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A Very Private Revenge
HELEN BROOKS


An intimate vendetta!Tamar had made it her business to find out all Jed Cannon's secrets. The notorious playboy had destroyed her cousin's happiness - and her reputation. Now Tamar was determined Jed must be made to pay. It was time to put her plan into action!Tamar intended to play Jed at his own game: seduce him, the publicly jilt him! But the more she flirted with him, the more she realized Jed wasn't the ruthless man he seemed. Maybe it wasn't really revenge she wanted after all… .







“You don’t like me, Tamar. Why?” (#u4c89e595-a32b-5c27-9dd4-3dd27bd8adc3)About the Author (#u5f8f3315-a8d8-59fe-9353-d3168f3cb4c7)Title Page (#u60a21dac-7678-5d87-9a1e-f3ae7c3a0c85)CHAPTER ONE (#u34a1f4e7-80ca-5834-abc0-8ab84d189990)CHAPTER TWO (#uff8fcd66-fdaa-50be-a578-a570a66e3f98)CHAPTER THREE (#uebaa7296-bb3b-5ca4-a716-76bbd9d92e46)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“You don’t like me, Tamar. Why?”

“I never said that—”

“Oh, you’re attracted to me...physically,” Jed continued darkly, “but that’s all.” If he only knew. Tamar stared at him, her mouth dry. But he mustn’t guess, not ever, the way she felt about him.

“What have you heard about me that has filled you with such suspicion?”

Tamar continued to stare at him, her mind racing. “I don’t know. You...you’ve got something of a reputation, I suppose,” she managed at last, her voice shaking. She couldn’t tell him the truth.

“I can buy that.” He nodded soberly, moving closer. “And you aren’t prepared to look beyond the reputation, to give me a chance?”


HELEN BROOKS lives in Northamptonshire, England, and is married with three children. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife and mother, her spare time is at a premium, but her hobbies include reading, swimming, gardening and walking her two energetic, inquisitive and very endearing young dogs. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty, and sent the result off to Harlequin Books.

HELEN BROOKS now concentrates on writing for Harlequin Presents


, with highly emotional, poignant yet intense books we know you’ll love!


A Very Private Revenge

Helen Brooks










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


CHAPTER ONE

‘OH, YES, Miss McKinley, Mr Cannon is expecting you. If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat...?’

Jed Cannon’s secretary was exactly how Tamar had pictured her from her voice on the telephone, all cool, ice-blonde efficiency and stunning good looks, and as Tamar sank into the proffered chair she felt a nervous bubble of laughter rise in her throat, which she quashed immediately.

None of that, none of that. The little voice in her mind was strong and stern as Tamar watched the other woman glide into the inner sanctum after a reverent knock on Jed Cannon’s interconnecting door. You’ve come this far, you’ve cornered the wolf in its lair, don’t blow it now... But Miss Rice-Brown was so absolutely right for him, she really was, from the top of her ash-blonde bob to the tips of her Italian leather shoes...

‘Miss McKinley? Mr Cannon will see you now.’

Tamar didn’t have time to reflect further as she rose from the deep-cushioned pale cream chair and waded through the ankle-deep carpeting to the room beyond, passing the other woman in the doorway with a polite nod and smile.

‘Miss McKinley?’

The big male figure behind the massive walnut desk was broad-shouldered and dark; that was all Tamar took in initially, along with the fact that the deep, cold, clipped voice was formidable in itself.

‘Yes, how do you do, Mr Cannon?’ It was the opening she had rehearsed, and it came out like clockwork, respectful but reserved.

And then he stood up, holding out a hand as he said, ‘I understand you have some properties you think I might be interested in, Miss McKinley?’—and he came into focus. Oh, boy, did he come into focus...

‘I... I...’ Don’t lose it, Tamar, not now. ‘I think there are one or two in particular that would suit your requirements admirably, Mr Cannon,’ she said with a coolness she was far from feeling, shaking the big hand for as brief a moment as decorum would allow, and praying her initial hesitation hadn’t been picked up by those riveting silver-grey eyes.

She had to keep the businesslike approach sharp and crisp, but she just hadn’t expected him to be quite so—her mind balked at the word ‘handsome’ and substituted ‘overpowering’—in real life. His picture had captured none of the latent power of the man.

‘One or two?’ The voice was slightly husky, almost a gravelly texture evident in the slight accent she knew was from his American heritage, and it was very, very sexy, in a magnetic, toe-curling sort of way. It went hand in hand with the six-foot-plus frame, coldly handsome face and piercingly silver eyes. And those same eyes had flickered slightly as they took in her slim red-gold fragility and dark chocolate-brown eyes.

He was attracted to her. She had seen that same look in too many male eyes in the past to doubt its portent. And that was good, that was very, very good—exactly what she had planned when she had dressed with such care that morning. She loathed this man, hated and despised him, but he mustn’t know, not yet.

‘Yes, we never like to put our clients in a position where they have a choice of one.’ What would Jed Cannon say if he knew he was being hunted? Tamar asked herself with a touch of wry cynicism as she smiled coolly into the hard face. Here was a man with the world at his feet, figuratively speaking. A wealthy, powerful millionaire, who wore his women in the same way as he did his designer suits—to complement and enhance his own spectacular image.

He’d already had more women that she had had hot dinners, if only half the stories about him were true, and there was a queue a mile long to be the next female on his arm. Perhaps he expected her to fall in a little heap at his feet? Perhaps they all did? Anyway, she had to be careful. Very, very careful. She had to be different from all the rest.

‘Please, do sit down, Miss McKinley. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?’ He didn’t offer everyone coffee, she knew that, in fact she knew enough about Jed Cannon to fill a book...

‘No, thank you.’ She kept the smile in place as she took the chair he indicated, knowing that once she lowered her head his eyes would be sweeping all over her hair, her face, her body. ‘I have another appointment that is somewhat pressing when I leave here.’

Nice touch, that, Tamar, she told herself as she raised her head with the words and noticed them register in his eyes. He wasn’t used to women refusing anything from him.

‘I see.’ He hadn’t liked it, she just knew he hadn’t liked it, but you would never have known from the smooth, even tone of voice and polite face. Oh, he was good at what he did—you had to give him that. She could see how he’d risen from relative obscurity to where he was now in just ten years. ‘Well, I’m interested in what you have to offer, of course’—he sat down opposite her and she noticed how his lean, muscled frame caused the massive executive chair to shrink—‘but how did Taylor and Taylor know I was looking for a property in the London area? I wasn’t aware you were one of the estate agents my secretary contacted.’

You know dam well we weren’t. ‘We thought it appropriate to bring the mountain to Mohammed,’ she prevaricated quietly, trying a sweeter smile this time. It worked.

‘Well, no matter.’ He smiled back, and she had to admit the effect was devastating. The harsh, masculine face mellowed, the ice-grey eyes crinkled and the whiteness of his perfect teeth would have done credit to any toothpaste commercial. And it left her cold. She was determined it would leave her cold. Her rapid heartbeat, the sudden dryness in her mouth, the rush of blood in her veins—it was all to be expected in the circumstances, and was due purely to the increased adrenalin pumping through her system.

There was a great deal hanging on this meeting, more than Jed Cannon would ever know. She had to get him interested now, she might not get another chance, and she had researched her intended quarry very carefully over the last few months.

‘I understand it is the property, rather than the specific area, which is of prime importance?’ Tamar asked steadily, consulting the fat file on her lap before steeling herself to meet those strangely beautiful eyes again. She had seen people with grey eyes before, but never with the mercurial silver tint this man’s had, and his thick black lashes and black eyebrows threw the brilliant gaze into even more prominence, making it quite unnerving.

‘Uh-huh.’ Again the faintest trace of an American accent was there—due to his living and working in the States for some years after he left university, the dossier in her brain reminded her.

Born and educated in England—only the very best of public schools followed by Oxford, of course, for the great Jed Cannon—of an American mother and English father, he had one sibling—a younger sister—who was now his only close relative, his father having died when Jed was at university, and his mother just two years later. The facts were seared on her brain. He had inherited a considerable fortune at the tender age of twenty-four—the same age she was now—and in the ten years since then had gone on to carve out a name for himself in the world of finance, rising through the ranks of lesser mortals with meteor-like swiftness. Of course his money had talked...

She caught the thought as soon as it formed, a stab of honesty killing it stone-dead. No, that wasn’t fair, and she knew it Fortunes were won and lost all the time in the world in which Jed Cannon lived, and, although his wealth might have given him a safety net in the beginning, it was his own ruthless flair and determination that had made him into a multimillionaire at the age of thirty-four. And if anyone was ruthless, Jed Cannon was...

‘And you want absolute privacy, plenty of ground, definitely not a flat or an apartment?’ Tamar continued evenly, moving her head just the slightest, so the red-gold mass of curls which just brushed her shoulders in a gleaming cascade of colour would catch the light.

She normally wore her hair pulled back in a severe knot for work, or in a high but sedate ponytail if she didn’t have any clients to see—male interest could be distracting and annoying, or even downright dangerous when she was showing prospective buyers round the more isolated properties—but this wasn’t a normal situation. And Jed Cannon definitely wasn’t your average bright-eyed and bushy-tailed man either.

‘You have been very thorough, Miss McKinley.’

You’ll never know. His voice had carried a shadow of wry complacency, and Tamar knew why. He had noticed her movement with the hair, and thought she was out to secure more than just his interest in a property. Which she was. But she knew better than to make it too easy for him.

He only had to reach out his hand and pick up the telephone, and any number of beautiful, willing females would be panting at the leash. But he was going to have to work hard for the pleasure of her company, if he did but know it.

‘Thoroughness is our trademark at Taylor and Taylor, and of course the firm is excellent at procuring what the client wants.’ It was typical soft soap, but he mustn’t even begin to suspect that her research on him resembled a dissertation.

‘I’m sure it is.’ Again the note of cynicism was there—he knew, and he knew she knew, that her employers were any one of a number of mediocre estate agents dotted about the London area.

‘Perhaps you would like to glance at these three properties first?’ Tamar asked brightly, passing some papers across the desk and making sure their hands didn’t touch in the process.

He had big hands—capable hands—she thought musingly, keeping her gaze trained on the desk and not on his face as he looked at the first of the folders she had handed to him. Fingernails cut short and immaculately clean, no rings, fingers long and surprisingly artistic...

She didn’t like where her thoughts were leading, and raised her head abruptly despite her previous decision that he mustn’t think she was ogling him. He probably wasn’t in the slightest bit artistic, she told herself firmly. In fact she would bet her bottom dollar he wasn’t.

His eyelashes were far too generous for a man—she knew girls who would kill for such thick, long lashes—and the chiselled cheekbones and hard, strong mouth formed an interesting contrast... This time she jerked her eyes away to the file on her lap, pretending to sort through the remaining paperwork as she waited for him to finish, and furious with herself when she found that her hands were trembling.

‘I actually like all three.’ He raised his head and looked straight at her as he spoke.

He was hiding it well, but he was surprised, she thought intuitively—as well he might be. He’d never know what it had cost to get those properties on their books in the last few weeks. For the first time in her life she had employed the sort of strong-arm tactics she despised in others, and she wasn’t proud of it. But needs must, and business was business after all. And she had known exactly what to go for—the months of patient research on Jed Cannon had finally paid off, and in a manner she’d never hoped for. Talk about a gift from the gods...

‘That’s good, Mr Cannon.’ She was aware the silver eyes had narrowed at her cool lack of emotion, and allowed the most formal of smiles to brush her lips before she continued, ‘Viewing can be arranged at your convenience, of course.’

‘It needs to be soon; I’m already seeing a couple of other places this week,’ he said immediately, standing as he spoke, and moving round the enormous desk to sit on one corner as he handed her the papers. ‘We’ll try the top one first That one has something about it I particularly like.’

‘Certainly.’ Her voice wasn’t as crisp as she would have wished it to be, mainly because of the overall height and breadth of him now he was so close, and the way his pose brought the suit trousers tight over fiercely masculine hips. She didn’t like him, she could never be attracted to a loathsome low-life like Jed Cannon, but...he’d got something. Much as she hated to admit it. Call it charisma, male magnetism, sheer old-fashioned pulling power—he had got it

‘Tell me a bit about each property and the present owners—advantages and disadvantages, how soon they can move out, that type of thing,’ he said smoothly, watching her as she made some notes in her appointment book. ‘Is there anyone who is locked into a chain, for example?’

He made no effort to return to the chair behind the desk after she’d handed the property particulars back to him, holding the papers in one hand as he viewed her from his casual stance, his eyes glittering and metallic in the sunlight streaming in through the big plate-glass window at the side of them.

Don’t gabble, don’t gabble. Tamar forced herself to speak concisely and clearly as she outlined information about each of the houses he had looked at, but she couldn’t do anything about the colour staining her cheeks, much as she would have liked to. Unfortunately the tendency to blush went hand in hand with her red hair, and had been the bane of her life for as long as she could remember. It was useless to tell herself that this intimidating attitude was one he had honed to perfection in the course of his life, that all her data on this man screamed ruthlessness and power obsession, that he was a megalomaniac of the first order.

She knew it all—in her head—but that didn’t help much when she was face-to-face with the living reality. Nevertheless, she got through her little discourse without disgracing herself, finishing with, ‘But of course there is nothing like viewing the properties themselves. Buying a home is often much more of the heart than the head.’

‘You think so?’ His mouth twisted, and again the dark aura was so strong she could touch it. ‘I disagree—but only for myself, that is. I never let my heart rule my head, Miss McKinley.’

‘No?’ She knew that only too well, but she kept her voice light when she said, ‘You must miss a lot of fun that way, Mr Cannon.’

‘Possibly,’ he agreed coolly. ‘Although that would probably depend on one’s definition of the word “fun”.’

She couldn’t be drawn into anything of this nature—not now, it was too soon—and so Tamar shrugged gracefully, dropping her eyes from his as she closed the file on her lap and murmured demurely, ‘You may well be right.’

‘As in “the customer is always...”?’ he drawled drily.

‘What?’ She was too taken aback to be polite.

‘Forgive me, Miss McKinley, but I feel your response was more of the head than the...heart?’

The pause before the word ‘heart’ was intentionally provocative, and Tamar could have kicked herself a moment later when she shot back with, ‘You’re right, as always, Mr Cannon.’

‘Ah...’ It was speculative. ‘I see my reputation has gone before me.’

‘Your reputation?’ Her voice was too defensive. She realised just a second too late that he had been speaking generally when she saw the narrowed eyes sharpen, and she said hastily, ‘Oh, yes, your reputation... Well, you are quite well known in the City—’

‘Too late.’ It was very dry. ‘I gather whatever you’ve heard was not complimentary, but I won’t embarrass you further by asking for gory details.’ His tone stated quite clearly that it was more the fact that he couldn’t care less than her tender feelings which had prompted the magnanimity.

‘So...’ He paused, levering his powerful frame off the desk before offering her his hand to shake. ‘You are sure you can fix viewing for this afternoon on that first property?’

‘Absolutely,’ Tamar said firmly.

‘And you will ring me later this morning to confirm?’ he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘Ask for me personally, okay?’

He was still holding her hand, Tamar realised a little desperately as she looked up—a considerable way up—into the dark, male face.

She was wearing her one and only original designer suit—which had been bought at a fraction of the price second-hand, but still looked like a million dollars—and her hair and make-up was immaculate, so why, why was he reducing her to the consistency of a melted jelly? she asked herself helplessly. And why did she feel so gauche?

It probably wasn’t very clever to snatch her hand away so abruptly. In fact it definitely wasn’t, she acknowledged exasperatedly as she watched the cool grey eyes freeze to silver ice, but she knew—as she further compounded the gesture by stepping back a pace and pushing her hair away from her hot cheeks in order to give her hands something to do—that she couldn’t have left her fingers enclosed by his warm, male flesh for one more moment.

‘I’ll ... I’ll be in touch, Mr Cannon,’ she said shakily, after swallowing hard. ‘Later this morning, as arranged.’ Oh, don’t stammer, girl, she told herself disgustedly—this is Jed Cannon for goodness’ sake. He isn’t worthy to lick your boots, and you owe it to Gaby to carry this off without any hiccups. Jed Cannon was going to regret the day he ever heard the name of Tamar McKinley ... ‘Fine.’

He was looking at her as though she were slightly mad, Tamar thought with a sudden faint touch of hysteria, and she really couldn’t blame him. And she had planned to be so cool, so very contained and in control! Oh, she hoped she hadn’t blown it.

It appeared she hadn’t.

‘What are you doing for lunch?’ he asked suddenly, with unnerving directness.

She almost said, Lunch? before she choked back the gormless reply and said instead, her voice as cool as she could make it in the circumstances, ‘Oh, I’ve appointments all day, but no doubt I shall manage a sandwich between engagements.’

‘All day?’ He frowned, and it was formidable. ‘Then how are you going to set up a visit to Greenacres for this afternoon?’

She had wanted to drop this little nugget into the proceedings over the telephone when she rang him later, but she would have to do it now, Tamar decided quickly.

‘I have a number of colleagues who would be only too pleased to show you the property, Mr Cannon,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Our Mr Richard is a partner in the business, and he can—’

‘Your Mr Richard could be the man in the moon,’ Jed Cannon bit back tightly, ‘but he won’t do. I want you to do it.’

‘I really can’t—’

‘I insist on dependability, Miss McKinley—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Hell, I can’t keep saying that mouthful. You have got another name, I take it?’ he asked irritably.

Her stomach was turning over, but she managed to sound both polite and unconcerned as she nodded briskly and said, ‘Tamar.’

‘Tamar?’ His mouth lingered over the name, the deep, husky voice bringing it alive in a way she had never heard before. ‘Unusual.’

She smiled, but said nothing. He was going to have to dig for every little bit of information he got from her on a personal level. He was used to women relating their life history at one lift of those sardonic eyebrows, but this was one female who wasn’t going to fall at his feet in humble adoration. No way, no how.

‘The McKinley is Scottish, I take it?’ he asked quietly, when the silence began to stretch.

‘My father was Scots, yes.’

Her tone wasn’t conducive to further questions, but she wasn’t unduly surprised when he persisted softly, ‘And your mother?’

‘My mother was French,’ she said, a little stiffly now.

‘And it would have been your mother who chose the name Tamar,’ he said thoughtfully.

‘What makes you say that?’ He was right, as it happened, but she wasn’t going to tell him so.

‘The French like beautiful, exotic-sounding names; the Scots are a little more conservative,’ he said with sweeping generalisation.

She thought of Gabrielle and Olivia, and couldn’t stop herself saying, ‘I disagree. My cousins have very lovely names, for example, and both of their parents are Scots.’

‘Oh, yes?’ His voice was easy, and it was clearly an invitation to elaborate, but she had no intention of doing anything Jed Cannon expected of her.

She willed herself to stand firm, a polite, social smile on her mouth as she faced him, and again the silence stretched and twanged, but this time he made no effort to break it. How long they would have stood there, locked in a strange battle of wills, Tamar didn’t know, but she gave a silent sigh of relief when the telephone buzzed after a long thirty seconds or so and defused the almost unbearable tension.

‘Yes?’ He had snatched up the receiver without taking his eyes off her, his voice curt as he snapped into the phone. After listening in silence for a moment, he said, ‘Put the call through in a moment, Teresa. Miss McKinley is just leaving.’

Cue exit.

Tamar nodded briefly, her smile fading, and turned to leave. She had almost reached the door when his voice stopped her as it said coldly, ‘You will make the necessary arrangements so that you can accompany me to Greenacres this afternoon, Tamar, and I would also like to see the other two properties tomorrow. Any time after...’ he flicked over a large diary on his desk and finished ‘...midday, so please plan your day accordingly.’

It was an order, not a request, and everything in her rebelled. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cannon, but I really can’t—’

‘The name is Jed, and, yes, you can,’ he said evenly.

She hadn’t expected this. Her brain raced, and she stood still for a second before slowly turning to face him. This was not how it should have happened. He was supposed to have had his appetite whetted by her apparent uninterest—the proverbial sprat to catch a mackerel—and then he would do all the running while she graciously made the odd concession now and again. He wasn’t supposed to meet her head-on like a ten-ton truck. But he had. And, thinking about it, she couldn’t afford to take any risks at this early stage of the game. The prey was still a long, long way off from the snare.

‘Of course, if you insist...’ Her smile had all the warmth of an arctic winter, and she didn’t have to act at all.

‘I do.’ It was uncompromising.

‘Then I’ll see you later this afternoon.’ He was pure, undiluted arrogance, she told herself testily as she nodded politely and left the room. A man who was used to clicking his fingers and seeing the rest of the world jump—through hoops, if necessary. But—and here her heart stopped, before galloping on furiously—she had put out the bait and he had taken it hook, line and sinker. She was in his life—only just—but in nevertheless. Battle could commence.

She shut the door behind her very quietly, and then stood for a few seconds willing her racing heartbeat to calm down. Control, control—it was all about control. As long as she remembered that, she would do just fine.

She pretended to check through the papers in the file as she remained standing in Jed Cannon’s secretary’s plush office; standing was all she could manage just at that moment. Reaction had set in, walking was quite beyond her, and the thought of falling in a heap just outside his quarters did not appear.

‘Is everything all right? You haven’t left anything...?’ The beautiful Miss Rice-Brown looked up from her word processor after a time, and the gracious expression on the lovely face was just the spur Tamar needed to get moving again.

‘No, I’m just making sure,’ Tamar said evenly. ‘There’s nothing worse than getting back to the office and finding something has been mislaid, but everything seems to be here. Mr Cannon has asked me to phone later with details about a viewing I’m setting up for this afternoon.’

‘Right.’ The secretary clearly wasn’t overly interested, inclining her head absently before her glance returned to the screen. ‘No problem.’

Not for you, maybe, Tamar thought with a touch of wry self-mockery as she waded through the carpet again to the outer door, stepping into the silent corridor outside and walking over to the lift with a dignity she was far from feeling.

Had she bitten off more than she could chew, here? she asked herself nervously, the lift whisking her down to the ground floor of the Cannon Express building before she could blink. Very probably, but then, nothing ventured—nothing gained...

The warm, sluggish air was portentous of another baking hot August day, but as Tamar stepped from the cool air-conditioned building into what resembled an oven her mind was not on the weather.

She had vowed, all those months ago now, that one day she would have her day with Jed Cannon and confront him with the near-fatal results of his ruthlessness, and if nothing else she was a woman of her word. But she had realised very early on that she needed to do more than tell him. That would have been water off a duck’s back as far as this man was concerned, and it was doubtful if he would have given her a moment’s thought afterwards.

No, she needed to get into Jed Cannon’s head, establish herself as a person in her own right before she let rip, and if she could make him fall for her, however carnal such an attraction would be with a man like him, it was all to the good. She would rather die than let him touch her, but he didn’t know that.

She decided she was still feeling a mite too fragile after the encounter she had psyched herself up for for days to contemplate the push and shove of the tube, so opted for the luxury of a taxi back to the office, settling in the cavernous depths and giving the driver the address of Taylor and Taylor before she allowed her mind to transport her back to that morning in February, six months ago.

The phone call had come when she was in the shower, and she had padded into the small sitting room of her one-bedroomed flat in Chelsea, expecting Richard or Fiona’s voice to be on the other end of the line. But it hadn’t proved to be one of the young, dynamic and recently married Taylors who had spoken.

‘Tamar? Oh, Tamar, thank goodness. I thought you might have already left for the office. I... Oh, Tamar...’

‘Aunt Prudence?’ Tamar had never heard her normally vivacious and bubbly aunt so upset, and it frightened her. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she asked anxiously.

There was silence for a moment, followed by the sound of sniffling and snuffling, and then her aunt said, her whisper thick with tears, ‘It’s Gabrielle. She...she’s in hospital.’

‘Gaby’s in hospital?’ Tamar had hardly been able to believe it. She had only spoken to her cousin—who was more like a sister than anything else, the two girls having been brought up together from the age of five, when Tamar’s own parents had been killed in a train accident in her mother’s native France—the night before, and Gabrielle had been fine then. In fact, she’d been on top of the world—wildly, ecstatically happy... ‘What’s happened, Aunt Prudence? Has there been an accident?’ Tamar prompted urgently, her voice shaking.

‘Not exactly.’ And then her aunt totally amazed and bewildered her when she wailed at the top of her voice, ‘Oh, Tamar, I wish she had had an accident; I could cope with that. But this! This is awful.’

‘What’s awful?’ Tamar was trying—very hard—to keep her patience. Her aunt had never been a person who could cope with any sort of pressure, all the family knew that, and made allowances, but when the only sound from the other end of the phone was loud sobs that went on and on, Tamar said at last, her voice sharp, ‘Aunt Prudence, answer me. What’s so awful?’ and then, when no answer was immediately forthcoming, ‘Where’s Uncle Jack? Aunt Prudence, where is Uncle Jack?’

‘He’s ... he’s at the hospital with...with Gabrielle. They said ... the doctor said I was upsetting her and it would be better if I came home and got ... got some rest.’

Even in her aunt’s obvious distress a note of affronted pride was detectable, and Tamar could imagine how the doctor’s suggestion had gone down with her aunt.

‘She ... Gabrielle took some sleeping tablets,’ her aunt sobbed. ‘A whole bottle full that I had in the cupboard from when your uncle Jack had shingles and couldn’t sleep.’

‘Gaby?’ Tamar exclaimed shrilly, her brain refusing to accept what her ears were hearing. ‘Aunt Prudence, you’re saying Gaby tried to commit suicide?’

‘Yes, she did—she did. She said so herself after they had pumped her stomach out.’

‘But why? Why on earth would she do something like that?’ Tamar asked shakily. ‘I only spoke to her yesterday, and she was over the moon about Ronald and making plans...’ She caught herself abruptly. This wouldn’t help her aunt. She had to find out the facts as quickly as she could, and, Prudence being Prudence, that would be difficult enough. She loved her aunt dearly, but she had to be one of the giddiest people on the face of the earth.

‘Aunt Prudence, is Gaby all right? Physically, I mean?’ she asked quietly, willing herself to sound calm despite the turmoil within.

‘I think so, but she wouldn’t talk to us,’ her aunt wailed plaintively. ‘She said...she said she just wanted to be alone.’ The sobs that were interrupting her aunt’s words were of a pitch to make Tamar’s ears ring, and it was at that point Tamar told her aunt she would be coming up to Scotland on the next train, and that she would speak further with her then.

Later that evening she had learnt the full facts from Gabrielle herself. Her cousin, her sweet, gentle and hopelessly naive cousin, was pregnant, and the man in question was Jed Cannon’s brother-in-law. Not that Gabrielle had known her beau was married until the evening before, when Jed Cannon himself strode into the hotel restaurant where they were having dinner, and verbally ripped Gabrielle apart in front of a crowd of interested and goggle-eyed spectators, before leaving again with a crestfallen Ronald in tow.

And then, later that night, with Tamar holding her cousin’s hand, Gabrielle had lost her baby.


CHAPTER TWO

THE house Jed Cannon had opted to view first was a beauty. Eight bedrooms, six bathrooms, three reception rooms, huge study, enormous sun lounge overlooking the covered swimming pool—the list of attributes was endless. The price took a while to say too, with all the noughts it necessitated...

Tamar met him outside the towering nine-foot wall surrounding the property on the outskirts of Windsor, making sure she was there and waiting in plenty of time. He had offered her a lift when she had phoned earlier with details of the meeting, but she had refused, insisting she would make her own way, due to a previous appointment meaning she would be in the area. It was a lie, and the exorbitant taxi fare was just punishment.

She saw the Mercedes the second it rounded the corner in the far distance, the shimmering heat turning the magnificent car to fluid bronze, but waited until it was almost level with her before she spoke into the little box on the gate, stating their names and the reason for their visit to Greenacres. The gates opened immediately. ‘Hop in.’

Jed Cannon was in the back of the vehicle, a host of papers scattered around him as he worked away on a small computer, and he leant across to open the far door for her, the chauffeur sitting impassively in his glass-partitioned isolation.

‘Thank you.’ It was a little breathless, but the overall authority of him was magnified rather than lessened by the sight of him working, shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie loose round his collar, in the confined space.

‘Where’s your car?’ he asked abruptly as she closed her door and settled down in the luxurious depths.

Her little old banger had failed its MOT the week before, and at present was in a car hospital having major surgery—something she could ill afford—but she wasn’t going to tell him all that. ‘Flat tyre,’ she replied economically. It was true, in a way, but there were about a hundred and one other defects that were being attended to at the same time.

‘And you haven’t got a back-up?’

No, and she didn’t have a Mercedes, a vintage Rolls, and a snazzy little Ferrari either. Unlike him. Perhaps three cars per multimillionaire wasn’t too excessive, but it had still grated when she’d first discovered it, and it rankled even more right now.

‘No, I haven’t,’ she replied shortly, her chin rising a notch. ‘Few working girls have, I should imagine.’

There was silence for a moment and then, ‘I’m sorry, Tamar, I put that incredibly badly.’

His voice was soft and genuine, and as she glanced at him she saw he was truly embarrassed.

‘What I meant was, I would have thought the firm you work for would have provided a vehicle for just such an emergency,’ he said quietly. ‘A car must be pretty essential for your day to day business?’

‘It helps.’ She was flustered, and hot and sticky—she had been waiting fifteen minutes for his car to arrive, so nervous had she been of being late, and there had been no shade from the fierce afternoon sun—but it was the look on his face and the softness of his voice rather than the heat which was making her uncomfortable.

She inclined her head slightly now, her voice mellowing as she said, ‘It just happened that everyone needed their own car today, and there isn’t a pool vehicle-not yet at any rate,’ she added hastily. The last thing she wanted to do was give Jed Cannon the impression that Taylor and Taylor was just a little tinpot kind of business. ‘But Richard and Fiona are working on it,’ she said positively.

‘And they are?’ he asked expressionlessly.

‘Taylor and Taylor.’

‘Right.’

Oh, damn, what was he thinking now? She risked a sidelong glance from under her eyelashes as the beautiful car nosed its way along the winding tree-lined drive towards the palatial house some hundred yards away. Did he think Taylor and Taylor weren’t big enough to handle this kind of property, that they were cowboys, or—?

‘So, most of the ground is at the front of the house, with just the swimming pool and tennis court at the back?’ Jed asked quietly, raising his head from his work and leaning back in the seat as he spoke.

‘Yes.’ Oh, she should have been giving him the sales pitch rather than daydreaming, Tamar cautioned herself irritably, and she went on to list the rare trees and flowers the garden boasted.

She continued to point out each advantageous feature of the property—the genuine solid oak beams in the reception rooms, the wonderful stained glass windows in the entrance hall and on the first and second floor landings, and so on—and by the time they had finished the inspection she had spoken herself almost hoarse.

It hadn’t helped that the owner—an aristocratic and hopelessly dotty old colonel-type, who had more money than sense—had completed the tour with them, helpfully pointing out the rising damp in the study, the crumbling brickwork in the west wing, and the failing filtering system in the pool.

She had sensed more than once that Jed Cannon was being vastly entertained. There was something about the studiously straight face and faintly strangled note to his voice that suggested smothered amusement—especially when she found herself arguing with the owner on the merits of a south-facing garden—and when they stepped out of the front door again, after the requisite sherry and dry biscuits, Tamar really didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry.

She did neither, inclining her head towards Jed as they walked across the scrunchy drive towards the Mercedes and saying, without any preamble, ‘Well, did you like it?’ her voice flat.

‘Very much.’ The silver eyes were positively wicked as he added, ‘And Gerald Biggsley-Brown proved to be a very honest and upright individual, don’t you think?’

She glanced at him sharply, but the handsome face was bland and innocent—too bland and too innocent.

‘Yes, he’s very nice,’ Tamar said primly. Why, oh, why, had she started this? She was way out of her league here. How on earth could she ever get a man like Jed Cannon to fancy her anyway? She must have been mad. But she would tell him what she thought of him; she could still do that at least.

‘Okay, set the ball rolling,’ Jed said easily.

‘What?’

Tamar stopped stock-still in the middle of the horseshoe forecourt, so that Jed had actually walked on a few paces before he realised she wasn’t with him. He turned to face her, taking in the wide dark eyes and partly open mouth with more secret amusement.

‘What did you say?’ she asked again.

‘I said, set the ball rolling—start the negotiations,’ he replied patently. ‘However you want to describe it.’

‘But ... but what about the damp, and the brickwork and...everything?’ she stuttered disbelievingly.

‘Tamar, are you trying to sell me this house or do a hatchet job?’ Jed drawled drily. ‘If you insist, I’ll sacrifice some more of my valuable time to traipse around a few properties, but the end result would be the same. I like this house. I want it at the right price of course—and I shan’t change my mind about that I’ve always prided myself on being a man who knows what he wants when he sees it, and then acquiring it. I’ve seen it.’

‘You have?’ She suddenly realised how hopelessly unprofessional she must sound, and forced a bright, positive note into her voice as she added, ‘Of course you have. This is a wonderful house. The oak beams—’

‘Were pointed out masterfully, along with the stained glass windows, the new fitted kitchen, and, of course, the south-facing garden.’

He was laughing at her, she knew it, but she was too surprised at the easy sale—and what a sale—to be angry. The commission she would make on this one deal was more than she normally earned in months.

‘Now, shall we sit in the comfort of the car while we discuss a few terms and conditions? It must be all of eighty in the shade out here,’ he pointed out matter-of factly.

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She found herself almost gambolling along at his side before she checked herself sharply. This was Jed Cannon. Jed Cannon. The sale was great, of course it was—‘tasty’ wasn’t the word—but there was more at stake here than filthy lucre. And in one way this had all been too easy. There would be no reason, once the sale was going through, for her ever to darken Jed Cannon’s door again, and that wasn’t at all what she had planned.

Once in the car, he turned to her, after tapping the glass for the chauffeur to drive off, and smiled. She wished he hadn’t It had been bad enough earlier in the office, but here, in this confined space, with the faint smell of expensive aftershave teasing her nostrils and the dark, latent power of the man seeming to strain against a precarious leash, it was positively devastating.

‘Now...’ He leant back casually in the seat, one arm stretched along the back of the leather upholstery and the silver eyes narrowed against the white sunlight. ‘That brickwork...’

He detailed several matters needing expert attention—most of which had been pointed out by the good Gerald Biggsley-Brown, bless him, Tamar thought balefully—before finishing with, ‘They can either be rectified by the present owner before I take possession, or by me, with estimates reducing the asking price by an agreed amount. I’m not fussy. And of course all this is subject to survey and the normal formalities,’ he said crisply.

‘Of course,’ Tamar agreed carefully.

‘And I want this completed fast—no hiccups, no delays. If Gerald can’t get the work done in the next two weeks, I can.’

She didn’t doubt that Jed Cannon could do anything he set his mind to, but two weeks? ‘But the survey and everything?’ Tamar stared at him in disbelief. ‘These things take time, Mr Cannon. Once you’ve reached an agreement with the owner—’

He interrupted her faintly dazed voice coolly. ‘The guy already has the little seaside place he’s moving to—’ Tamar wouldn’t have described Mr Biggsley-Brown’s seven hundred thousand pounds’ worth of beautiful holiday home in that way, but no matter ‘—so he could move out tomorrow if he wants. He said so. There are no mortgage complications on his side or mine, and I can get my people in to do the survey tomorrow morning if necessary.’

How the other half live. How the other half live, Tamar thought bemusedly.

‘I want to get a place near London quickly—there are ... family complications that make it important—okay? So, let’s all pull our fingers out and get cracking.’

‘Yes, right.’ She was still shell-shocked—that was the only excuse she could think of afterwards for her next words, which were a big, big gaffe. ‘But I thought you had an apartment in Kensington anyway?’ she said do-pily.

‘Did you...?’

The metallic gaze had turned to bright steel and was at variance with the almost lazy tone of voice, but Tamar was looking straight into his eyes, and they woke her up like nothing else could have done.

‘Have you been doing some homework on me, Miss Tamar McKinley?’ he asked thoughtfully.

‘No, no, not really.’ She had always been hopeless at lying, her tendency to metamorphose into a beetroot was a dead give-away, and now, as she felt herself burn with colour, she knew she had to retrieve the situation fast. ‘Well...’ She allowed the merest embarrassed pause before she lowered her eyes and said hesitantly, ‘The sort of property you’re interested in does cost a great deal of money, Mr Cannon. The firm prefers a little... investigation in those circumstances, to make sure the client is not disappointed at the last moment by. a buyer who simply can’t meet the required asking price.’

‘How thorough.’ It was cool and even, and as Tamar raised her eyes she couldn’t gauge a thing from the expressionless face in front of her. ‘And this is normal practice?’ he asked softly.

‘In deals of this calibre, yes,’ she said quietly. ‘We like to feel that if at any time in the future you decided to move again, the sort of service we provide would prompt you to contact us before any other firm.’

‘And what else is included in the ... service you provide?’

It could have meant exactly what it said at face value, but there was the merest inflexion in the tone that told Tamar he was flirting with her. Carefully, obliquely, even, but there was something there, and she had to be very very circumspect now. She couldn’t afford to make another mistake like the one she had just made.

She smiled gently, listing all the pros of dealing with Taylor and Taylor one by one, at the same time allowing her eyes to give him just the faintest of come-ons.

The Mercedes pulled up outside Taylor and Taylor—where Jed had offered to take her—at just gone four, and she prayed he wouldn’t suggest coming in and meeting Richard and Fiona. The shop premises didn’t look too bad on the outside, but if he came in and saw just how small the set-up was, he might suspect they didn’t normally deal in seven-figure negotiations. But he didn’t.

Why would he? she asked herself once she was out of the car and raising her hand to him as the dark gold Mercedes glided away into mainstream traffic. Men of his wealth and importance weren’t exactly desperate to meet the minions below them.

‘Oh, wow!’ Fiona met her at the door and it was obvious she had been watching out of the window. ‘That was him, I take it? Jed Cannon? And look at that car! I bet you didn’t even know you were on the road.’

‘It’s a bit different to my little jalopy,’ Tamar agreed, with a rueful grin at Fiona’s avaricious face. She loved Fiona and Richard—she had been at university with them both, and they had helped her through a rough patch in her life then and continued to be steadfast friends—but sometimes the fierce ambition and ruthless intent to succeed that the couple shared left her cold.

They would make a name for themselves in the field they had chosen; she didn’t doubt that for a minute, in spite of estate agents being ten a penny in the London area. And that was good, just fine, Tamar told herself as she entered the office and turned to answer the hundred and one questions Fiona was throwing at her. But there was more to life than work. Richard and Fiona genuinely enjoyed working from dawn to dusk, six, sometimes seven days a week, and, as neither of them wanted children, they had decided to sink all their time and money, along with their hearts and souls, into their joint career.

But she wasn’t like that. She wanted a home of her own one day when the time was right, with a partner who loved her, and a family, dogs, cats...maybe a chicken or two pecking in the backyard and a pony in a field close by for the kids to ride on? It was a pipe dream, or most of it was, at any rate, but if you didn’t dream, what was there? Of course, to form a relationship with a man you had to be prepared to date now and again, and she wasn’t there yet, but she was getting better...

‘Well?’ She came back to the real world to see Fiona positively hopping with eager impatience. ‘How did it go? Did he display any interest? Talk to me, Tamar.’

‘He wants it,’ Tamar said off-handedly, enjoying the moment.

‘He...? He doesn’t! He doesn’t, does he? Really? For definite?’ Fiona gabbled enthusiastically, for once not at all like her normal cool, sophisticated self.

‘Absolutely.’ Tamar nodded, before laughing out loud. ‘And I’m looking forward to a nice long holiday somewhere hot with all that commission.’

‘Oh, you’ve earnt it—you’ve definitely earnt it,’ Fiona agreed happily. ‘If we can get a few more clients like him, we’re laughing. And to think all this came about because you had lunch with Carol at Webster and Hartman! That’ll teach her to boast about how well their firm are doing compared to ours.’

‘I feel a bit mean about that actually—’

‘Nonsense.’ Fiona interrupted Tamar’s subdued voice in her normal forceful manner. ‘All’s fair in love and war, girl, and don’t you forget it. You went out and got those three properties you showed him on our books, didn’t you? It was your enterprise and push that did that. You deserve to make a killing. It’s the first time I’ve seen you so determined about anything for ages.’

‘Ages’ translated into five years, Tamar thought wryly, as she gazed at this bright, attractive friend of hers, who was known for her plain speaking.

‘And anyway, Carol shouldn’t have mentioned Jed Cannon if she didn’t expect us to go for a bite of the same cherry,’ Fiona finished with a decisive nod of her head. ‘I wouldn’t expect you or Tim—’ Tim being the other employee of the firm ‘—to sound off about who we’ve got on our books and who we haven’t. And you told Carol you were going to try for Jed Cannon. That’s more than she would have done if the position had been reversed. No, you did very well. You’ve obviously got the right touch with millionaires.’

‘Obviously.’ But he hadn’t asked for her telephone number, or suggested a date, and she had so wanted to get under his skin a bit before she told him exactly what she thought of him. He had treated Gaby like dirt under his shoe, publicly humiliated her to the point where she had tried to take her own life. At the very least she wanted him to remember her for a while when she did the same to him.

She didn’t doubt for a minute that anything she said would be almost instantly dismissed from his mind, but if she could say something that rankled, it might stop him treating anyone else so ruthlessly. The rumours and counter-rumours flying round the little Scottish community after the scene at the hotel had made getting over Ronald so much harder for Gaby.

Tamar spent the rest of the afternoon pulling things together with regard to Greenacres, and then catching up with her mountain of paperwork, which had got sadly neglected over the last few weeks as she had raced about like a mad thing chasing the three properties of which Fiona had spoken. But it had been worth it. Oh, yes, it had certainly been worth it

She stayed at the office long after all the others had gone home, until, at just gone nine, she felt her desk was clearer and she was in control again. The night was a warm one, and the walk from Taylor and Taylor in Fulham to her tiny flat in Chelsea was just what she needed to unwind from the turmoil of the day. She strolled along in the heavy London air, picking up a hot dog—liberally doused with fried onions—on the way, and reflecting that it was only in the big cities where a woman dressed up to the nines in a designer suit and high heels could wander along eating her dinner out of a paper bag without attracting a second glance.

And she loved it; she really did. After that nightmare time at university, to be inconspicuous was all she asked for. Perhaps that was why she had felt Gaby’s humiliation and pain so fiercely? she thought now. Having been through a terribly public chastening herself, she knew how it felt. Not that her circumstances had been so awful as poor Gaby’s—at least she hadn’t got pregnant—but how did you compare being raped to being fooled into sleeping with someone and then losing a baby when you were openly disgraced? Perhaps they were both as bad as each other, really...

Mike Goodfellow. She could picture one of the lecturers at university now in her mind. Tall, good-looking, married with the requisite 2.4 children and career-minded wife, he had really thought he was the bee’s knees. And when he’d offered her extra tuition on her English essays she had really thought he meant just that.

The assault had been painful—she’d been a virgin—and degrading, but over mercifully quickly, and when she had decided to go public and report him, despite his threats, she had discovered she hadn’t been the first. Three other girls had come forward, and they’d been just the ones still at the university. No one knew how many other girls he had attacked in the past.

Of course the resulting police action and publicity had been tough, and she had certainly learnt who her friends were, if nothing else, but she had been determined not to creep away like a little whipped dog from the moment she had picked herself up off the floor of his room and limped away to get help. He had been so sure she wouldn’t report him, so confident in his ruthlessness. Mike Goodfellow. Never had a name been more inapt...

She’d found it difficult to be alone with a man for a long time after that, but friends like Fiona and Richard had been great, and eventually she had gone on a couple of dates—more to prove to herself she could than anything else. But they had been purely platonic, with nothing more than a brief goodnight kiss.

She’d often felt her heart had gone into cold storage on the man front, and it was that, even more than the rape itself, that she couldn’t forgive Mike Goodfellow for. He had taken away so much warmth, fun, excitement and just plain ordinary living from her in a few short, but terrifyingly brutal minutes. Even now she would freeze, or experience the odd moment of blind panic, if a man looked at her in a certain way, or touched her when she wasn’t aware of them.

He had received a prison sentence, and she understood his wife had left him in the process, but how could he pay for what he had done to her and others? He couldn’t, not really...

It’s in the past, it’s in the past. You’re not letting him win. It was what she had told herself every day for the last five years, but it helped, and she had determined she would carry on telling herself the same thing until it no longer became necessary.

She took a deep breath now, finishing the last of the hot dog and throwing the paper away in the convenient red bin that was positioned just outside the entrance to the terraced house in which her flat was situated, before opening the communal front door with her key.

Once inside, she ran up the two flights of stairs to her little idyll at the top of the house, glad to be home. And the quiet oasis she had created for herself in the midst of the bustle of the big metropolis was home, in a way her aunt and uncle’s house had never been.

She paused after opening the door to her flat, taking a moment to appreciate the light, pretty surroundings and the fact that it was all hers. Her father’s foresight in making a clear, concise will after she was born had meant that on reaching the age of twenty-one she had come into a nice, tidy little nest-egg which had been held in trust for her until that date. It wasn’t a fortune, but it had meant she could afford to buy her own little home when she left university, furnish it exactly how she wanted, and still have enough left over to purchase an elderly little runabout to get her from A to B when necessary.

She had barely taken a step or two over the threshold when the phone began to ring in her red and gold sitting room, and strangely, just as she lifted the receiver and spoke her name, she knew who it was...

‘Tamar?’ Jed Cannon’s husky voice caused an involuntary curling of her toes. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home?’

‘How...how did you get the number?’ she prevaricated bemusedly. She didn’t know if she minded or not, if she were being truthful, she admitted silently to herself.

‘Telephone directory,’ he said blandly.

‘Oh.’ She wondered how many T. McKinleys there were in the London area. She’d have to have a look later. ‘How can I help you?’ she asked carefully.

‘My people can get in to do a survey tomorrow morning,’ he said without any preamble, ‘and I’ve already checked with Gerald that that’s okay.’

Have you indeed? And it’s Gerald now, is it? She was beginning to get mad.

‘We’ve discussed a rough price for getting the work done, and Gerald’s quite prepared to drop by the required amount Now—’

‘Mr Cannon—’ how dare he, how dare he take over like this? ‘—you are aware negotiations of this sort should be done through the estate agents?’ she asked icily.

‘Who says?’ he shot back quickly.

‘It really isn’t done—’

‘Tamar, I couldn’t give a pig’s ear about what is done and what isn’t,’ he said, with a smooth arrogance that had her telling herself desperately that she had to remember he was the buyer, that this was a huge deal, that she couldn’t afford to get on the wrong side of him and blow it. And that was besides her original plan to worm herself into his life and get him interested before she let him know what was what Which didn’t seem quite such a good idea now, somehow.

‘I’m working within a limited time-scale, and I haven’t got time for pussy-footing about. Right? Now, if you have a problem with that, I’m sorry, but there it is. Although surely the sooner the deal is clinched, the sooner Gerald’s happy, I’m happy, and you get your commission. Yes?’

Blow her commission, the arrogant, supercilious, overbearing—

‘Right?’ he repeated coldly.

‘Right,’ she agreed tightly, her tone saying something quite different. And she had decided whether she minded him calling her at home!

‘Tamar...’ There was what sounded like a long, impatient sigh. ‘Please don’t be difficult.’

‘I’m not being difficult.’ Oh, this was getting ridiculous. What was she doing? She couldn’t afford to argue with him like this, she cautioned herself sharply, forcing a sweeter note into her voice as she said, ‘I’m not, really, Mr Cannon, but negotiations of this sort are what I get paid for, after all.’

‘And in the normal run of things I’m sure they are quite invaluable,’ he said soothingly.

‘Yes.’ Patronising into the bargain, she thought exasperatedly. But at the moment all the cards were stacked well and truly on his side, and all she could do was grit her teeth and play ball. ‘Well, if Mr Biggsley-Brown is happy with what you’ve discussed, I’m sure we will be,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll have to ring him in the morning and confirm, of course.’

‘Of course,’ he agreed drily. ‘But I’m sure you’ll find he’s very understanding.’

Huh! She narrowed her eyes, frowning across the room. And what was all the mad rush about anyway? Why was it so imperative for him to have a house so quickly? He had a marvellous bachelor pad—a sumptuous penthouse from all accounts—in Kensington. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have anywhere of his own to live.

He was just being awkward—flexing his wealthy muscles and demanding that everything be done yesterday, because that was how he wanted it Ruthless to the last, she thought bitterly.

‘Yes... Well, thank you for letting me know what you’ve done, and I’ll be in touch once—’

‘Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?’ Jed interrupted evenly.

‘Dinner?’

Eager delight was quite absent from her voice, and his own reflected his recognition of the fact when he said, his tone smooth but distinctly cool, ‘It’s something most people do in between lunch one day and breakfast the next.’

Dinner. Tamar was eternally grateful Jed Cannon couldn’t see her as she leant back against the wall and shut her eyes for a moment, before taking a deep steadying breath and saying, the breathless note not at all feigned, ‘I’m so sorry, but I do have a previous engagement tomorrow...’ in the sort of voice which made it clear she would like him to suggest another evening when she could make it.

He did. ‘Wednesday evening?’ he asked expressionlessly.

Wednesday. That would give her Tuesday lunchtime and evening, and Wednesday lunchtime if she needed it, to buy a new outfit, have her hair done, give herself a beauty treatment... ‘That would be lovely,’ she said quietly, hoping she was hitting the right note of cool interest now.

‘Good. I’ll pick you up about eight,’ he said smoothly. ‘I was thinking we might go to Harvey’s, unless you have any objection?’

Tamar just stopped herself saying, Harvey’s? in the same blank, gormless way she had said, Dinner?, and instead managed to sound quite blasé when she answered, ‘No, Harvey’s will be fine.’

Harvey’s will be fine. After she had said goodbye and put the phone down she had a sudden desire to laugh hysterically. Harvey’s was the one nightclub in London that even the rich and famous would kill to get membership for, and there wasn’t one single person of her acquaintance who had got so much as a nose in the door. And he was taking her there! Her, Tamar McKinley!

The urge to laugh vanished instantly as the thought of what she was going to wear surfaced with frightening intent. You couldn’t go to Harvey’s in an off-the-peg dress and shoes, she thought with blind panic. This was going to be an exclusive designer job at the very least. Well, she would have to use the money in her building society account that she had been saving all year for a holiday, and maybe the cash she had put by for her car too. Needs must.

She went straight into her tiny but extremely well fitted kitchen and made herself a very strong cup of black coffee, which she drank down scalding hot in an effort to combat her churning stomach. It helped, and after she had drunk a second cup her natural optimism and determination came to the fore.

Jed Cannon was just a man, when all was said and done. All right, he might be wealthier and better-looking than most, and have enough charisma and male magnetism to send the average woman bandy, but she wasn’t the average woman. She made a deep obeisance with her head to the thought. And he was going to remember her—and Gaby by the time she had finished—for a long, long time.


CHAPTER THREE

TAMAR knew, when she looked into Jed Cannon’s silver-grey gaze and saw it narrow to laser-like intentness the moment before he smiled, that the short jade-green silk cocktail dress, with its wafer-thin straps and simple crossover style bodice, had been worth every penny. And the matching shoes, with their high, high heels and neat little ankle straps, were just right too, emphasising her long legs and slim shape perfectly.

The price had been astronomical, but it had been the way the outfit showed off her figure that had made her hesitate in purchasing it at first. Since Mike Goodfellow’s attack, she had been chary about wearing anything too revealing, hiding in big baggy tops and jeans the first year, before slowly graduating to more tailored feminine clothes as time had gone on—but always with a view to modesty and propriety.

But you didn’t go to somewhere like Harvey’s muffled up to the ears. Even she knew that. And so...

‘You look very lovely, Tamar.’

She wondered if the sexy huskiness as his deep voice lingered over her name was a well-tried and proved strategy? Whatever, it was very effective. But she was immune to his charm. She was.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled brightly. He looked absolutely wonderful, but she wasn’t going to tell him so. The light cream dinner jacket sat on the big male shoulders in a way that proclaimed the wearer was used to such formal wear, and there was an easy grace about him that suggested restrained animal power. He was a sensual man... The thought shocked her into stepping out of the hall and into the street beyond as she said, ‘Shall we go?’ in as neutral a voice as she could manage.

She had been ready and waiting in the hall for his knock for over fifteen minutes, determined he wasn’t going to set foot inside the house. She didn’t want him in the place, and most certainly not in her flat, although she couldn’t quite have explained why. She had tried to tell herself it was because she needed to keep all this on her terms, but it wasn’t that, not really. She just didn’t want him getting...close.

‘Do I make you nervous, Tamar?’

He had ushered her into the cab with gentle decorum, making polite small talk for some moments, so now, as he twisted to face her, the silver eyes hard on her flushed face, he didn’t miss the start she gave at his softly voiced question.

‘Nervous? Of course not!’ She forced a light laugh, and then coughed as it strangled in her throat.

‘Good...’ He didn’t sound as though he believed her, and his next words added weight to this impression when he said, still in the same quiet, soft tone, ‘You don’t want to believe everything you hear, you know. One of the disadvantages of a high profile is that rumours abound on all fronts, whether personal or workwise. If I had done or said all the things accredited to me I’d have burnt myself out long ago.’

‘And you’re not burnt out,’ she stated with provocative primness, almost as though she disapproved.

He wanted to laugh, but managed to restrain the impulse, knowing it would not be appreciated. She intrigued him, this serious dark-eyed flame-haired beauty; she intrigued him very much. There was something about her he couldn’t fathom, and it made a pleasant change from most of the women he knew, who were veritable open books.

‘No, I’m not burnt out, Tamar,’ he agreed with straight-faced control, and then, as she nodded solemnly before dropping her eyes and moistening her lips with a small pink tongue, he felt his breath quicken and a stirring in his loins.

It was that, the almost tangible innocence about her, he told himself with self-deprecating mockery, that got him. She was full of little gestures like that, but he’d bet his life she wasn’t aware of the effect they had on the average male. But she must be, he told himself in the next instant. Of course she must be. You didn’t get to her age, looking like she did, without knowing a thing or two. She was just more subtle than most; that was all. But he liked it. He had to admit he liked it.

Harvey’s was nowhere as big as Tamar had expected it to be, but in every other respect it came up to expectation. The small tables clustered around the dance floor were shadowed and intimate, the food was superb, and the frothy pink cocktails followed by a bottle of champagne that gave a new meaning to the phrase ‘nectar of the gods’ were out of this world.

It was clearly a place to see and be seen, and, judging by the number of people who tried to catch Jed Cannon’s eye, Tamar assumed he had more than a little influence. And didn’t he just love it? Tamar thought to herself, as the head waiter glided over to their table for the umpteenth time to check if everything was all right. The ostentation, the peacock-like display of all those present-he took it all in through those narrowed silver eyes without betraying a single thought or emotion. An ice man. She gave a mental nod to the thought. Definitely a control freak...

And then the tasteful little floor show ended, just as Tamar finished the most delicious liqueur coffee of her life, and Jed rose slowly, his eyes slumberous as he said, ‘Dance with me, Tamar?’

Dance with him? She stared up at him, her eyes wide. Of course she should have expected this, prepared herself for it, but foolishly she had been so taken up with the spectacle of it all that she hadn’t thought about dancing with him.

He looked very big and very dark, the pale cream of his dinner jacket emphasising the threatening enigmatic maleness, and she suddenly felt she had caught a tiger by the tail. She must be mad—stark, staring mad—to think, she could influence Jed Cannon by the tiniest amount. He was a man who used women for his own purposes, it was written all over him, and she was way, way out of her league here.

‘Tamar?’ He held out his hand, and she could do nothing else but rise and take it, her stomach quivering as his warm flesh made contact with hers.

Once on the dance floor a new realisation of his bigness swept over her as he took her into his arms, and she had to steel herself not to panic. This was the first time in years—since Mike Goodfellow’s attack, in fact—that she had consciously allowed a man to hold her in this way. The thought did nothing to help the little shivers flickering down her spine as the subtle but delicious smell of him encompassed her.

And then her chin rose a notch and her mouth tightened resolutely. She could do this, she could, and if she could handle being in Jed Cannon’s arms, she could handle being in anyone’s. There was nothing like starting at the top and working down...

‘Relax.’ His voice was deep and quiet above her head as he nestled the soft, cloudy curls with his chin and pulled her a little closer. ‘I don’t know what stories you’ve heard about the big, bad wolf, but I’m not going to eat you. You’re quite safe.’

‘I know.’

Her voice wasn’t as steady as she would have liked it to be, and then, as he chuckled low in his throat and said, ‘Now that’s not a very nice thing to say. I must be slipping,’ she took a long, hard, silent breath and prayed for control.

This was just social intercourse, flirting, part of a date. That was all. She knew it, in her head, but she was so out of practice in this realm that every little word or gesture he made was intimidating.

And then she felt him move slightly, and he pulled away enough to lift her chin with one hand as he stared down into her huge velvet-brown eyes. ‘You’re enchanting, do you know that?’ he murmured softly. ‘A lady of contrasts.’

‘Contrasts?’ She dared not relax into the sensual intimate mood he was creating—this had to move along slowly, very slowly. No doubt he was used to women falling into bed with him at the drop of a hat, and in the sophisticated worldly circles in which he moved affairs were conducted with a swiftness that could take your breath away, she thought silently. But this time, this time he wasn’t going to have it all his own way. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘But, yes.’ The husky voice did something to her nerve-endings that was undescribable. ‘I’ve seen the smart, efficient career woman, totally sure of herself and her ability to deliver the goods, the sophisticated beauty who has dazzled and bewitched every man in the place, and then there’s the other Tamar, the gentle, innocent, shy little girl...’

It hurt. The ‘innocent’ hurt—which was ridiculous really, when she had thought she’d got over Mike Goodfellow stealing what should have been hers to give long ago.

‘“Gentle, innocent, shy little girl”?’ She smiled as she said it, and he would never know how much self-discipline it took. ‘In London?’

But he had seen the brown darken to ebony, and the impact of his words in the dark depths. ‘Why not?’ he countered easily. ‘They tell me the age of miracles is not yet passed.’

And then he drew her close again, and she had to concentrate all her efforts on staying upright as the feel and smell of him caused her legs to turn to jelly. She tried to tell herself it was nerves that was sending tiny electric shocks all over her body, but she knew, even before he bent his head and took her lips in the lightest of kisses, that it wasn’t that.




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