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The Rich Man's Mistress
CATHY WILLIAMS


She'd been his mistress–now he was her boss!Two days of glorious, unexpected passion with gorgeous Luke Decroix and Miranda was already naming their babies! But for him it was only a brief affair, so Miranda returned home…alone.Then Luke offered her a dream job designing his house. But how could she work so closely with the millionaire after their liaison in France? She agreed on one condition: that their relationship would be strictly business!












Take time out from your busy schedule this month to kick back and relax with a brand-new Harlequin Presents novel. We hope you enjoy this month’s selection.

If you love royal heroes, you’re in for a treat this month! In Penny Jordan’s latest book, The Italian Duke’s Wife, an Italian aristocrat chooses a young English woman as his convenient wife. When he unleashes within her a desire she never knew she possessed, he is soon regretting his no-consummation rule…. Emma Darcy’s sheikh in Traded to the Sheikh is an equally powerful and sexy alpha male. This story has a wonderfully exotic desert setting, too!

We have some gorgeous European men this month. Shackled by Diamonds by Julia James is part of our popular miniseries GREEK TYCOONS. Read about a Greek tycoon and the revenge he plans to exact on an innocent, beautiful model when he wrongly suspects her of stealing his priceless diamonds. In Sarah Morgan’s Public Wife, Private Mistress, can a passionate Italian’s marriage be rekindled when he is unexpectedly reunited with his estranged wife?

In The Antonides Marriage Deal by Anne McAllister, a Greek magnate meets a stunning new business partner, and he begins to wonder if he can turn their business arrangement into a permanent contract—such as marriage! Kay Thorpe’s Bought by a Billionaire tells of a Portuguese billionaire and his ex-lover. He wants her back as his mistress. Previously she rejected his proposal because of his arrogance and his powerful sexuality. But this time he wants marriage….

Happy reading! Look out for a brand-new selection next month.




The Rich Man’s Mistress

Cathy Williams





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




All about the author…

Cathy Williams


CATHY WILLIAMS was born in the West Indies and has been writing for the Harlequin Presents line for over fifteen years. She is a great believer in the power of perseverance as she had never written anything before and from the starting point of zero has now fulfilled her ambition to pursue this most enjoyable of careers. She would encourage any would-be writer to have faith and go for it!

She lives in the beautiful Warwickshire countryside with her husband and three children, Charlotte, Olivia and Emma. When not writing she is hard-pressed to find a moment’s free time in between the millions of household chores, not to mention being a one-woman taxi service for her daughters’ never-ending social lives.

She derives inspiration from the hot, lazy, tropical island of Trinidad (where she was born), from the peaceful countryside of middle England and, of course, from her many friends, who are a rich source of plots and are particularly garrulous when it comes to describing her heroes. It would seem from their complaints that tall, dark and charismatic men are too few and far between! Her hope is to continue writing romance fiction and providing those eternal tales of love for which, she feels, we all strive.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE




CHAPTER ONE


MIRANDA paused and looked behind her, then she slowly turned a full circle. This was a big mistake because the slow beat of panic which had been curling inside her stomach for the past hour mushroomed into full-blown fear as she was forced to contemplate her complete isolation. She had no idea where she was. She had no idea where she was going. All sense of direction had been lost as she had skied rapidly away from the avalanche straight into a blizzard that was now making forward progress laborious and uncertain. And, to make matters worse, dusk was beginning to permeate the great white amphitheatre which had always seemed so gloriously free and now appeared terrifyingly hostile.

She whimpered and found that she was having to make an effort to remind herself that she was an expert skier, had been doing it for twenty-two of her twenty-five years. She could more than handle the challenge of the black runs. With the snow whipping like pellets against the parts of her face which were exposed, and restricting any clear view that might help her to get her bearings, she would have to move slowly and keep her fingers crossed that she was going in the right direction.

Anger gave way to self-pity and she skied slowly towards a small cluster of fir trees which offered the only visual relief from the naked, virgin-white landscape, barely visible now as the light continued to fade.

She was lost, alone, terrified and quite possibly on course for a date with the Grim Reaper, and all because Freddie, her so-called boyfriend, couldn’t keep his immature, wandering hands to himself. Not content with having had her there with him, he’d simply had to explore the voluptuous charm of the Italian eighteen-year-old girl who had been assigned to their chalet. And worse, had got caught doing it.

How dared he?

Miranda leaned against the trunk of a tree and closed her eyes. She had to take a few deep breaths to contain her rage or else she would scream at the top of her lungs and, with her luck, probably set off another avalanche. Her woollen hat was soaked from the snow. She should never have worn it. She should have stuck on her faithful, waterproof headgear instead of a flimsy hat simply because it matched the rest of her skiing outfit. Now she could feel the dampness permeating through to her head. As far as everything else was concerned, she was well-protected with all the requisite layers of clothing, including thick, waterproof gloves. But how long would she be able to remain stationary before the cold began sinking its teeth through the layers in search of flesh? She squinted into the dying light and dimly made out a thickish cluster of trees, a dense little patch that would be more protection for her should an overnight stay outdoors become necessary.

Miranda groaned. Why kid herself that she was miraculously going to find her way back to the chalet where Freddie and their fifteen-strong group were right now probably cracking open their first bottle and contemplating what to have for supper? Would they even have missed her? Or, if they had, would they have assumed that she was miserably lost and perilously close to despair in the middle of nowhereland? They were all first-class skiers and they would probably be unaware of the minor avalanche that had thrown her so badly off course. Doubtless Freddie would have made a story about their argument, reducing his despicable behaviour to the level of some boyish jollity that had been misconstrued by a jealous girlfriend and her absence would be put down to a minor blip. Quite possibly they would assume that she had needed to cool off and had taken herself off to one of the hotels in a huff. Her platinum credit card would have gained her entry into any of the hotels further down the slope if she felt she needed time out and they all knew that she travelled with it in her inside jacket pocket.

‘Just in case a fabulous shop happens to beckon unexpectedly!’ she had always joked.

Fat lot of good a credit card was going to do for her now.

She wearily adjusted her skies and headed towards the vanishing clump of trees, moving at a snail’s pace down the steep slope, making sure that desperation didn’t propel her to do anything stupid. With luck, the trees would block out the blizzard or at least keep it at bay and, if she huddled into a ball in the centre of them, she might just be able to last out the night. With even greater luck she might find shelter in one of the animal sheds that were dotted around here and there but she wouldn’t let any optimism blind her to the stark reality that she might just find more trees.

The vast white terrain was now almost completely swamped in darkness. If she hadn’t been so focused on making it to the trees while she could still see them, she might not have stumbled and fallen over the projecting stump, rolling powerlessly down the slope. One of her skies dislodged automatically, the other clung to her foot; and when she finally came to a slow halt and tried to stand, the pain shot through her ankle like an explosion.

The lost ski, which would be essential for her to get out of this mess, was nowhere to be seen. The fast-falling snow had buried it like a matchstick and there was no time to instigate a hunt.

Miranda felt panic turn her bones to water and she gritted her teeth, forcing herself down the last few metres towards the trees, dragging her useless foot and using her ski poles like crutches.

She had been right. The blizzard, at least, was kept at bay by the denseness of the trees. She forced herself forward and was about to pause for a rest when she saw a flicker of light. When she angled her body for a better view, the light disappeared; but then, back in the original position, it reappeared. Something bright through the trees.

She could feel her eyes getting heavy and made herself stand back up, lifting her damaged leg as though she was just about to begin a game of hopscotch. The pain was excruciating, but far less so when there was no weight applied.

If she ever made it back home in one piece, then she would turn her life around. No more flitting from one fun spot to another in search of thrills. No more frantic social life—paid for by her wealthy daddy—in the company of other young, rich, restless friends from similarly wealthy backgrounds. And no more Freddie. That went without saying. In fact no more men. And definitely no more rich, spoiled brats.

The light was getting more constant now.

Miranda was virtually crying from the anticipation of finding it. The trees had become shapeless black towers and she had to weave her way painfully around them until, without warning, they cleared and the source of the light became apparent.

Not an animal shed but a cabin. Fairly small, with the typically pointed roof and, more importantly, inhabited. The curtains were drawn against the darkness but the light inside promised occupation. Help. She gave a deep-throated sob and dragged her way to the door, collapsing in exhaustion after one loud bang.

Which meant that her first view of her rescuer, her saviour, was of his feet. Or rather of his brown, weathered loafers. When he spoke his voice seemed to come from a long way off. A nice voice, she thought distractedly, deep. She lacked the energy to raise her head to inspect the face that went with the voice. She closed her eyes on a sigh and felt him lift her up and carry her into the blissful warmth of the cabin, kicking shut the door behind him.

It felt unbelievably good to be out of the cold. So good, in fact, that she wondered whether she was dreaming and whether, in a minute, she would open her eyes only to find that she was huddled under a tree fending off the same blizzard and any hopes of rescue, cabins, flickering lights and warmth were the delusions of a wandering mind.

Which was why she kept her eyes closed as she was deposited gently on a sofa that felt broad and comfortable enough to be a bed.

‘Who,’ the voice said from above her, ‘the hell are you and what are you doing here?’

Less of a question and more of a demand for an immediate explanation. Miranda opened her eyes and found herself staring upwards at the harsh angles of an aggressively dominant face and at narrowed cobalt-blue eyes that were staring back at her with a mixture of suspicion and hostility.

He was wearing a baggy and very faded dark blue and white striped tee shirt and a pair of loose grey jogging pants that, like the shirt, seemed to have seen better days many moons before.

She forgot the pain in the ankle in the face of this overwhelming show of rudeness.

Never before in her life had any man ever reacted to her like this before! True, she probably wasn’t looking her best right at this very moment, but still. She felt her mouth droop into a petulant scowl which only made her unwelcome saviour narrow his fierce eyes even more.

‘Are you going to answer me?’ he demanded harshly.

Miranda sat forward and then winced as the pain shot straight from her ankle to the remainder of her body. ‘My foot!’

The man’s eyes travelled from her face to her foot and for a second she thought that he might ignore her expression of pain, but he didn’t. He removed his hands from his pockets and bent over to slowly ease her foot out of her ski boot; then he muttered something that sounded very much like an expletive as he saw her swelling ankle.

‘What happened?’ His long fingers were pressing against various parts of her burning, painful skin. They were cool and skilful and, combined with the relief of not being skewered by those dangerously blue eyes, she sank back against the arm of the sofa and stared upwards at the lofty ceiling.

‘I was skiing and I fell,’ Miranda said in a small voice and he muttered another impatient oath under his breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ she felt compelled to add defensively.

‘Keep still. I’ll be back in a moment.’

She watched his departing back and only felt herself relax when he was no longer in sight.

Trust her to stumble helplessly into a man, the first ever, who intimidated her. He was too tall, too powerfully built, too raw and far too grim. She wondered whether he had disappeared to find something to help her or whether he had simply gone in search of a map so that he could point her in the direction of the nearest other place of occupation and thereby save himself the inconvenience of having her around.

‘I don’t think it’s broken,’ he said, emerging with a box in his hand. ‘Badly sprained but not broken. How long have you been travelling on it?’

‘About half an hour.’ Miranda frowned. ‘I think. Look, you don’t have to do this,’ she said as he opened the box and began unravelling a strip of bandage. ‘I’m capable of seeing to my own ankle.’

‘You mean like you’re capable of skiing without injuring yourself? You bloody beginners should stick to the nursery slopes instead of thinking you can ski off-piste because it’s more exciting.’ He ripped the bandage with his teeth and began stretching it around her ankle, working very slowly and expertly.

‘I am not a beginner,’ she said coldly. ‘I happen to be an extremely good skier.’

The man briefly looked at her with cool disbelief before returning to his task, and Miranda clamped her teeth together firmly. He might have the manners of a warthog but she would not sink to his level. For a start, whether she liked it or not, she was now dependent on him, at least until she could make a phone call and get someone to come and fetch her. She was also too well-mannered to breeze past the normal rules of common courtesy the way he obviously had no qualms about doing.

‘How do you know it’s not broken?’ she asked and he glanced at her again.

‘Because I just do,’ he said curtly.

‘You’re a doctor, then, I take it?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Then, who and what are you?’

He didn’t answer. Instead he finished with her ankle while she continued to simmer with growing irritation at his attitude. And when he had finished he stood up and strolled towards the chair closest to the fire.

‘Are you going to answer me?’ She pulled off the woollen hat and her long blonde hair spilled over the arm of the sofa like a sheet of cream silk.

‘Let’s get one thing straight. You’re in my house and I’ll ask the questions. Got it?’

Miranda stared at him open-mouthed.

‘When I’m finished asking the questions and I’m satisfied with the answers, you can go and have a bath and get into some of my clothes.’

His arrogance hit her like a sledgehammer and left her speechless.

‘First of all, tell me just how you happened to be skiing here. Have you any idea how dangerous the vertical slopes to this place are?’

‘I—I got caught in an avalanche…’

‘Where?’

‘Where…what?’

‘Where was this avalanche?’

‘Near our Val d’Isère resort, as it happens. I…had a bit of an argument with my boyfriend…and…I went skiing to take my mind off things which was when the avalanche happened. Not a very big one but big enough to throw me off course…’

‘Bloody irresponsible woman,’ he muttered scathingly.

Miranda ignored the interruption. If she had been in possession of her limbs, she would have stormed out of his damned cabin even if the alternative had meant a night on a slope. Unfortunately the option was not available and she bit back her anger.

‘Before I could get my bearings, I found myself stuck in a blizzard and, after a while, I didn’t have a clue where I was. I—I saw a clump of trees and decided that I’d be better off there if the worse happened and I had to spend the night outside. I was so desperate to get there that I didn’t see where I was going and I fell over a protruding stump of tree and sprained my ankle. I then saw the light from your cabin and hobbled over.’

‘So no one knows where you are.’

Miranda didn’t like the sound of that. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked at him nervously. It occurred to her suddenly that he could be anyone. It was a little technicality that had been overlooked in her relief at being rescued from the driving snow and the prospect of hypothermia.

And he was not someone she could fight off should she need to. She was tall, standing a good five feet ten in stockinged feet, but she would put him at least three or four inches taller than her and there was a muscled strength to him that would add power to his height.

She had a sinking feeling when she met his blue eyes that he could read every wayward thought flitting through her brain.

‘So…’ Miranda cleared her throat ‘…have I answered all your questions satisfactorily?’

‘Oh, I haven’t asked the most important one yet…’ He smiled slowly and linked his fingers on his lap, stretching out his long legs in front of him.

‘And what’s that?’

‘Your name…’

Miranda gritted her teeth in frustration. He had obviously seen the apprehension on her face and had decided to have a little fun at her expense, allowing just sufficient hint of a threat behind his silences to send her nerves skittering.

‘Miranda. Miranda Nash.’

‘Nash…’ He tilted his dark head to one side and Miranda nodded vigorously.

‘That’s right. You may have heard of my father. Lord Geoffery Nash.’ Her voice implied that whilst it might very well be true that no one knew her whereabouts, then it was also true that, should anything happen to her, there would be serious consequences to be paid.

‘Lord Geoffrey Nash no less…’

‘You’ve heard of him, then?’

‘Is that what I said…?’ He gave a low, amused laugh which for some reason annoyed her.

‘Is there a phone here I could use?’

‘The land lines are all dead.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders and continued to look at her, though this time with speculation. ‘Thanks to this blizzard. And I don’t expect them to be up and running for some time yet. The weather forecasts weren’t too good for the next couple of weeks ahead.’

‘Next couple of weeks ahead?’ Where, she wondered, appalled, did that leave her?

‘Fortunately, I have a cellphone.’ He raised his eyebrows expressively and Miranda scowled at him.

‘May I borrow it? Please?’ she added when he made no effort to move. ‘I want to call my dad to let him know that I’m safe and to tell him to get in touch with Freddie and the rest of my friends who might be worried…’

‘Why, of course.’ He gave a mock bow which further set her teeth on edge, and produced a fist-sized cellular phone which he handed to her with a flourish.

Miranda rapidly tapped in her father’s direct office number and after a few seconds was connected to him, smiling as she listened to his frantic overreaction to her situation, which she played down as much as she possibly could. She and her father were members of the mutual adoration society. He doted on her and she adored him. Which was why she guiltily omitted to mention the cause of her predicament, namely an argument with Freddie, whom her father contemptuously referred to as a foolish fop with more money than brains.

‘And who is this man you’re staying with at the moment?’ he rasped down the end of the telephone and Miranda put her hand over the receiver to ask for a name.

‘Hand me the phone.’ He walked over to her and extended his hand and after a few seconds of internal debate, she let him have it, resenting the way he spoke in a low voice with his back to her, even having the nerve to head out of the sitting room so that all chance of eavesdropping was squashed.

What could he have to talk to her father about? For so long? She impatiently waited for him to return and, when he did, she snatched the phone off him to say goodbye to her father, then she rested the mobile on the table next to her.

‘What were you talking to Dad about?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘And what’s your name? Why couldn’t you just tell me?’

‘Fond of asking questions, aren’t you?’ He threw another log on the fire and turned to look at her. ‘I thought it wise to reassure your father that you weren’t going to come to any harm here. My name, by the way, is Luke Decroix.’

‘And how did you manage to reassure him?’ Miranda asked tartly. ‘Did you tell him what a nice, charming, inoffensive gentleman you are?’

‘Oh, I think he gathered that from my voice. I also told him that you would call him every day just to fill him in on how you were. The fact is, I’m stuck with you at least until this blizzard has eased off a bit…’

‘You’re stuck with me?’

‘That’s right.’ He gave her a long, measured look. ‘I mean, you arrive in a heap on my doorstep and, face it, there’s not much you’re going to be able to do for yourself for a few days, is there? Not with that ankle of yours?’

‘I don’t intend to let you take care of me, so you needn’t worry.’

‘Oh, is that right…? Well, you won’t be able to shovel snow and chop logs, will you?’

‘You know I can’t.’

‘What about cleaning…?’

Miranda looked around her—for the first time since she had arrived at the cabin. Downstairs comprised the sitting room, which was quite big with low bookshelves fronting the open fireplace and several battered chairs in addition to the sofa. Through one open door she could glimpse a kitchen and there were a couple of other rooms at the back as well. Wooden stairs led up to a galleried landing which overlooked the downstairs, and off the landing were several rooms, probably bedrooms.

‘You’ve never so much as lifted a duster, have you?’ he asked quietly and she flushed. ‘What about cooking? Can you cook?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You suppose so?’

‘I—I’ve never needed to cook. Ethel looks after Dad and me…’ Even to her own ears, her résumé sounded woefully inadequate, and she tossed her hair back and glared at him. ‘I guess I could try my hand at doing something in the kitchen. It can’t be that difficult…’

‘What do you do?’ Luke asked with mortifying curiosity.

‘I—I’m a trained interior designer, if you want to know.’ Except, she did precious little of that, she thought with a stab of guilt. Her father had funded her course and had even provided her with her first clients, but her enthusiasm had gradually waned; she realised that she had not done anything to further her career for years now. Socialising had left little time for the more serious business of working and, without the need to earn a living, she had found it easy to be diverted.

‘That must keep you busy. Does it?’

‘Have I asked you what you do?’ Miranda retorted hotly feeling defensive at the realisation that, if he knew the truth about her idle lifestyle, he wouldn’t be very impressed.

‘So it doesn’t keep you busy, I take it,’ he replied calmly.

‘I never said that!’

‘Oh, but your lack of answer tells me that you don’t spend your days earning a crust as an interior designer. Which leads me to conclude that you really do nothing with your life except…what…party? Have fun holidays wherever the in crowd happens to be? I know your type.’

‘It’s important to enjoy life,’ Miranda said for the sake of argument, even though she knew that she was on losing ground.

‘You’d better go and get changed.’ He stood next to her and then grasped her arm with his fingers, help that she reluctantly accepted. ‘You can borrow some of my clothes, even though they’re probably not quite up to your standard, and then I’ll cook us something to eat.’

‘Thank you,’ she muttered, out of good manners—though she was looking forward to putting on dry clothes. Whenever she tried to stand, even slightly, on her hurt foot, she could feel her whole body flinch in discomfort. The bandage had made it feel better, or at least had given her the illusion of thinking that it did, but who cared whether she could hop, skip and jump in the morning? She would still be stuck here in ferocious bad weather with this unbearable man who moved from hostility to contempt with the ease of a magician. Through the little panes of the window she could see the snow whipping around outside and she could hear it as well. The low howl of wind and the soft spitting of the snowdrops. It was a nightmare.

‘Don’t be too proud to ask for help,’ he threw in casually, as she clung to the banister and tried to heave herself up, and Miranda looked at him sourly. Blue eyes, a deeper more piercing shade than her own aquamarine-blue and infinitely more opaque, met hers. His eyebrows were dark, the same raven darkness of his hair. But, close to him like this, she noticed his eyelashes, which were thick and long and unexpectedly attractive.

‘If you wouldn’t mind…’ she said, looking away, and he obligingly swept her off her feet and carried her upstairs as though she weighed less than a feather. A huge wave of exhaustion swept over her and she had to fight to keep her eyes open.

It felt so comfortable being carried like this. She could feel the strength of his body against her, like steel. The hands supporting her were large and powerful, like the rest of him; and, unlike most of the men she socialised with, he smelt not of expensive aftershave but of something more masculine and tangy. Very rough and ready, she thought. He would be if he lived here and spent his life chopping logs and skiing.

‘There’s just the one bathroom,’ he said, pushing open the door with his foot and then settling her on the chair by the bath. ‘So make sure you leave it just as you found it. I don’t intend to have to clean up after you.’

Without bothering to give her a second glance, he began running the bath, testing the water with his hand, squatting by the side of the bath so that his shirt lifted slightly to reveal a slither of hard brown skin.

‘I’d better get you undressed.’ He turned towards her and she was propelled out of her lazy observation of him.

‘No, thank you!’

‘You mean you can do it all yourself? With that ankle of yours?’

‘I’m very grateful to have been rescued by you,’ Miranda said stiffly, ‘but if you lay a finger on me, I swear I’ll scream this place down.’

‘Oh, will you?’ He leaned over her, caging her in with his hands and making sure that there was no place for her to look but at his face. His features were blunt and overpoweringly masculine and she cringed back into the chair like a startled victim of a bird of prey. ‘And who do you think will hear you? But…’ as quickly as he had leaned over her, he stood back, straightening to his massive height, and looked at her with an insolent lack of respect ‘…far be it from me to invade your maidenly privacy. Just make sure you clean up after yourself. I don’t want to find any of this…’ without warning he lifted some strands of her hair between his fingers so that the long fine white-blonde hair trailed over his wrists ‘…clogging up my plug hole.’

It took one full hour for her to complete her bath. Struggling out of her layers of ski gear was a feat along the lines of running five marathons in a row. And then, when she finally decided that her body would shrivel from overexposure to bath water, she got out and was confronted with the further indignity of yelling for him from the top of the stairs with a towel wrapped around her and her hair hanging limply wet down her back.

‘I wonder if I might borrow those clothes you mentioned?’ she told him when he finally surfaced at the bottom of the stairs with a saucepan in his hand.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I asked whether I might borrow those clothes you mentioned?’ Miranda repeated tersely. The towel barely covered her body. He must have known how awkward she felt standing here like this but either he didn’t give a damn or else he frankly enjoyed her discomfort. Or both.

‘I heard that bit. I’m waiting for you to finish your request.’

‘Please.’

‘That’s much better.’ He deposited the pan on the small wooden table at the bottom of the stairs and then headed up towards her. ‘You can use the spare bedroom,’ he said, pushing open a door to reveal a small, cosy room with its own open fireplace. There was just enough space for the single bed, a dressing table with a mirror and a chest of drawers. Miranda propped herself up against the door frame and looked around it. She was used to sleeping in a double bed. Even when she stayed in hotels, she always insisted on a double bed, however much extra the room might cost. She liked having a lot of space when she went to sleep. Single beds reminded her of hospitals and hospitals reminded her of her mother who had died in one when she had been barely knee-high to a grasshopper.

‘Not good enough for m’lady?’ For a big man, he moved with disconcerting stealth, she thought, swinging around to face him and finding a bundle of clothes shoved into her hands.

‘It’s fine. Thank you.’

‘Good. Because the only king-sized bed is in my room and my excessive hospitality does have its limits. Now, shall I help m’lady inside?’ Without giving her time to answer, he placed his hand squarely around her waist, leaving her no option but to clutch the loosening towel with one hand and place the other around his neck.

‘Now…’ He stood back and looked down at her with his arms folded ‘…you can get changed, and I’ll be up in fifteen minutes with something for you to eat. M’lady.’ He gave a mock salute.

‘Could you please stop calling me that?’

‘M’lady?’ His dangerous blue eyes widened with an expression of ridiculously inept innocence. ‘But why?’

‘Because it’s not my name.’

He didn’t bother to answer that. Instead he moved across to the dead fireplace. ‘Cold in here, isn’t it? But then, I wasn’t expecting company or else I would have lit this fire and had the room warm and ready. You’d better get dressed. You’re trembling. I’ll put your clothes to dry in front of the fire downstairs.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And I’ll bring some logs up later and get this fire going.’

‘I would appreciate that.’ Miranda could feel goose pimples on her arms from the abrupt change in temperature after the warm bathroom. ‘You needn’t worry, Mr Decroix…’

‘Luke, please. Why stand on formality when we’ll be living together?’ He inclined his head to look at her over his shoulder, and she realised, with a little start, that it wasn’t simply his face that was attractive, but the whole package. In a primitive, masculine sort of way. He had the kind of unchiselled, powerful good looks that drew stares, and she immediately looked away just in case he thought that she was staring.

‘My father will more than compensate you for any trouble.’

This time, he turned slowly to look at her and an expression of contemptuous amusement gathered itself in the corners of his mouth and glittered in the blue, brooding eyes. ‘How reassuring. And you think that I might need the compensation, do you?’

Miranda edged her way inelegantly to the bed and slipped under the covers with her towel still in place and the bundle of clothes still in one hand; then she drew the duvet all the way up to her chin. If he insisted on ignoring her chattering teeth and continuing the conversation, then she might as well be warm.

‘It’s only fair after putting you to all this trouble. But most people wouldn’t say no to a bit of financial help,’ she finally said, awkwardly.

His blue eyes narrowed coldly on her face. ‘Oh, dear. Would you have reached that conclusion by any chance because of my ragged clothing?’

‘I hadn’t noticed the state of your clothing,’ Miranda plunged on. ‘I have no idea about your financial circumstances…I don’t know what you do for a living. But, well…’ His shuttered look was hardly encouraging but now that she’d started, she felt compelled to reach some sort of conclusion to her speculations. ‘…there can’t be that many well-paid jobs that you could do from this remote location…can there…?’ Her voice trailed off into silence while Luke continued to observe her with embarrassing intensity.

He shook his head with a low laugh, ‘I don’t live here all the time, Miranda.’ He paused for a moment, looking as if he was pondering something very deeply. ‘In fact, I’m just looking after this place actually—for the time being.’

‘Oh, I see!’ That would explain a lot. His English accent, for a start. He was probably one of these nomadic types who made their way round the world doing manual chores for people. Earning a crust.

He didn’t say anything. After a few minutes his expression lightened and he shrugged. ‘I’ll bring you up something to eat. Your foot will feel much better in the morning.’

He didn’t call her m’lady again, although he more than made up for the thoughtful omission by bowing grandly at the door before he left; but Miranda no longer had the energy to feel annoyed. She was too sleepy. She would just close her eyes for a few minutes before she changed and he returned with her food.




CHAPTER TWO


THE room was warm. That was the first thing Miranda noticed when she next surfaced. A warm room and she was changed. Her eyes flickered open and for a few seconds she experienced the disorientation that sometimes attacks when the surroundings are new and unfamiliar. Then her memory returned with a crash and the image of Luke’s dark, striking and unpleasantly cynical face filled her head.

It was as though the thought had been enough to summon him, because just at that moment her bedroom door was pushed open and she saw the object of her wandering mind filling out the doorway, with a tray in his hands. Sleep had not managed to diminish his suffocating masculinity. In fact, she literally drew her breath in as he dwarfed the small room, primitively forceful despite the tea towel slung over his shoulder.

‘So you’re up at last.’ He moved across to the curtains and yanked them open, exposing a watery grey light and the sight of fast-falling snow. ‘Breakfast.’ He deposited the tray on the bed and Miranda struggled up into a sitting position.

‘How long was I asleep?’ She stretched and the sleeves of the oversized grey tee shirt rode down to expose her slender, pale forearms.

‘Over ten hours.’

‘Over ten hours!’

‘I dutifully came with your supper only to find you sound asleep and snoring…’

‘I do not snore!’

‘How do you know that?’ he asked snidely, pulling up a chair so that he could sit and watch her. ‘It’s not the sort of thing a lover might bring to your attention. Anyway, I lit the fire to get the icicles off the ceiling and left you.’ He linked his fingers together and looked as she bit into the toast and then hungrily began demolishing what was on the plate: A fried egg, bacon, baked beans, just the sort of breakfast she had always avoided.

‘After I’d changed you, of course.’

Miranda paused with the last bit of toast en route to her mouth and started at him. ‘You change me?’

‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. ‘Do you think that Daddy might refuse me my much needed financial compensation if he knew?’

‘You’re not funny!’ She had somehow assumed that she had changed herself, even though she had no recollection of doing any such thing, but she could tell from the gleam in his eyes that the man wasn’t lying. He had unwrapped the towel from her and had pulled on a tee shirt, and somewhere along the line those big hands of his had touched her shoulders, her stomach, her breasts. ‘You had no right!’

‘I do beg Your Highness’s pardon, but going to sleep with a wet towel around you in a damp room would just have compounded the sprained ankle with a healthy dose of pneumonia.’

‘You still had no right! You should have awakened me!’

‘I’ll try and remember the next time, if you try and remember to stick to the nursery slopes so that there won’t be a next time. You haven’t eaten all your egg up.’

‘I’ve lost my appetite.’ She closed her knife and fork and reclined back on the pillow.

‘In which case, you’d better try and find it. You’re building your strength up and step one is eating all that breakfast, meticulously prepared by my own fair hands.’ He leaned forward. ‘Maybe you’d like me to feed the rest to you…’

Miranda gave a little yelp of denial and hurriedly ate what was left on her plate, then she wiped her mouth with the paper napkin and folded her arms.

‘Now,’ he said implacably, standing up to remove the tray and then whipping the duvet off her so that she yelped even louder, this time in enraged discomfort, ‘the next thing I advise you to do is test that foot of yours.’

‘And would you like to hear what I advise you to do?’

‘Not really. Here, hold my hand and stand up.’

‘Or else what…?’

‘You don’t want to find out,’ he said silkily. ‘Now, stand up and try that foot of yours.’

When she remained on the bed, he leaned over her and said in a low, razor-sharp voice, ‘Shall I just remind you that you’re an unwanted and unwelcome intrusion into my house…’

‘Your house?’

‘While I’m looking after it, it’s my house. And if you think you’re going to play the grand princess and laze around for the next few days, or weeks if this weather doesn’t sort itself out, then you’re in for a shock. I’m not a man who puts up with the wiles and tantrums of a spoiled little rich girl!’

‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ Her imperious voice, which reflected more than anything else her bemusement at finding herself in the situation she was in and dealing with the man in front of her, failed to strike a chord. Or rather it did. Luke burst out laughing.

‘Oh, dear,’ he said, sobering up but not sufficiently to stop the occasional cynical chuckle from slipping through. ‘Oh, dear, dear, dear. And you wonder why I call you m’lady? Now, up!’

Miranda reluctantly swung her legs over the side of the bed, noting with relief that the tee shirt modestly reached down to just above her knees, and grasped his proffered hand.

‘Try and put a little weight on it.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Just try, and stop acting like a baby.’

Which did it. She tentatively touched the ground with her foot and discovered as she applied a bit more pressure that the immediate searing pain she had felt the previous day had become more of a persistent, dull discomfort.

‘I’ll remove the bandage before you get dressed and soak your foot in some cold water and then I’ll truss you up again.’

‘There’s no need. I can do that myself.’

‘Should I allow you to do that, I would live for ever in fear of Daddy’s avenging wrath.’

Miranda stopped her halting walk and stared up at him. ‘I hate that. Why are you so…horrible and scathing about me? You don’t even know who I am or what sort of person I am! Yet you feel it’s all right to make nasty, derogatory comments about me and my father. Daddy always said that the worst snobs are the inverted snobs. He always said that they’re the worst because they never give you a chance to prove yourself one way or another. They just assume that because someone has money, then they can’t be worthwhile.’ She found herself breathing shallowly as she stared up into his blue eyes.

‘Is that what you think I am?’ he finally asked curiously. ‘An inverted snob?’

‘Why else would you be so awful? Just because you don’t have any money doesn’t make it my fault!’

‘No, I guess you’re right,’ he said in an odd voice, ‘it doesn’t, does it?’

Instead of feeling pleased at this unexpected victory, Miranda felt suddenly nervous. Nervous because she had become quickly accustomed to his hostility and the lack of it was confusing.

‘My foot feels a lot better,’ she said, to change the subject, supporting herself on his arm as they headed slowly towards the bathroom, where a further unwanted reminder of his ministrations confronted her in the shape of the blue bath towel she had used the night before, neatly hanging over the towel rail.

She sat on the closed toilet seat and watched as he filled a plastic basin with cold water.

‘It’s freezing,’ she gasped as he soaked her foot.

He said, without looking up, ‘It’ll reduce most of the rest of the swelling. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to the temperature. There.’ He held up her foot and examined it like a butcher sizing up a joint of meat. ‘Not very pretty, but it’ll do.’ Then he carefully rebandaged it, taking his time. ‘Now, there’s a change of clothes behind you on the ledge and you might want to do something with that hair of yours. Tie it up, perhaps. Not very practical having that mane swinging around, I shouldn’t think.’

‘Actually,’ Miranda informed him coolly, ‘a woman’s mane is her crowning glory.’

‘Oh, is that so? And I always thought of her crowning glory was her mind. How much I’m learning from you.’ He shot her a brief, patronising grin and then left.

Miranda gingerly stood up and for the first time took a long look at her reflection in the mirror. Her waist-length blonde hair had been damp when she had fallen asleep, but even so it had dried and now fell in its usual silky curtain around her face. Her wide blue eyes absorbed the stunning prettiness of her features then, as she stripped off the oversized tee shirt, idly scanned the exquisite, slender proportions of her body. These looks, she thought dispassionately, had turned heads and had opened countless doors to the world of beautiful people in which she moved. If she had been dowdy and unattractive, would she have been as popular? Would men have beaten a path to her door, however much money her father had? Probably not. For the first time, she realised that her looks carried a downside. The had attracted men like Freddie, but looks were disposable. None of the men in her brittle world ever seemed to take time out to search for what lay beneath the sparkling veneer.

She very quickly washed her face and changed into yet another tee shirt and a pair of jogging bottoms that had to be tied with the tan leather belt thoughtfully left along with the bundle of clothes. Then she made her way down the stairs, refusing to yell for assistance.

Luke was in the kitchen clearing up and, for a few minutes, Miranda hovered uncertainly by the door, wondering what to do next.

‘Make yourself at home,’ he said drily. ‘I don’t bite.’

She edged to the pine kitchen table and sat down.

‘How long does this caretaker job last?’ she asked, for the sake of asking something, and he turned to look at her with a momentary expression of bewilderment. Then his face cleared.

‘Oh, this caretaker job?’ he said carelessly. ‘Oh, not very long.’

‘And then you…’

‘Move on.’

‘Move on to what?’ He made a good caretaker, she thought. The kitchen was tidy, with a stack of logs neatly chopped and piled in the corner.

‘Other things,’ he said vaguely. ‘Now, normally I tend to spend the days outside, but this blizzard has put paid to that, so we might as well work out some kind of routine here so that you don’t get in my way.’

Miranda immediately began to bristle. ‘I won’t get in your way. I’m more than happy to spend my time reading.’

‘Good.’ He paused to sit down, spinning the chair back so that he sat on it with his hands loosely hanging over the back. ‘Because I have some business to attend to on my laptop and I don’t want to feel that you’re lurking around waiting to be entertained.’

‘I don’t expect to be entertained.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I’m quite happy in my own company.’ Miranda paused to digest this and realised that she was very seldom in her own company. Even at night, when she flopped into bed, sometimes in the early hours of the morning, she was always too tried to really spend any time on her own. ‘What work do you have to do?’ she asked curiously. ‘On a computer? I wouldn’t have thought…’

‘That I was clever enough to use a computer? Or maybe you thought that I’d never even heard of one?’ He grinned wickedly at her blushing discomfort. ‘News of technological breakthroughs do sometimes drift even to we yokels, you know. In fact, I’ll take a small bet with you that you’re the one who doesn’t have a clue how to operate a computer.’

Miranda’s face went a shade deeper in colour.

‘Mmm,’ Luke said pensively. ‘Not much point having a computer on the ski slopes, is there? Or at the races? Or in Mustique for a few weeks over summer?’

‘I—I—’

‘You—you—what?’

‘I learned everything about computers when I was doing my design course,’ she said, holding her chin up to counteract the level of defensiveness in her voice.

‘Oh, yes, that interior design course of yours.’ He was virtually smirking, and Miranda glowered impotently at him. ‘Well, wait right here.’ He stood up and she watched suspiciously while he disappeared out of the kitchen, only to return minutes later with a sleek black laptop in his hand.

‘There, now.’ He flicked it open, pressed a few buttons and the screen unfolded into life. ‘Why don’t you amuse yourself with this for a little while just while I fetch some more logs from the outside shed and do a bit of chopping.’ He moved swiftly around the table so that he was bending over her, one hand resting on the table top, the other pressing various icons until an architectural drawing of a house appeared on the screen.

‘What’s this?’

‘This, my dear interior designer, is a house.’

‘Whose house?’

‘Oh, just a little dwelling my boss has in mind to renovate. He knows I like playing on the computer now and again, so he lent me this file to have a look at.’

Miranda looked at him narrowly. ‘Now, why would your boss do something like that?’

Luke’s answer was so swift that she almost wondered whether it had been prepared. ‘We go back a ways. If you move this little gadget here, called a mouse, hey presto, you can zoom all over the place.’

Miranda gritted her teeth and allowed him to have his fun. He would be laughing on the other side of his arrogant, handsome face when she presented him with her ideas, even if the whole lot was erased never to be seen again. The last job she had done of any magnitude had been years previously, but she could feel a stirring of interest in her veins as she glanced at the outlines of a house in front of her.

‘You mean you babysit his cabin every year?’

‘Oh, yes. It’s a long-standing arrangement.’ He hadn’t straightened, so when he spoke his breath brushed against her cheek and into her ear. ‘He must have thought that I might get lonesome, stuck out here as I am, hence this little file for me to play with. Little did he know that I would have unexpected company.’ He stood up and flexed his muscles. ‘You can mess around however you like. Design whatever you want. It can all be deleted. Why don’t you go into the sitting room and relax in front of that roaring fire and show me what you can do with this little toy.’

‘I guess you do get lonely here for weeks, maybe months, on end,’ Miranda said, half to herself, as she settled onto the big sofa, with the computer on her lap. ‘How on earth do you fill your time?’

‘Loneliness is a state of mind,’ he said over his shoulder, as he slung on his waterproof jacket and then pulled on some very thick wool socks and a pair of snow boots that were by the door. ‘And it can only be filled when you’re at peace with yourself.’

‘Well, if you want to spout philosophy, then I’ll just get on with a bit of this interior design, shall I?’ She felt herself smile and when she looked up at him it was to find the smile returned. It gave her the oddest feeling.

‘When I get back from my healthy outdoor fun, you can phone your father. Although…’ he opened the door and swirls of snow blew in ‘…I did call him half an hour ago. On your behalf.’

Miranda looked up, stunned by this piece of effrontery but, before she could demand an explanation, he had left the cabin, slamming the front door behind him.

Her poor dad probably assumed that the man was a genial, middle-aged caretaker with a family tucked away further down the slopes. He would have a fit if he knew what Luke Decroix was like, she fretted. Ten fits, in fact. He would round up the forces and gear up for a rescue mission, not that that would be possible, given the state of the weather. The windows in the cabin were small, but not so small that she couldn’t get a glimpse of the leaden skies, barely visible through the continuing blizzard. Lord alone knew where she was. The skiing resort, her friends, the faithless Freddie and all the bijou little cafés seemed like a dream.

She began experimenting on the computer and the wheels of her rusty memory slowly cranked into life as she played around with ideas. Every so often, she looked up and was treated occasionally to the sight of Luke outside, tramping through the snow with a shovel over his shoulder, making sure that the doorway was kept as clear of snow as possible. He was certainly dedicated to his job, if nothing else.

When he finally came back in, he was carrying a basket of neatly chopped logs slung over his shoulder which he dumped on the ground. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her. Then he divested himself of his wet waterproofs and his boots and socks. His black hair was slick from the snow and he went to squat in front of the fire, rubbing his hands together and raking them through his hair.

‘So you haven’t got bored yet with fooling around on the computer?’ he asked, with his back to her. He pulled his thick jumper over his head and stood up, pulling down the shirt underneath. Another tee shirt, this time with some faded design on the front of what was once a bulldog next to a glass of beer. ‘What have you done?’ He sat down next to her, depressing the sofa so much that she had a job not to slide straight into him, thigh against thigh.

‘Not much. Is the snow just as heavy outside?’

‘What do you think of the house? Like it?’

Miranda angled the screen away from him, suddenly shy at exposing her efforts to him. ‘You promised I could use your mobile to call Dad. Which reminds me…’ yes, a good healthy dose of irritation to bring her back on course ‘…whoever said you could call my father? And how did you get his number? And what did you have to say to him, anyway?’

‘Questions, questions, questions. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that when a man returns from some hard labour, the last thing he needs is a whinging woman?’

‘My mother died when I was eight.’

‘Oh, yes. I’m sorry.’ He leaned back on the sofa, hooking one foot around the leg of the table in front and pulling it towards him so that he could rest both his feet on the surface. He had replaced his boots with the same worn, tasselled loafers that had greeted her when she had arrived the previous day. He rubbed his eyes, then folded his arms behind his head and looked at her.

His blue eyes were hypnotic. When she looked into them, she had the strangest sensation of giddiness and a feeling that, if she wasn’t careful, she could easily fall into their fathomless depths and drown.

‘You haven’t answered my questions,’ she reminded him tartly.

‘Oh, so I haven’t. Well, if you really want to know, I have a little method of obtaining the number of the last call on my phone, which I did last night after you had called him in his office. And I thought I might as well touch base, let him know that nothing untoward had happened to his baby during the night. Here, call him yourself now if you like.’ He felt in his pocket and retrieved the palm-sized phone which he handed to her. Except, he didn’t quite hand it over, more dangled it in front of her so that she had to reach for it.

Depressingly, her father seemed to have been reassured by Luke’s phone call.

‘Might do you a spot of good being stuck in the middle of nowhere for a few days,’ he joked, impervious to her horror at any such suggestion. Miranda clamped the phone tighter against her right ear and inclined her body slightly away from Luke’s undisguised interest in what she was saying and what was being said to her.

‘How can you say that, Dad?’ she muttered, but the question was bypassed in her father’s sudden need to get going to a meeting. His driver, apparently, was waiting. He had to dash but he would be in touch, probably later in the evening when he was back home.

‘I hope he’s not too worried about you,’ Luke said piously, reaching out for the mobile and resting it on the table next to his feet. ‘I did try and set his mind at rest. Told him how well you were being looked after. I even said that I had lent you my laptop so that you could amuse yourself on it for a couple of hours.’

‘I’m sure my father doesn’t want lengthy explanations from you on how I’m doing,’ Miranda informed him haughtily.

‘So, what have you managed to do? Anything at all?’

‘You never bothered to tell me what your boss meant by renovating. Does he intend to knock walls down? What specifications is he after?’

‘My, my. I take it you’re wearing your technical interior designer hat now?’

‘If you want to sit there and smirk, then why don’t we just forget this?’ Miranda said. ‘You can have your little toy back to do whatever it is you need to do and I can’t imagine what, and I’ll just content myself with one of those detective novels on the bookshelf.’

Luke pulled the computer towards him so that it was partially resting on his lap and looked at what she had done. ‘So, you are capable of using a computer. Accept my humble apologies for implying otherwise…’ When she looked at him, his face was patently lacking in remorse. He was flicking through the rooms she had designed, seemingly interested. ‘There’s no need for a dining room that big,’ he murmured.

‘How do you know? Don’t tell me: you’re so close to this boss of yours that you have insider knowledge into how often he plans to entertain and for how many people. Are you sure this boss is a man and not a woman?’

‘Oh,’ Luke murmured softly, scrolling through her work and using various icons to magnify certain aspects, ‘I’m most emphatically certain on that point.’

‘Well, what does this man want to do with the house?’

‘I gather he intends to move out of London and use it as a base for his work. So, and I’m presuming here, I expect he would want a fairly large working area.’

‘What does this man do?’

‘Something to do with finance, I believe.’

‘You mean he hasn’t bothered to bore you with the details?’ It was Miranda’s turn to smirk and she did so with relish. ‘Perhaps he thought that you weren’t up to understanding the technicalities of his job.’

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s an archway. I’ve bashed through those two rooms and linked them with an archway. On either side you can incorporate stained-glass windows as features to break the monotony of the brick wall.’

‘Very creative. He’ll like that touch, I’m sure. And what’s this?’

‘I haven’t finished with that bit yet.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘Well, that bit, if you can picture it…’

‘Which might be difficult due to the dullness of my brain…’ he murmured, without looking at her, apparently absorbed by her little efforts at the task he had set her with his tongue in his cheek.

‘Is a wrought-iron gate—and he should be able to get an original one—separating the bathroom from the bedroom, so there’s a feeling of tremendous space.’ She could feel two patches of excited colour on her cheeks and remembered that her efforts would be deleted before her enforced stay was over.

‘Very imaginative.’ He closed the screen, shut the lid of the computer and stood up, leaving a void of coldness next to her. He lazily tipped a couple of logs into the fire, so that it sparked up again, hissing, then he glanced over to the bookshelf and selected a book, tossing it lightly to her.

‘What’s this for?’

‘Reading fodder.’

‘And what about my design work?’

‘What about it?’ he asked, perching on the edge of the low bookshelf and inspecting her face coolly.

‘Don’t you want me to continue?’

‘Sure, if you want. Just thought you might want a break, though, after all the hard work.’ He gave her a slow, challenging smile.

‘Meaning…what?’

Luke shrugged his massive shoulders casually. ‘Meaning that you might need to take a little time out, get accustomed to doing something other than thinking about what your next temporary pleasure might be.’

Miranda looked at him with a sudden flare of anger. He didn’t give up, did he? Now that he had grown used to the thought that she might be around for a few days, interrupting his lifestyle, whatever that might be, he had decided to enjoy himself at her expense. The worst of it was that it hurt. His opinions of her shouldn’t matter but for some reason they did. Probably, she thought bitterly, because she was forced to sit them out. She couldn’t run away because there was nowhere to run to.

‘That’s not fair,’ she muttered.

‘Isn’t it? I told your father that this wasn’t a five-star hotel and that I would make sure that you were all right and delivered back to him safe and sound, but that in the process you would be expected to work for the favour. He seemed delighted. He obviously knows you better than you know yourself.’

‘You told my father, what? You have no right to discuss me with my father!’ she found that she was spluttering in outrage. ‘Just who do you think you are?’

Instead of reacting to her tone, he simply raised his eyebrows, and the silence after she had vented her fury stretched between them like a piece of elastic. He went to one of the deep chairs, picked up the computer and opened it, scrupulously ignoring her presence as he quietly examined something on the screen and began typing on the keypad.

‘Will you listen to me when I’m trying to talk to you?’

He didn’t appear to have even heard her protest. He simply continued what he was doing and, in a burst of anger, Miranda stood up. It only took a few seconds for her to hobble to the power point and yank out the plug to his computer which died into blackness.

This time he did notice her.

His blue eyes became slits and she felt a thrill of sudden, nervous terror skitter through her veins like alcohol. Then he was on his feet, grasping her by her arms so tightly that she cried out.

‘Don’t you ever, ever do anything like that again! Do you understand me?’ He shook her slightly and her long hair, which she had made no effort to tie back, swung around her face. She felt like a rag doll at the mercy of a raging bull. ‘I will not tolerate you stamping your feet like a toddler deprived of a treat whenever you fancy no one’s paying you any attention!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Miranda choked out, dismayed at what she had done and embarrassed to be likened to a toddler. ‘You’re hurting me!’

He released her but didn’t step back. He just continued watching her as she rubbed her arms and she knew that he was making an effort to keep his temper in check. When she glanced up, she could see the vein throbbing in his neck.

‘I’m really sorry,’ she repeated, to break the deathly silence and deflect the alarming power of his blue eyes.

‘Sit down.’ The stillness of his voice was as threatening as his roar had been a few minutes ago and Miranda shakily sat back down, leaning forward tensely to accept the brunt of his reprimands. She deserved it. Yanking that plug out of its socket had been the action of a thwarted child and there was no point in trying to use any ham line about acting in retaliation because he hadn’t done anything to her. He had ignored her and his patent indifference had stung and had provoked her into a show of puerile stupidity.

‘This won’t do, Miranda, will it?’ He too was leaning forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, his expression hard. ‘You’re not a child and you must stop behaving like one. Like it or not, you’re here with me and you’re going to act like an adult. That little display of temper will be the last, do you read me loud and clear?’

Miranda nodded miserably. ‘I…’ Oh, God. She could feel her eyes beginning to brim over and she hated herself for the weakness. She couldn’t remember a time when she had cried in front of anyone, except for her father. She had certainly never shed a tear over any of her boyfriends nor had she ever felt provoked enough by any of them to cry either in their presence or out of it. Not even when she had caught Freddie in flagrante delicto. Her pride had been wounded, yes, but her reaction had been one of fury rather than sorrow. Maybe she was going stir crazy because of the isolation.

He waited for her to continue while she stared down at her slender fingers and tried not to gulp too loudly.

‘I…enjoyed doing that design work on the computer,’ was all she could think of saying. Her mind had become cloudy and she licked her lips and tried to regain control of her thoughts. She sneaked a glance at him and saw that he was still looking at her at least, his head tilted to one side as though making sure that nothing went unheard. ‘It’s easy for you,’ she said defiantly, but her defiance was stillborn.

‘Why is it easy for me?’

‘Because…you seem happy with your life, moving from place to place.’

For no reason, he looked momentarily uncomfortable with what she had said, but the shadow of unease was soon gone. ‘I get the feeling that your father is worried about you.’

Miranda shrugged, too tired to care whether he mentioned her father or not. What did it matter anyway? She wasn’t going to be here for ever. She could unburden herself on this passing stranger if she wanted, safe in the knowledge that nothing would come back to haunt her. Briefly, they were sharing the same space, but not for long.

‘What does…’ he imitated her shrug ‘…that mean?’

‘All fathers worry about their daughters,’ Miranda said uncomfortably. ‘Especially when there’s no one else to share the worry with.’

‘And what exactly do you give him to worry about?’

‘I don’t suppose he’s too impressed with my lifestyle,’ Miranda admitted. Just saying it aloud made her mouth taste sour. It was an admission she had never made to anyone in her life before. ‘He thinks that I should settle down…’

‘You mean get married?’

‘Oh, good heavens, no! I’m only twenty-five!’ She laughed at the idea. ‘Besides, I can’t think of any suitable candidates for the role. If I had ever considered settling down with any of the boys I went out with, my father would have had a heart attack on the spot!’

‘Perhaps you should have been looking for a man instead of a boy,’ Luke drawled.

Miranda averted her eyes from the blatantly masculine figure sprawling in the chair. ‘By settle down I mean get a job.’

‘Why haven’t you? You’re talented enough…’

‘I’m what…?’

‘Talented.’ He gave her a slow, amused smile. ‘Like me complimenting you, do you?’

Miranda went scarlet. ‘I don’t care either way,’ she informed him nonchalantly. That slow, measured smile made her feel as though she had been physically touched. It gave her goose bumps.

‘Good,’ he murmured, his eyes still fastened on hers, ‘because the last thing I want are any complications.’




CHAPTER THREE


NOR did she.

In fact, she thought, all she wanted to do was clear out of this wretched cabin and get back to London.

At any rate, it was what she firmly told herself. And she was only forced to confront the truth when, after three days of ferocious blizzard, Luke returned from his daily log-chopping exercise and announced that the sky was beginning to look a little healthier.

‘What does that mean?’ Miranda looked up from the computer and frowned.

‘It means, Your Highness, that our friendly blizzard might be going away.’ He sauntered over to the fire and removed his jumper. This time, he removed his tee shirt as well, which was soaked. He had his back to her, and Miranda watched, mesmerised, at the movement of muscle beneath skin as he bent slightly to warm his hands.

‘Don’t call me that,’ she said automatically, while her mind struggled to function.

‘Sorry.’ He half turned to her and grinned with wicked amusement.

‘You were telling me about the blizzard,’ she said hurriedly, relieved when he turned back to the fire.

‘Oh, yes. I think it’s clearing.’ He was wearing, for the first time, a pair of faded jeans and he began to fumble with the button.

‘What,’ she squeaked, ‘are you doing?’

‘Getting out of these clothes. Bloody tripped with the logs in my arms and fell flat on my face in the snow.’

‘Good thing you didn’t sprain that ankle of yours,’ she said, except the thread of tension in her voice didn’t quite turn her remark into the light-hearted quip she had hoped. How could she sound light-hearted when she was finding it difficult to breathe? It wasn’t physically possible.

‘I won’t embarrass you, will I?’ he asked, pausing to turn completely around and look at her.

His hand was hovering by the top button of his trousers, which had been undone so that the waistband of his jeans curled open, resting lightly on his lean lips and providing a tantalising glimpse of the flat, hard planes of his stomach down, slightly past, his navel.

‘I’d prefer to strip down here and leave these clothes to dry by the fire instead of dripping my way upstairs, but if it makes you feel uncomfortable…’

‘Not at all!’ Miranda trilled in a high-pitched voice. She made sure to look directly at his face although her racing pulse was all too aware of the rest of him; tanned, muscled and disturbingly intrusive. ‘I’m the uninvited guest, after all! You go ahead and do exactly as you please.’ She busied herself with the laptop computer, glaring at the framework of the room she was working on with her face pressed as close to the screen as it could get without the image becoming blurred in the process.

She could hear the rustle of clothes as he shifted out of his jeans and arranged them on the wooden contraption by the side of the fire, which was permanently on view and almost permanently draped with some item of outdoor clothing.

Couldn’t he move any faster? she wondered edgily.

She sneaked a quick look at his feet and quickly resumed her glaring inspection of the screen without focusing on it.

‘Your ankle seems almost healed,’ he said conversationally.

Miranda replied to the screen. ‘Yup.’

‘Which room are you concentrating on?’ he asked drily.

She said, clearing her throat, ‘The kitchen, I think.’

‘You think?’

‘It’s the kitchen!’ she snapped, furiously concentrating just in case he decided that a closer inspection of what she was doing was warranted. But he didn’t. He just laughed softly and headed upstairs. She found her wits again, breathing a long, shuddering sigh of relief when she knew that he was no longer around.

What did he mean that the blizzard was going? Miranda gently set aside the computer, which she was now utterly familiar and used whenever it was available, and walked slowly across to the window and peered out.

The snow was still falling, but he was right. Sky was visible, blue sky at that.

‘Unfortunately…’ came the familiar voice from behind her, and she swung around to look at him. His jeans had been replaced with a more presentable pair of trousers than he had worn over the previous few days although the tee shirt was still of the weathered barely-visible-motto variety ‘…the break in the weather doesn’t mean that you’ll be able to leave immediately. Sorry.’ He lifted his shoulders ruefully. ‘The only way out of here is still by ski and until your ankle can fully support the weight, you’re going to have to stay put.’

‘What about helicopter?’

‘What about it?’

‘My father could send a helicopter for me. In fact, he almost certainly will want to…’

She wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. The realisation hit her like a ton of bricks and left her confused and ready for an argument.

Luke gave one of those nonchalant shrugs of his that indicated closure on the subject, and she followed him into the kitchen. Walking was still uncomfortable, but she no longer had to support herself everywhere she went. She could just about manage to lumber along ungracefully but fairly efficiently.

‘Well?’ she pressed on behind him as he put the kettle on to boil. ‘What do you think?’

‘If you want to mention it to him when you call then by all means do so.’

‘I thought you would have been glad to see the back of me,’ Miranda continued nastily. ‘After all, you’ve told me often enough that I’m unwelcome.’

Luke turned around and perched on the edge of the counter, tapping the spoon in his hand softly against his chin. ‘A helicopter’s fine but I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that the snow is still falling fairly heavily and vision might be obscured? Or maybe it occurred to you, but your craving to be back in the swing of the fast lane in London conveniently overrode any guilt that you might be endangering other people’s lives in the process? Ah, no. I see that possibility hadn’t occurred to you at all. Now, why am I not surprised when you’re so used to getting what you want?’




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