed up at the sky to give a short, half-sobbing laugh. ‘And while that was going on you tried to get me into bed. And then—’ She held up her hand, silencing his attempt to protest. ‘Then you sold me out to the tabloids for some type of sick revenge.’

‘Zoë, please—’

‘I haven’t finished yet!’ She shouted the words at him in a hoarse, agonised voice, leaning forward stiffly to confront him, her face white with fury. ‘To cap it all, you turn all self-righteous on me—pretending it matters to you that someone else hurt me, used me as a punch-bag—as if you care any more than he did!’

‘You’ve gone too far!’ He couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘How dare you compare me with that—that—’

‘What’s the matter, Rico? You think of him and you see yourself? Even you can’t bring yourself to admit what you are.’

‘And just what am I?’

‘A deceitful, lying user!’

‘User?’ He threw his hands up. ‘Who’s using who here, Zoë?’

‘That’s right—stay up in your ivory tower, where you’re safe from all the gold-diggers, why don’t you, Rico? Only I don’t want your money—I never did. I can manage quite well on my own!’

‘And that’s what you want, is it, Zoë—to be on your own?’

‘What do you think?’ she said bitterly.

‘Then I’d better leave.’

‘That would be good.’

‘You signed the lease on the castle. You can stay until it runs out. Do whatever the hell you want to do! I’ll see myself out.’

CHAPTER TEN

HE’D been thrown out of his own castle. That was a first. Rico looked neither left nor right as he strode purposefully across the courtyard towards his Jeep. Throwing himself into the driver’s seat, he slammed the door, breathing like a bull. The knuckles on his hands turned white on the steering-wheel.

They wanted each other like a bushfire wanted fuel to sustain it. They were burning so hot they were burning out—burning each other out in the process. He had seen her muscles bunched up tight across her shoulders. And she wanted to believe him—that was the tragedy of the situation. They wanted each other, they wanted to believe in each other, to be with each other and only each other—but they were tearing each other apart. They needed each other—but she didn’t need him enough to tell him the truth. She didn’t trust him. Maybe she would never trust him. Could he live with that?

The answer was no, Rico realised as he gunned the engine into life. Some of it he’d worked out for himself—the rest he could find out. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted her to tell him. She had to tell him if there was anything left between them at all. If she was the victim, not the architect, of that newspaper headline, why the hell didn’t she just come out and say so? Maybe there was a grain of truth in it—maybe that was why she couldn’t bring herself to explain.

Her accusers were guilty of making a profit out of the scandal—but newspapers were in business to make money, not friends. He had been shocked when he’d read the torrid revelations, but he had to admire her. She was a fighter, like him. But was she fighting to clear her name or to put up a smokescreen? Would he ever know?

Trouble was, he cared—he really cared—and it made him mad to think that all the money in the world couldn’t buy him the whole truth. Only Zoë could give him that.

Rico’s eyes narrowed and his mouth firmed into a flat, hard line. Thrusting the Jeep into gear, he powered away. She was entitled to stay on at the castle—he had no quarrel with that. He had always rattled round the place. Though it was certainly a lot more lively these days, he reflected cynically, flooring the accelerator pedal.

He eased the neck of his collar with one thumb. He was restless, frustrated—even a little guilty that he hadn’t stayed to fight it out with her. He shouldn’t have left with so much bitterness flying between them. He should have finished it or sorted it. But how could he when she had made such vicious accusations? The very idea of losing control to the extent that he’d hurt anyone, let alone a woman, revolted him. And then to accuse him of setting up that interview. He made a sound of disbelief. Didn’t she know how deep his resentment of trash journalism went?

Rico frowned, gripping the wheel, forcing himself to breathe steadily and wait until he had calmed down. Gradually the truth behind the furious row came to him, as if a mist was slowly lifting before his eyes. He could see that the level of Zoë’s passion was connected to the level of pain she had inside her. The legacy of her past had just played out between them. Instead of being hurt and offended by her accusations, he should be relieved that she had finally been able to vent her feelings, and that she had chosen to do it in front of him.

She was right. They both needed space, time to think. When he was with her his mind was clouded with all sorts of things that left no room for reason. He had never felt such a longing for anything or anyone in his life. Just the thought that someone—some man—some brute—had hurt her made him physically sick. So why wouldn’t she let him in? Couldn’t she see that he would take on the world to make things right for her again? Why wouldn’t she trust him?

Swinging onto the main road, Rico channelled his frustration into thoughts of exposing all the bullies in the world to public ridicule. It would be too easy to use strength against them; strength of mind was more his speciality, and a far better tool to drag Zoë back from the edge of the precipice that led straight back to her past.

As he settled into his driving he suffered another surge of impatience. It was so hard to be patient where Zoë was concerned. He had to remind himself that she was worth all the time in the world, and that he hadn’t made his fortune by acting on impulse. And, yes, she was right. He had expected an emotional response from her when she saw the screen full of huge letters, each one of them condemning her. He respected that. The headline was more than two years old, but he couldn’t believe she had ever reacted to it in any other way. It took real courage to handle it so well.

But he had seen her lose control later. Was it his betrayal that had forced her over the edge even when she could keep her cool under fire from the tabloid press? If so, did that mean there was something really worth fighting for growing between them?

Quite suddenly the newspaper article seemed ridiculous. Zoë had forged a successful career for herself; she had no need to sell anything other than her talent. But where sex was concerned she was seriously repressed. He had firsthand experience to back that up…

Remembering, Rico grimaced. He felt like hell. What had he done? What had he done to Zoë? He should have been there for her. He should have made allowances. He should have proved to her, as well as to himself, that he understood how complex she was. She wasn’t like other women, she had been right about that—but not in the way she thought. Her past had left her damaged, and instead of trying to help he had trampled her trust into the ground. There wasn’t a brazen bone in her body, and if he had to delve deeper into her past to find out the truth and make things right for her, then he would.

Why was it so important to her that Rico Cortes knew the truth? Zoë wondered as she closed the door on the study bedroom after sending her e-mails. She had been so sure she wouldn’t care, so certain she would brazen it out if he looked at her with scorn and contempt. He had done neither, but still the matter wasn’t resolved in her head. She had to see him at least once more to sort it out. She had thought she could treat him like anyone else—if he believed the lies, so be it; if he didn’t, so much the better. But now she knew she wouldn’t rest until he knew the truth.

Her ex had planted the headline—though Rico couldn’t know that. He had taken his revenge when she’d left him after years of abuse. She had refused to accept the public humiliation two years ago, and she wasn’t about to let it get to her now.

What hurt her far more was the fact that Rico Cortes was a man she might have loved, and that he had deceived her into believing he was nothing more than a local flamenco enthusiast. She could accept his need for caution; Rico was a very rich man indeed—and an aristocrat, according to the search engine on the computer. But he was a self-made man for all that; he had started with nothing but a title.

As she pushed open the kitchen door and walked inside Zoë made a sharp, wounded sound. She was just Zoë Chapman, marital survivor and cook—hardly an appropriate match for a billionaire aristocrat.

She had allowed herself to develop feelings for a man she could never have. Right now she wished she’d never come to Spain, had never met El Señor Alarico Cortes de Aragon, because then he couldn’t have broken her heart.

Arriving back at his beach house, Rico tossed the keys of the Jeep onto the hall table and smiled a greeting at his butler.

‘A package arrived for you, sir, while you were out.’

‘Thank you, Rodrigo.’ Rico scanned the details on the well-stuffed padded bag as he carried it through to his study.

Before opening it he pulled back the window shutters so that brilliant sunlight spilled into the room. His whole vision was filled with the shimmering Mediterranean, and he drew the tang of ozone deep into his lungs. Simple things gave him the greatest pleasure. These were the real rewards of extreme wealth: the rush of waves upon the sand, the seabirds soaring in front of his windows, and the matchless tranquillity.

Opening the package, he tipped the contents onto his desk. There was a log of Zoë’s everyday life back in England, along with diaries, tapes, transcripts of interviews, photographs, press-cuttings… Rico’s hand hovered over the disarray, and then he pushed it all away.

He didn’t want to read what someone else had to say about Zoë. He didn’t care to acknowledge the fact that his pride and his suspicion had demanded such an invasion of her privacy. He felt dirty, and disgusted with himself, as if the contents of the package somehow contaminated him.

If he cared to look, he knew that whatever he found in the newspaper cuttings would be a sensationalised account. Even the most respected broadsheet had to succumb to such tactics in a marketplace where fresh news was available at the click of a mouse.

Coffee was served to him, and taken away again without being touched. The crisp green leaves of a delicious-looking salad had wilted by the time he absent-mindedly forked some up.

Pushing the plate away to join the rest of the detritus on his desk, he stood up and stretched. Walking over to the window, he was not surprised to see how low the sun had dipped in the sky. The colours outside the window were spectacular, far richer than before, as if the day wanted to leave behind a strong impression before it gave way to the night.

He would not let Zoë go. He could not. If she told him to go again, then he would still let her stay on at the castle as long as it suited her. It was a hollow, unlovely place without her.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he didn’t wait for the Jeep to be brought round to the front. Sprinting down the steps, he jogged down the drive towards the garage block and, climbing in, switched on and powered away.

He found her in the kitchen, eating with the crew. They were relaxing in the way only good friends could relax—some with their feet up on the opposite chair, men with their shirts undone, sleeves rolled back, and girls with hardly any makeup, and real tangles rather than carefully tousled hair. The table was littered with the debris of a put-together meal, and when he walked in a silence fell that was so complete it left the walls ringing. There was the sound of chairs scraping the floor as everyone stiffened and straightened up. He could sense them closing in around Zoë like a protective net.

Her lips parted with surprise as she stared at him. She was wearing nightclothes—faded pyjamas—with her hair left in damp disarray around her shoulders. She looked to him as if the day had been too much for her and she couldn’t wait to get it over with and go to sleep. Someone at the table must have talked her into joining them for a light meal.

It was the enemy camp, all right. Every gaze except for Zoë’s was trained on his face. These were the people who had stood by her, who had stayed with her when she’d made the break from the television company run by her ex-husband. That much he’d learned from the Internet. These were the people who had put their livelihoods on the line for Zoë Chapman.

He waited by the door, and she half stood. But the girl sitting next to her put a hand on Zoë’s arm.

‘You don’t have to go, Zo.’

‘No, no… I’ll be all right.’ She pushed her chair back from the table and looked at him. ‘I have to get this sorted out.’

He went outside, and she followed him. ‘Will you come with me?’ He glanced towards the Jeep.

‘I’m not dressed.’

If that was the only reason, he’d solve the problem for her. Striding quickly back into the castle, he plucked a shawl down from a peg. As he came out again he threw it round her shoulders. ‘You’ll be warm enough now.’

‘It’s not that, Rico. I’m not sure I want to come with you.’

She took a step away from him. Folding the shawl carefully, she hung it over her arm, as if she wanted time to put her thoughts back in order.

‘Please.’ He wasn’t good at this, Rico realised. He could negotiate his way in or out of anything to do with business. But feelings—needs—they were foreign to him, an emotional bank accessed by other people. He was a man of purpose, not dreams—but quite suddenly he realised that purpose and dreams had become hopelessly intertwined. ‘Just give me an hour of your time. Please, Zoë. That’s all I ask.’

‘Will you wait in the Jeep while I get changed?’

He would have waited at the gateway to hell if she had asked him to.

Rico’s knuckles were white with tension by the time Zoë emerged from the castle. She hadn’t kept him waiting long, and now he drank her in like a thirsty man at a watering hole in the desert. She was wearing her uniform of choice: jeans and a plain top. She looked great. She was so fresh, so clean, and so lovely, with her red-gold hair caught up high on the top of her head in a band so that the thick fall brushed her shoulders as she walked towards him.

‘Are you sure we can’t talk here—or in the garden?’

‘I’d like to show you something,’ he said, opening the passenger door for her.

After a moment’s hesitation she climbed in. He felt as if he had just closed the biggest business deal of his life. Only this was better—much, much better.

‘What a fabulous place,’ she said, when they turned in the gates at the beach house. ‘Whose is it?’

Her voice tailed off at the end of the question, and he knew she had already guessed. Sweeping through the towering gates, Rico slowed as they approached the mansion. Even he could see it was stunning now he saw it through Zoë’s eyes.

‘It’s all very beautiful,’ Zoë said, when they were inside.

He watched her trail her fingers lightly over the creamy soft furnishings as they walked through the main reception room. Everything looked better to him too now she was here. He could see how well the cream walls looked, with smoky blue highlights provided by cushions and rugs, and the occasional touch of tobacco-brown. The walls had been left plain to show off his modern art collection.

‘Chagall?’ She turned to him in amazement.

He felt ashamed that he took such things for granted. Not for him the colourful poster prints that had adorned his mother’s home and made it so cheerful. He liked the real thing, and he could afford it now—Hockney and Chagall were just two of his favourites. He envied the expression on Zoë’s face. He wanted to recapture that feeling. He wanted to remember how it had felt to attend his first fine art auction sale, where he had vowed one day he would be bidding.

Zoë turned back to the picture again. She had never seen anything like it outside a museum. The picture showed a handsome man embracing a woman with long titian hair. They were both suspended in an azure sky, with the head of a good-natured horse sketched into the background. A happy sun shone out of the canvas, turning the land beneath it to gold.

‘It’s genuine, isn’t it? This isn’t a print?’

‘That’s right.’ He felt shame again. Such things were meant to be shared. When was the last time he had brought anyone into his home?

‘I saw a Chagall in Las Vegas—a man and woman, head to head—’ Zoë stopped talking, realising they were standing head to head too, and that Rico was smiling down at her.

‘You know what I mean.’ She waved her hand and moved away, going to stand by an open window. ‘Rico, why am I here?’ she said, still with her back turned to him.

‘I know everything about you.’

‘Oh, do you?’ she said, managing to sound as unconcerned as if they had been discussing a new style of drapes.

‘Zoë, please, can’t we talk about it?’

‘Why should we? What purpose would it serve?’ She turned round to stare at him.

‘Will you come with me?’ he said.

Something in his expression made her walk towards him.

This must be his study, Zoë realised. It was a pleasant, airy room, but small on the scale of other rooms in the mansion. It was cosy, even a little cluttered. This was the hub around which the rest of his life revolved, she guessed.

‘Please sit down,’ he said, holding out a chair for her across from his own at the desk.

‘I’d rather stand.’

‘Please.’

She didn’t want to make a fuss.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Rico said, sitting across from her.

‘Tell you what?’

‘That all that nonsense in the newspaper was a pack of lies?’

‘Because I don’t feel the need to defend myself.’

‘Nor should you.’

Glancing down at the desk, Zoë realised that all the papers she had thought were Rico’s were, in fact, her own history in print. ‘So now you know.’

‘I only wish I’d known about it sooner. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because it’s none of your business. And because I don’t want, or need, anyone’s misplaced sympathy.’

‘Misplaced?’ Rico sprang to his feet and planted his fists on the desk, leaning so far over it their faces were almost touching. ‘A man who is supposed to love you beats you up, and you call my sympathy misplaced? You build a whole new life for yourself, and a successful career, only to have that—that—’ Rico stopped, the words jamming in his brain as he searched for something to properly describe what he thought of Zoë’s ex-husband.

‘I finally left him when he tried to sell me to someone he owed money to.’

All the emotion was gone from her voice. He wanted her to rail against her fate, to show some emotion.

‘It was just a night of sex, to pay off the debt…’

‘Just! Zoë, Zoë—’ Rico passed his hand across his eyes, as if it would help him to make some sense of what she was telling him. Walking around the desk, he drew her to her feet. ‘Come with me.’ He took her to the open window. ‘Look out there. Tell me what you see.’

‘It’s night-time—’

‘It’s nature, Zoë—pure, harsh, and lovely. Here at my beach house, and at the castle in Cazulas, I escape from the world when I need to. That’s why I was so protective of my privacy when you arrived. Why I still am so protective—but now I want you to have the same. I don’t want you to live with a nightmare stuck in the back of your mind. I can’t bear to think of you trapped like that, in the past.’

Wrapping her arms around her waist, Zoë inhaled deeply, and then turned away from the window to face him. ‘I got away, in case you’re interested. I could see the man’s heart wasn’t in it. False bravado brought him to me after a few drinks with my ex-husband. I just explained it was a bad time for me—that there had to be some mistake. He didn’t lose face. There was no unpleasantness. I think I handled it well.’

Handled it well? The words tumbled around Rico’s head as if someone was knocking them in with a hammer. He wanted to drag her into his arms right then, tell her it would be all right from now on, that he would be there for her, to protect her from harm. He wanted to promise her that she would never have to face such a monstrous situation in her life again—but she was already walking towards the door.

‘Will you take me back to the castle now?’

‘I’ll do anything you want me to.’

She smiled faintly at him, as if to acknowledge his understanding without necessarily accepting that it helped or changed anything for her.

The call came when Zoë had just climbed into bed, and for the second time that night she rushed to pull on her jeans. This time she tugged a sweater over the top of her tee shirt. She didn’t know how long she would be, or what might be involved. She just knew she had to be prepared. A phone call from Maria in hospital was serious. Snatching up her bag and some money, along with her car keys, she hurried downstairs.

Zoë felt as if there was a tight band around her chest until the moment she reached the small private room and saw Maria sitting up in a chair beside the bed with a rug over her knees. ‘Thank God you’re all right,’ she said, crouching down at her side. ‘Is it serious?’ She reached for Maria’s hand. ‘I’ve been so worried about you. Will it affect your dancing?’

Maria lifted her other arm from beneath the blanket, revealing strapping. ‘Thankfully just a sprain—nothing more. The X-rays have confirmed it. I’m sorry if I frightened you, Zoë. I just couldn’t stand the thought of being here all night, and I have such a thing about taxis—’

‘No. You were absolutely right to call me. I’m so relieved. I don’t know why, but I thought you might have injured your leg.’

‘My fault. I should have explained, instead of just saying I had fallen. I can see now that my legs would be the first thing you thought of.’

‘Has anyone told Rico? If he hears you are in hospital he’ll be very worried.’

‘I tried him first,’ Maria told her. ‘But he wasn’t at home.’

No, he was taking me home, Zoë thought, feeling doubly guilty knowing Maria had probably rung Rico to take her to the hospital. And she had been so lost in her own thoughts on the way back to the castle she hadn’t spoken a word to him.

‘The main thing is that no permanent harm has been done,’ Zoë said, returning to practical matters. ‘Can you leave now, or must we wait for a doctor?’

‘The doctor has to formally discharge me before he goes off duty for the night. But we can talk until then.’ Maria stopped and viewed Zoë with concern. ‘You look exhausted, Zoë, is something wrong?’

‘No.’ Zoë forced a bright note into her voice. ‘Nothing.’ Nothing apart from the fact that Rico knew the whole sordid truth about her now and she would probably never see him again. He’d been sympathetic enough, but, remembering how he had deceived her about his identity, she couldn’t help wondering if his sympathy had just been an act too.

She refocused as Maria started to speak again.

‘Are you sure that son of mine hasn’t said something to upset you?’

‘Your son?’

‘Rico?’ Maria prompted.

‘Rico!’

Zoë turned away. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Why hadn’t she seen it before? Rico’s defensive attitude towards Maria when she had first wanted to approach her… She had thought it pride on his part that she, a stranger, had dared to expect such an artist to put her talent on show for commercial gain. And the attention he paid Maria, his obvious pride in his mother’s cultural heritage. All this should have told her. But how could it be? He was not Rico Cortes, local flamenco enthusiast, but El Señor Alarico Cortes de Aragon, a grandee of Spain.

‘I don’t understand.’ She turned back to Maria.

‘It is very simple—’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Zoë said quickly. ‘It’s none of my business.’

‘I’m not ashamed of what I did. Rico’s father was the local landowner. His wife was dead, and we loved each other. We never married, but I gave him a son.’ She smiled.

‘But how did Rico inherit the title and the castle?’

‘There were no other heirs. His father insisted the title must be passed to Rico. They were very close. It was just the title— his money went to the village.’

‘But what about you?’

‘I was proud—maybe too proud.’

‘But Rico was a success?’

‘A huge success,’ Maria agreed with a wry laugh. ‘Rico has always supported me, and eventually he made enough money to buy back the castle. As his father suspected, Rico didn’t need his money—he was quite capable of making his own fortune.’

‘You must be very proud of him.’

‘I am,’ Maria assured her. ‘And now Rico cares for the village just as his father used to do.’

Maria’s glance darted to the door. She was growing anxious, Zoë realised. ‘I’ll go and find the doctor, and see if I can hurry him up.’ Another thought struck her. ‘Did you try Rico on his mobile?’

‘Yes,’ Maria said, her dark eyes brightening as she looked towards the door.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

HAD Maria planned this? Zoë wondered. She couldn’t see how that was possible—unless Rico had said something to his mother, and then Maria had put in a call to both of them, using her misfortune as a mechanism to bring them together.

Her heart was hammering louder than Maria’s shoes had ever thundered on a floor as Rico moved past her to draw his mother into his arms. Pulling back, he spoke to her quickly in Spanish. Having received the answer he hoped for, he smiled and kissed her cheek before turning to Zoë.

‘Thank you for coming, Zoë.’

How could I not? Zoë wondered. ‘I was only too pleased I could help. But now you’re here I’ll leave you with your mother—’

‘No.’ Rico touched her arm. ‘It’s late, Zoë. You should not be driving home alone.’

‘I’ll go and find the doctor before I leave, and send him in to you.’

‘No.’ This time he closed the door. ‘I’m taking you back with us, and that’s final. You’ve had a shock too, and the roads can be dangerous at night.’

No more dangerous than they had ever been, Zoë thought. But Rico’s expression was set, and she didn’t want to make a fuss in front of Maria.

They settled Maria into her cosy home in the centre of the village, and then got back in the Jeep.

‘It really was good of you to go to the hospital for Maria,’ Rico said as they moved off again.

‘I’d do anything for her,’ Zoë said honestly, resting back against the seat.

‘I can see you’re tired. I’ll take you straight back.’

‘Thank you.’

So much for Maria’s machinations. If it had been a plan at all, nothing was going to come of it. And of course she was relieved…

Clambering into bed and switching off the light, Zoë sank into the pillows, shot through with exhaustion. It had been quite a day. Her body was wiped out, but her mind refused to shut down. Turning on the light again, she thought about Rico, and about Rico and Maria being mother and son. And then she ran through everything Maria had told her about Rico.

Swinging her legs out of bed, she poured herself a glass of water. Rico had set out on a mission to reclaim his inheritance, to preserve everything he believed in, just as she had. They had both succeeded. They were both proud and defensive—you had to be when you’d fought so hard for something. She always felt as if everything she had achieved might slip through her fingers if she didn’t hold on tight enough.

Zoë’s glance grazed the telephone sitting next to her on the bedside table. She had to decide whether to call him or not. Of course she didn’t have to do anything—she could just let him slip away into the past…

Zoë was surprised when the operator found the number so easily. She had imagined Rico would have a number that would be withheld from the public. Instead a cultured voice answered her in Spanish right away. It wasn’t Rico’s voice, it was some other man—his butler, perhaps. She gave her name, and he asked her to wait and he would see whether it was convenient for Señor Alarico to take her call.

It felt like for ever before Rico came on the line, and then he sounded as if he had been exercising. It was a big house, Zoë reminded herself, with acres of floor space. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you.’

‘It is no trouble. What can I do for you?’

‘Did I disturb you? Were you sleeping?’

‘Sleeping? No. I was in the pool—they had to come and get me.’

‘I see. I’m sorry,’ she said again.

‘Don’t be.’

The line went quiet as if he was waiting for her to speak. She couldn’t change her mind now. ‘We didn’t finish our conversation earlier.’

Now it was Zoë’s turn to wait, not daring to breathe in case she missed his reply.

‘I’ll come over tomorrow.’

It was less than she had hoped for, but more in some ways. They were speaking at least.

‘Or would you prefer to come here?’

Space from the film crew would be good. They were so defensive on her behalf. She loved them for it, but it made any private discussion with Rico impossible. ‘I’m going to see Maria—your mother—in the morning.’ She was thinking aloud, planning her day.

‘Then I’ll pick you up around nine. We’ll go and see her together. You can come back here for lunch afterwards…if you like?’

‘I would like that.’ She smiled. ‘Nine o’clock, then.’

‘See you tomorrow, Zoë.’

The line was cut before she could reply.

Maria couldn’t have made it more obvious that she was pleased to see them. She was already up and about, and insisted on making coffee.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ she told Rico, brushing off his offer to help. ‘And before you say a word, I am returning to teaching today.’

‘I forbid it—’

‘Oh, you do? Do I dance on my hands, Rico? I still have one good hand with which to direct proceedings. And,’ she said, refusing to listen to his argument, ‘I am to be collected in half an hour. Before I leave, I have something for you, Zoë—to make sure you never stop dancing.’

‘I can’t possibly take that!’ Zoë looked at the lilac dress Maria was holding up. The one she had worn for her first flamenco lesson. ‘It must be worth a fortune.’

‘It’s worth far more than that,’ Maria assured her as she pressed it into Zoë’s hands. ‘And I want you to have it.’

‘It’s so beautiful,’ Zoë said, resting her face against it.

‘Yes, it is—and if you ever need a boost, Zoë, you just look at it and think of us.’

‘I’ll only need to think of you, Maria,’ Zoë said, smiling as she hugged Rico’s mother.

It was fortunate Zoë couldn’t see his mother’s imperative drawing together of her upswept black brows, or the fierce command in her eyes, Rico realised as he took the cue to go, and take Zoë with him. ‘We’d better leave you now so that you can get ready for your class, Mother.’

‘Yes,’ Maria said firmly, clearly relieved that her silent message had been understood. ‘But before you go, Rico, you can do one more thing for me.’

‘What’s that?’ he said, pausing with his hand on the door.

‘Take this with you,’ she said, handing him a camera. ‘I want a photograph of Zoë in that dress—to hang in the mountain lodge at the flamenco camp,’ she explained to Zoë. ‘Then I will be able to see the dress and you, Zoë, any time I want.’

Alongside Beba? Immediately Zoë regretted the thought. Maria just wasn’t like that. ‘I’m sure you don’t want reminding of my pathetic efforts—’

‘I most certainly do. You were very good—full of genuine passion,’ Maria said firmly. ‘Now, take this girl to lunch, Rico. She looks half starved. And don’t forget my photograph.’

‘I won’t,’ he promised, sweeping her into his arms for a parting embrace.

Zoë had her hand stuck up her back when she emerged from Rico’s dressing-room. He was sitting on the shady veranda at his beach house, where they had been having lunch. He stood as she approached.

‘I can’t seem to get the dress right—can you help me?’ Maria had been on hand the last time to finish off the fastenings for her.

The setting was superb. There was an archway coated in cerise bougainvillea where she would stand for Maria’s photograph, with the sea behind her and some flamenco music playing softly to put her in the mood.

Giving up on the dress, Zoë straightened up. ‘Help?’ she prompted softly.

‘Yes, of course.’

Lunch had been a neutral, emotion-free affair, with delicious food served at a leisurely pace, prepared for them by one of Rico’s excellent chefs. Zoë knew they were starting again. They were taking it slowly—each of them feeling their way, each of them strangers to love, each of them determined to put at least a toe in the water.

Rico couldn’t have planned anything better than this, Zoë thought as she waited for him to finish fastening her dress. It was a treat just to eat food someone else had prepared. Before she met Rico, she had always taken charge of things in the kitchen. He was right: it was good to kick back and relax from time to time.

‘Te gusta el flamenco, señorita?’

‘‘Sí, señor, I like flamenco very much,’ Zoë whispered, trying not to respond to the closeness of his body or the tone of his voice as he reached around her waist to secure the fastenings. Then he murmured, ‘Turn around,’ and it was impossible, because the warmth of his breath was making every tiny hair on the back of her neck stand erect.

‘There—that’s done,’ he said.

She must have turned too quickly. One silk shoulder strap slipped from her shoulder, and as she went to pull it up again their fingers tangled.

‘I’m sorry.’ Zoë quickly removed her hand.

‘Sorry? What are you sorry for, Zoë?’

His voice was neutral, but his eyes… They were very, very close. His hands were still resting lightly on her waist. ‘I didn’t give you the chance to explain anything. I just poured out all my own troubles.’

‘Stop.’ Rico’s voice was low, but firm. ‘You make it sound as if what happened to you was normal. It wasn’t normal, Zoë—and you must never think of it that way or you will come to accept it as normal. You were brutalised—your mind, your body—’

‘But I’m all right now.’

‘And I’m going to make sure you stay that way.’

‘You—’

Rico didn’t plan on long explanations. He kissed her so tenderly he made her cry, and he had to catch the tears on her cheeks with his fingertips.

‘I feel such a fool.’

‘No, you don’t,’ he assured her. ‘You feel wonderful to me.’ And, sweeping her into his arms, he walked back into the house.

‘What a shame we must take this dress off again,’ he said when they reached his bedroom, ‘when you have only just put it on.’

He was already halfway down the fastenings as she lay in his arms on the bed. ‘Maria’s photograph—’ Zoë tensed as the last one came free.

‘Later.’ Rico kissed her shoulder, moving on to nudge her hair aside and kiss her neck.

‘But it will be dark later.’

‘You will look beautiful by moonlight.’

And then the silk dress was hanging off, and, feeling self-conscious, she wriggled out of it.

Picking it up, Rico tossed it onto a chair by the side of the bed. She wore little underneath it—just a flimsy scrap of a lace thong, not even a bra. There was support built in to the bodice of the dress.

Rico planted kisses as he freed the buttons on his shirt. That followed the dress, and when he kissed her again, and she felt his warm, hard body against her own, Zoë whimpered; she couldn’t help herself.

He rested her back against silk and satin, and the linen sheets beneath the covers were scented with lavender. Everything was contrived to please the senses—and it was so easy to slide a little deeper into pleasure beneath his touch.

As Rico looked at the small, pale hands clutching his shoulders, and heard Zoë call his name, he knew she was everything he wanted. Her breasts were so lush, so provocative, the taut nipples reaching out to him, pink and damp where he had tormented her. Her legs moved rhythmically over the bed as she groaned out her need, and now there was just the scrap of lace dissecting the golden tan of her thighs between them.

His gaze swooped up again, lingering on the dark shadow of her cleavage, so deep and lovely. He longed to lose himself in it, to bury his tongue and more besides in its warm, clinging silkiness. But it wasn’t just her beauty that bewitched him. He needed her. He had never needed anyone in his life before—he’d made sure of it. But Zoë was different—he was different when he was with her, and perhaps that was the most important thing of all.

He watched as she freed the tiny thong and inched it down over her thighs. Had he ever been so aroused? Clamouring sensations gnawed at his control, but he held back. Her trust was too hard won to risk now. How could anyone have abused her? Her skin was as soft and as fragile as the silk upon which she lay. Her eyes were darkening with growing confidence and her lips were parted in invitation. As their eyes locked and she reaffirmed her faith in him, he knew he would defend her with his life.

‘Rico…’

As she breathed his name he remembered wryly that foreplay was intended to be an aphrodisiac, not a torture.

He went to pull off the rest of his clothes, but she stopped him. He drew in a deep shuddering breath. He would stop even now if she asked him to.

Scrambling into a sitting position, she touched the belt buckle on his trousers. ‘You’ll have to help me—my hands are shaking.’

Taking both her hands in his, he kissed each one of her fingertips in turn and then, turning her hands over, planted a tender kiss on each palm.

When Rico finally stood naked before her, Zoë’s breath caught in her throat. He was totally unabashed, his dark gaze steady on her face. A lasso of moonlight fell across him, showing the power in his forearms and the wide spread of shoulders. She saw now that his broad chest was shaded with dark hair that tapered down to a hard belly, below which…

She stared into his face, waiting for him to come to her.

Her perfume was intoxicating, drawing him towards her. He stretched his length against her on the bed, not touching her, still holding back. Inhaling deeply, he stroked her thick, silky hair, sifting it through his fingers and enjoying the texture. He loved the way she quivered beneath his touch, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, her breathing nothing more than whispery puffs.

‘Rico—’

He kissed her lightly on the lips.

‘Kiss me properly.’

‘Properly? What do you mean?’ His restraint was making her bloom beneath him like a flower that had been too long out of the sun. Her breasts, two perfect globes, were thrust towards him, and her nipples, cruelly neglected, were almost painfully erect. The soft swell of her belly led his gaze down to where she was aching for his attention. Cupping her breasts, he made her gasp. And that gasp soon turned to a whimper as he began to chafe each perfect nipple with his firm thumb pads.

The pleasure was so intense it was almost a pain. He had forgotten how exquisite she was, how sweetly scented, how tender she felt beneath his lips. As he suckled and tugged, and heard her cry out his name, he knew that all he wanted in the world was to keep her safe and love her.

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