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The Boss's Forbidden Secretary
Lee Wilkinson


Inexperienced secretary – bedded by the boss! Ruthless businessman Ross Dalgowan has discovered the woman he bedded is already married – he’s furious! Cautious Cathy was just trying to help out her brother by posing as his wife, but now she’s in over her head. The stranger she spent one perfect night with is her new boss!When Ross learns the truth he’s intrigued. His unworldly secretary is out of her depth – and Ross is all for going in at the deep end…







All her life she’d been cautious, inhibited, and after her brief, disastrous relationship with Neil she’d felt frozen through and through, certain she’d never feel the warmth of true love, the pleasure of being held in caring arms.



Now, however, her inhibitions gone—driven away by the unaccustomed whisky, perhaps—she longed to reach out and take the happiness that Ross seemed to be offering.



But suppose she was frigid, as Neil had charged?



Ross had been watching her face, the changing expressions, and now, with a slight sigh, he released her arms and stepped back.



His voice level, he told her, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take the couch…’



He was turning to walk away when she whispered, ‘Don’t go. Please don’t go.’


Lee Wilkinson lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a Derbyshire village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy travelling, and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going round the world ‘on a shoestring’ while their son looked after Kelly, their much loved German shepherd dog. Her hobbies are reading and gardening, and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.



Recent titles by the same author:



MISTRESS AGAINST HER WILL

THE PADOVA PEARLS

WIFE BY APPROVAL





THE BOSS’S FORBIDDEN SECRETARY


BY

LEE WILKINSON






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



THE BOSS’S FORBIDDEN SECRETARY


CHAPTER ONE

CATHY had packed the car, said goodbye to her neighbours, handed in the keys of the flat and set off from London that morning.

Because it was such a long way to drive, and Carl had been anxious about her, she had agreed to break the journey with an overnight stay at Ilithgow House, a small, family-run hotel that, according to the blurb, was both comfortable and inexpensive.

Carl had warned her, ‘Get as early a start as possible, Sis. It’s a hell of a long way just going as far as Ilithgow, and you’ll have the pre-Christmas traffic to contend with.’

But, in spite of his warning, the journey had taken far longer than she had anticipated, and it had already been dark for several hours.

She had just crossed the border from England into Scotland when it started to snow. The first big, soft flakes swirled past, caught in the golden beam of the car’s headlights and plopping onto the windscreen where the busy wipers flicked them carelessly aside.

Since she had been a small child Cathy had loved snow, and she thought how pretty it looked and how lovely it would be to have a white Christmas.

Or rather how lovely it would have been, if she hadn’t, for Carl’s sake, been planning to live a lie.

Peering through the windscreen, she thought thankfully that it was just as well she was almost there. The feathery flakes had grown smaller and more compact, and the snow was now coming down in earnest.

Pre-warned that there had already been fairly heavy falls in northern Scotland and over the mountains, she had expected to run into it sooner or later. But not this far south, and she was thankful that she was using Carl’s four-wheel drive.

By the time she caught sight of the lighted sign that gave the name of the hotel, a rising wind had created blizzard conditions, and she was driving through a blinding curtain of white.

Turning left between the lighted gateposts, she slowed to a crawl, cheering herself with the thought that there couldn’t be more than a few hundred yards to go.

Ilithgow House, she had learnt when she booked, was less than a quarter of a mile from the main road. However, to get to it she would have to cross an old stone bridge that spanned the River Ilith.

Remembering that made her hastily bring the car to a halt. She had no idea whether the long drive was straight or winding, and in these conditions it would be only too easy to miss the bridge and drive into the river.

A few seconds’ thought convinced her that her best plan would be to get out and reconnoitre.

Her hand was on the door handle when, from behind, approaching headlights lit up the falling snow. A big car—a Range Rover, she thought—drew up alongside, and a man’s dark figure appeared at her window.

As she rolled down the window, he stooped and, in a pleasant, low-pitched voice, asked, ‘Need any help?’

Briefly she explained her predicament.

‘Luckily I know the lie of the land,’ he said briskly, ‘so I’ll lead the way, if you’d like to follow me?’

Before she had time to thank him, he had gone back to his car.

As he drove slowly ahead she followed the red glow of his tail-lights until they had bumped their way across a narrow, humpbacked bridge.

Then, through the blizzard of white, she spotted the welcoming sight of the hotel’s lighted windows.

A moment later the leading car signalled right and, pulling onto a snow-shrouded forecourt, came to a halt near a shallow flight of steps.

As Cathy drew up alongside, the man doused his headlights and, jumping out, turned up the collar of his short car coat.

Though she couldn’t make out his features, in the light spilling from the long windows she could see that he was tall and broad-shouldered.

Reaching to open her car door, he queried, ‘I presume you’ve booked at the hotel?’

‘Yes.’

Noticing her medium-heeled suede court shoes, he advised, ‘It’s getting quite nasty underfoot. You’ll need to be careful.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed ruefully. ‘I should have worn something more sensible, but I wasn’t expecting to run into snow quite this soon.’

He was bareheaded, and, realizing that snowflakes were settling fast on his fair hair, she climbed out rather too hastily and slipped.

Catching her arm, he steadied her.

She pulled a face. ‘Now you can say, what did I tell you?’

He laughed. ‘As if I would! Have you much luggage to take in?’

‘Just an overnight bag.’

When she had retrieved it from the boot, he said, ‘Let me,’ and took it from her.

The bag she had packed had been a fun present from Carl, and had gold-coloured teddy bears prancing on it, but if the stranger noticed, it didn’t seem to bother him.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘But don’t you have your own luggage to carry?’

‘I haven’t any luggage. I wasn’t intending to make an overnight stop. However, a rescheduled business meeting meant a late start, and, given the weather conditions, it seems preferable to possibly ending up in a ditch.’

She could only agree as, heads bent against the driving curtain of snow, they mounted the steps.

Seeing she was having a struggle to keep her footing, he put a strong arm around her. The caring gesture brought a glow of comforting warmth, in sharp contrast to the bleakness she had lived with for a long time now.

Since her parents’ untimely death she had been forced to shoulder all the responsibility, and it was lovely to feel cherished and protected, to have someone else safely in control.

She was sorry when they reached the door and he took his arm away.

He rang the bell, as a small notice requested, and, turning the knob, ushered her inside. Snowflakes whirled around them like confetti, before he closed the door again, shutting out the elements.

As they wiped their feet on the doormat, he turned down the collar of his coat and brushed melting snowflakes from his thick fair hair.

The red-carpeted foyer-cum-lounge was pleasantly cosy, with several easy chairs, a couple of small couches, an abundance of Christmas decorations and a log fire burning in the old-fashioned grate.

But all Cathy’s attention was taken by the man who stood so easily at her side. It was the first time she had seen him properly, and his effect on her was immediate and powerful. With his strong, clear-cut features, his chiselled mouth and those thickly lashed, heavy-lidded eyes, he was the most attractive man she had ever seen, and she wanted to keep on looking at him.

But, she reminded herself hastily, she mustn’t allow herself to be attracted. She must try and think herself into the role of a married woman.

A role she had only agreed to play to enable her brother to get a post as a ski instructor—an ambition he had cherished since boyhood. A role she must appear to be happy in, whereas her own short, real-life experience of being married to Neil had been anything but happy…

Becoming aware that the stranger was studying her and, judging by his expression, liking what he saw, and feeling suddenly self-conscious, she glanced hastily away.

A melted snowflake dripped off her hair and trickled down her neck, making her shiver.

‘You look as if you could use this.’ He fished in his pocket and handed her a folded hankie, adding, ‘By the way, my name’s Ross Dalgowan.’

Their eyes met briefly and hers dropped, the long, curly lashes almost brushing her cheeks. ‘Mine’s Cathy Richardson.’

A little shy, he thought to himself, but she had to be the most fascinating woman he’d ever set eyes on and he wanted to keep looking at her.

Despite good teeth and a flawless complexion she wasn’t, strictly speaking, beautiful. Her hair was somewhere between ash-brown and blonde, her eyes were every colour but no colour, her nose was too short and her mouth was too wide. But her heart-shaped face held real character and a quiet, haunting loveliness.

As they made their way over to the reception desk she mopped at her face and hair before handing back the damp square of cambric. ‘Thanks.’

‘Always at your service,’ he said with a white, crooked grin that made her heart lurch drunkenly, then pick up speed.

She was still trying to regain her composure when a plump, homely woman with grey hair came through a door at the rear.

Smiling at them across the polished desk, she said cheerfully, ‘Good evening. I’m afraid it’s a nasty night…’ Then, in surprise, ‘Why, it’s Mr Dalgowan, isn’t it?’

‘It is. Good evening, Mrs Low.’

‘I didn’t expect to see you in weather like this.’

‘It’s due to the weather that I’m here,’ he told her ruefully. ‘I was on my way home when the blizzard made me change my mind and decide to stay the night.’

‘Och, now!’ she exclaimed, evidently flustered. ‘And we don’t have a single vacant room. But it would be madness to travel farther on a night like this, so you’re more than welcome to a couch in front of the fire and the use of the family bathroom—which is just through the archway on the right—if that will do?’

‘That will do fine, thanks.’

‘I’d give you our Duggie’s room, but he’s home for Christmas, and he’s brought his girlfriend with him.’ With a sigh, she went on, ‘Young people these days are so casual when it comes to relationships. It wouldn’t have done when I was a girl, but Duggie is always telling Charlie and me that we should move with the times, and I expect he’s right…but listen to me rattling on… Now, what about the young lady?’

Glancing at her ringless hands, Ross Dalgowan said, ‘Miss Richardson has a room booked.’

Mrs Low opened the register and ran an index finger down the entries. ‘Richardson…Richardson… Ah, yes, here we are…’

Then, that flustered look returning, she said, ‘I’m afraid we owe you an apology, Miss Richardson. Earlier this evening we found we’d made a mistake and the only accommodation we had left was a small family suite on the ground floor. It’s comprised of two adjoining rooms and a bathroom. Hastily she added, ‘But, as the mistake was ours, we’ll be happy to let you have it for the price we quoted you… Have you any luggage?’

‘Just an overnight bag.’

Mrs Low glanced at the cavorting teddy bears on the bag Ross Dalgowan was still holding and rightly identified it.

At that precise moment, another stray drop of water trickled down Cathy’s cheek, and Ross reached to wipe it away.

Clearly the intimate gesture gave Mrs Low the wrong impression and, with the air of having solved a thorny problem, she suggested, ‘Possibly you could share the suite?’

‘I really can’t ask Miss Richardson to—’

‘If there are two rooms I have no objection to—’

They spoke, and stopped, in unison.

‘If I show you, you’ll no doubt find it easier to decide.’ Emerging from behind the desk, Mrs Low led them briskly through a small, inner hallway and opened a door on the right.

‘Although there’s central heating, I’ve lit a fire in this bedroom… So much more welcoming on a night like this, don’t you think?’

The room she showed them into was warm and cosy in the leaping firelight. Heavy folkweave curtains had been drawn to keep out the night, and a single lamp cast a pool of golden light.

There was a double bed with an old-fashioned patchwork quilt, a tallboy, a wardrobe, a carved blanket chest and, set in front of the hearth, a low table and two comfortable-looking armchairs.

To one side of the fireplace was a wicker basket of logs and a big pile of fir cones. The aromatic scent of pine resin mingled with lavender hung in the air.

Through a curtained archway was another small room, not much bigger than a large cupboard, with bunk beds and a narrow fitted wardrobe.

Glancing up at Ross Dalgowan’s six feet two inches, Mrs Low said doubtfully, ‘I’m afraid the bunk beds were only intended for children, but even one of them might be more comfortable, and give you a tidy bit more privacy than a couch. And this is the bathroom…’

Though old-fashioned, the bathroom was spotlessly clean and had every facility, including a walk-in shower cubicle.

‘There are plenty of towels and toiletries, even a disposable shaving kit, if you do decide to share.’

Looking from one to the other, she added, ‘While you talk it over why don’t you sit in front of the fire and get warm? I’ll bring you in a nice bite of supper.’

Satisfied that she’d done the best she could, she hurried away.

Putting Cathy’s bag on the chest, Ross Dalgowan raised a well-marked brow and asked, ‘Do you have any problem with Mrs Low’s kindly meant suggestion? If you do…’

Recognizing that it was politeness rather than diffidence that had made him ask, she answered. ‘No, no, of course I don’t.’

‘In that case…’ He helped her off with her coat before removing his own and hanging them both on some convenient pegs.

She saw that he was wearing smart-casual trousers and an olive-green jerkin over a toning shirt. His watch looked expensive, and his shoes appeared to be handmade.

Although there was nothing blatant, his whole appearance suggested affluence and power, while his air of ease spoke of a quiet self-assurance.

Taking a mobile phone from his pocket, he said, ‘If you’ll excuse me just a minute? So they won’t worry, I’d like to give the folks who are expecting me a call to say I’ll be staying here for the night.’

‘Of course.’

While he made the call, she moved to sit by the blazing log fire.

Addressing the person who answered as Marley, he kept it brief and to the point, ending, ‘See you tomorrow, then. Bye.’

Cathy found herself wondering if Marley was his wife and rather hoping not, until she pulled herself up short, reminding herself sternly that it was none of her business.

Dropping the phone back into his pocket, Ross joined her in front of the fire, remarking, ‘Your shoes look as if they’re saturated. Why don’t you take them off and warm your feet?’

She had been longing to do just that, and, needing no further encouragement, she slipped them off and, propping them by the fender to dry, held her slim feet out to the blaze.

There was a drifting silence for a minute or so while he stared into the leaping flames and she studied him covertly.

The strong face held a certain aloofness, a touch of arrogance, a hint of sensuality. He was, she guessed, a complex man with many layers.

His mouth, with its ascetic upper lip and passionate lower, was beautiful, and his thick lashes were ridiculously long and curly. Combined with so much sheer masculinity, that mouth and those lashes had a stunning effect, and she felt hollow inside.

He glanced up suddenly, and as she looked anywhere but at him, he queried, ‘Warmer now?’

‘Much warmer,’ she answered abstractedly.

‘How long were you on the road?’

Pulling herself together, she told him, ‘I left London mid-morning. But though I only stopped briefly for a sandwich and a cup of coffee, it took much longer to reach the border than I’d expected.’

‘You’re from London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you heading for?’

‘The Cairngorms. A small place called Luing.’

A flicker of something that she couldn’t decipher crossed his face, before he said, ‘Yes, I know it well. You were right to break the journey. It’s quite a distance. I take it you ski?’

‘Yes, but not particularly well, I’m sorry to say. Do you?’

‘I was born and brought up on the edge of the Cairngorms, so during the winter months I practically lived on skis.’

‘I’m afraid my experience has been confined to childhood holidays in the Alps.’

‘Sounds fun.’

‘Yes, they were.’

Without thinking, she voiced the thought that was in her mind. ‘To say you were born in Scotland you don’t have much of an accent.’

‘My father’s family were Scottish born and bred, but my mother was English. When I was fourteen and my sister was eleven our parents divorced, and our mother went to live in London. Though my father and I didn’t always see eye to eye, I stayed with him and his second wife until I was eighteen and got a place at Oxford.

‘After I’d graduated I moved to London and went into the Information Technology business with a couple of friends. I’d always intended to come back to Scotland eventually, but at the moment I’m still living in London while I tie up some loose ends.’

‘Which part of town?’

‘I’ve a flat in Belmont Square.’

The fact that he lived in Mayfair seemed to confirm her first impression that he was well off.

Eager to know more about him, but wary of making the questions too personal, she asked, ‘Do you get up to Scotland much?’

‘Four or five times a year.’

‘For business or pleasure?’

‘You could say both.’

There was a tap at the door and Mrs Low came bustling in, a voluminous apron tied at her waist, wheeling a supper trolley.

‘Here we are,’ she said cheerfully. ‘There’s a nice drop of my cock-a-leekie, some hot oatcakes wrapped round ham, an apple pie and cream, and I thought a big jug of coffee wouldn’t go amiss.’

As she spoke, she wheeled the trolley to where they could comfortably reach, adding, ‘I’m afraid it’s all very simple…’

‘Thanks, Mrs Low,’ Ross Dalgowan said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s a feast. It was very good of you to go to so much trouble.’

Cathy added her agreement and thanks.

Looking pleased, Mrs Low said, ‘Whist, now, it was no trouble at all.’ Then, beaming at them, she added, ‘Oh, and when I told Charlie you were here, he said to leave this with you and advise you and the young lady to have a wee dram or two to keep out the cold.’

Like a conjuror pulling a rabbit out of a hat, from a deep pocket in her apron she produced a bottle of Highland single malt and two whisky glasses wrapped in a white napkin.

‘Please give him our thanks.’

‘You’ll have a word with him before you go?’

‘I certainly will.’

She stooped to put fresh logs on the fire before going on, ‘The bunk beds are already made up, and I’ve left a pillow and some blankets on one of the couches in the lounge, so you can decide at your leisure which suits you best.

‘Now, if there’s nothing else either of you need I’m away to my bed. With a house full of guests I have to be up very early, so I’ll say goodnight to you both.’

‘Goodnight,’ they answered in unison.

At the door, she paused to say, ‘I almost forgot to tell you, there’ll be breakfast from six-thirty onwards. The breakfast room is just off the lounge… Oh, and when you’ve finished eating, perhaps you’ll put the trolley outside?’

When the door had closed behind her, Ross Dalgowan poured coffee for Cathy and himself, remarking thoughtfully, ‘If you only had a sandwich at lunchtime you must be hungry.’

‘I am, rather.’

‘Then tuck in.’

They enjoyed a leisurely supper without speaking, the only sounds the crackling of the logs and the wind soughing mournfully in the chimney.

As though comfortable with himself, his companion and his surroundings, Ross Dalgowan seemed quite content with the silence, and Cathy was pleased.

Neil, invariably uncomfortable with silence, had needed to fill every second with the sound of his own voice. Convinced he knew everything there was to know, he had talked whenever he had a listener.

But this man was different. He had a maturity Neil would never have and he was, she guessed, much quieter by nature.

She and Neil had first met when she had been a shy, naive nineteen and he was an experienced twenty, and she had been duly impressed by his strikingly handsome face and his apparent depth of knowledge.

After a whirlwind courtship—although he had been a penniless student—at his insistence they had got married, and he had moved in with her.

He had been about to start his last year at college, and because he had had no family to help she had found herself struggling to pay off his debts and support him, as well as Carl.

Even so, he had complained about her brother living with them, until she had told him firmly that it was, and always had been, Carl’s home.

‘Oh, very well,’ he’d said sulkily. ‘I suppose it’ll only be until he can get a job and find a place of his own.’

Relieved that he had accepted the situation, she had done her best to make him happy.

It wasn’t until they were married that she had discovered how empty and shallow he really was, and that his cleverness and his handsomeness—like the ripples on a pool—were all on the surface.

But, even after such a brief acquaintance, Cathy was already sure that Ross Dalgowan, who was sitting so quietly, was anything but shallow.

Watching him surreptitiously, she noticed that in the heat from the fire his hair had dried to the colour of ripe corn, and it struck her as strange that such a very masculine man should be so fair.

Neil had been blond, but fair-skinned, with pale brows and lashes and almost girlish features.

Whereas this man was tough-looking, with brows and lashes several shades darker than his hair and the kind of skin that would tan easily.

Though Neil had proved to be greedy and selfish and vain—a narcissist to the core—he’d been a golden boy that the opposite sex had fawned over.

A woman’s darling.

Ross Dalgowan would be a woman’s darling, she had little doubt, but he would also be a man’s man, where Neil had had few, if any, male friends.

When she had first met Neil, he’d appeared to be charming and easygoing, willing to live and let live. But in reality—like some weak people—he had been spoilt and peevish, a bully at heart.

Her companion, she was oddly certain, would be neither spoilt nor peevish, and while he might be masterful, she couldn’t see him being a bully.

Watching him, she noticed that he ate with a healthy appetite, but neatly and noiselessly.

Unlike Neil, who, in spite of his somewhat effeminate good looks and his general air of delicacy, had tended to bolt his food. Rather like a greedy schoolboy who hadn’t yet learned either manners or self-control.

She had discovered, to her cost, that the same went for his sexual appetite.

They had been married only a matter of months when, after drinking too much wine, he’d tried to force himself on her.

Failing, he had lashed out at her, calling her a lot of things, amongst which ‘a frigid bitch’ was the kindest by far.

Sighing, she pushed thoughts of the unhappy past aside and, glancing up, found herself looking into eyes the grey of woodsmoke—fascinating eyes that tilted up a little at the outer edge.

Her head whirling, and a strange tingle running along her nerve ends, she tore her gaze away.

Sensitive to her mood, Ross asked, ‘Problems?’

‘No, not really.’

Though he obviously didn’t believe her, he let the matter drop, and they continued the meal in companionable silence.

‘More coffee?’ he queried when they had both finished eating.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Then I’ll get rid of this.’ He rose to his feet and put the trolley outside.

Returning to his seat, he suggested, ‘Suppose we have a “wee dram” before we turn in, as Mrs Low’s husband advised?’

Though normally she never drank spirits, wanting to keep him with her a little longer, she agreed, ‘Yes, why not?’

He opened the bottle and, having poured a finger of whisky into both glasses, handed her one.

Raising his own glass, he toasted, ‘Here’s to the future, and our better acquaintance.’

His words, and the look in his eyes, brought a surge of warmth and excitement, and she found herself yearning for something this man seemed to offer. Something poignant. Something magic. Something that would last a lifetime. True love, perhaps…?

Telling herself not to be foolish, she tore her gaze away with an effort and took an incautious sip of her drink. The strong spirit made her cough.

His lips twitched, but, hiding his amusement—if indeed it was amusement—he said, ‘Just to prove that I’ve lived in England for a long time, I’ll act like a Sassenach and ask if you’d prefer some water with it?’

‘Yes, I would,’ she answered gratefully, and started to rise to fetch it.

But Ross was already on his feet, and he pressed her gently back into the chair. ‘Stay where you are. I’ll get it.’

He disappeared into the bathroom and returned after a moment with glass of water. ‘Say when.’

When there was about twice as much water as whisky, she said, ‘That should be fine, thank you.’

‘Try it and see.’

She tried a sip and, breathing a sigh of relief, told him, ‘Much better.’

Putting the rest of the water by the whisky bottle, he smiled at her.

His teeth gleamed white and even, and his mouth, with its intriguing hint of controlled passion, made her feel strange inside.

Becoming aware that she had been staring at him, she looked back into the glowing fire. But the cosy familiarity had gone, leaving an awareness, a rising excitement, a sexual tension.

Needing to break the silence and return to the more mundane, she swallowed and, her normally clear voice decidedly husky, asked, ‘Are you up here for Christmas, Mr Dalgowan?’

‘Yes, and New Year. But won’t you call me Ross? It seems ridiculous to stand on ceremony.’

‘Of course, if you call me Cathy.’

‘How long are you in Scotland for, Cathy?’

Reminded of just why she was in Scotland, and flustered by the innocent question, she answered, ‘I’m not quite sure… Christmas and New Year…’

‘Do you have anyone important in your life? A partner, perhaps?’

Unwilling to talk about her brief and disastrous marriage and the subsequent divorce, she answered briefly, ‘No.’

Though they had only just met, and he knew scarcely anything about her, Ross felt a rush of gladness that shook him with its strength and vehemence.

After Lena, he had taken care to avoid any emotional entanglements, keeping the occasional liaison light, casual, a simple, straightforward exchange of pleasure, with no looking back and no regrets when they parted.

Now he found himself doubting that that would be enough with this woman.

He sat quietly watching her, and holding her breath, aware that somehow the answer mattered, she seized the opportunity to ask, ‘How about you?’

‘No, no one.’

She was breathing a sigh of relief when he added, ‘I did have plans to marry earlier this year, but they didn’t work out. Though Lena was born in Scotland, and in fact our families lived quite close, she loved the bright lights of London and refused to live anywhere else. Whereas I wanted to live in the country.

‘When she couldn’t bring me round to her way of thinking, she left me for a wealthy businessman who lives in Park Lane and never leaves London…’

Cathy heard the underlying bitterness in his voice, and knew that his fiancée’s defection still hurt.

‘Now, if we happen to be in Scotland at the same time, she makes a point of calling to see me when she’s visiting her father.’

It smacked of turning the screw, and Cathy frowned, hardly able to believe that any woman could treat him that way.

Seeing her frown, and misinterpreting it, he apologized quickly, ‘I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have got on to such a personal topic, but I wondered if you were perhaps travelling up to join someone?’

Instinctively sure that this man was special, she hesitated, momentarily tempted to try and explain about Carl and the deception she had reluctantly agreed to take part in.

Though, as Carl had frequently pointed out since he had first broached the scheme, it was an innocent enough deception and would do no one any harm. And it would only be necessary until he’d been able to prove his worth.

‘I have exactly the qualifications the Bowans are looking for,’ he had told her, ‘but they were adamant that they would only employ a married couple.’

Then with a sigh he had said, ‘Everything would have been fine if Katie hadn’t walked out on me and we’d got married as planned. But as it is I badly need your help. And honestly, Sis, it won’t be too bad. All we need to do is get on with our respective jobs and pretend to be husband and wife.’

However, intrinsically honest, Cathy was far from happy, and had it been anyone other than her beloved younger brother she would have refused point-blank to be a part of it.

As it was—with his life in ruins after the woman he loved had run off with his best friend—Cathy had found it impossible to deny him the chance to do what he’d always wanted to do.

But her heart sank at the thought of trying to explain all that to Ross Dalgowan…

And after promising Carl she wouldn’t breath a word to a soul, how could she?

Turning her back on temptation, she shook her head. ‘Not really.’

Her companion seemed satisfied, but, far from happy, she felt the colour rise in her cheeks and hoped he would put it down to the heat of the fire.


CHAPTER TWO

ROSS helped them both to more whisky, then, taking Cathy by surprise, observed, ‘You have the most beautiful and fascinating eyes.’

With a self-deprecating smile, he added, ‘But I’m afraid I’m telling you something you already know.’

Cathy had often wished that her eyes were the same deep blue as Carl’s, and her voice was a little unsteady as she admitted, ‘I’ve always considered that they were no particular colour, just nondescript.’

‘Far from it. Not only are they a lovely shape, but they seem to change colour with the light, as opals do. A moment ago they looked blue, now they look green and gold, like an April day.’

She might have thought he was merely chatting her up, but he spoke quietly, thoughtfully, as if he meant exactly what he said.

Watching her blush deepen, he said contritely, ‘But now I’ve embarrassed you.’ Then, smoothly changing tack, he asked, ‘Are you London born and bred?’

‘No, both my brother and I were born in Kent. We only moved to London when my parents—my father was a doctor and my mother a physiotherapist—got posts at one of the London hospitals.’

‘I see. Are either you or your brother in the medical profession?’

‘My brother trained as a physiotherapist, and I had hoped to be a doctor.’

Reaching to put a couple of fresh logs on the fire, he probed, ‘Hoped to be?’

‘I left school just before I was eighteen, when both my parents were killed in a plane crash.’

‘You and your brother weren’t involved in the crash?’

She shook her head. ‘No. To celebrate twenty years together they decided to go on a second honeymoon.’ Though she did her best to speak dispassionately, even after almost seven years the sense of loss still showed.

‘Is your brother older than you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, a year younger.’

‘That must have been tough,’ he said simply, but his face held compassion, as if he understood.

‘It was for a while, but we managed.’

Seeing that talking about it made her sad, he let the subject drop, asking instead, ‘Have you been to the Cairngorms before?’

‘No, but I’ve always wanted to. I love mountains.’

‘It’s a beautiful area,’ he agreed, ‘but, apart from on the fringes, relatively isolated. There are no roads in the heartland, I’m pleased to say, so it’s best seen on foot, on horseback or on skis…’

For a while he talked about Scotland, and his low, pleasant voice, combined with the meal she had just eaten, the warmth and the unaccustomed whisky, made her feel sleepy and contented.

She was just stifling a yawn when he asked, ‘Getting tired? If you want me to leave so you can go to bed…?’

Feeling bereft at the thought of him going, she denied, ‘No, no…I’m not really tired. It’s just the warmth of the fire…’

‘Well, when you do want me to go, don’t hesitate to say so.’

While the logs sparked and crackled and the blizzard raged outside, they talked idly, casually. But beneath the surface an unspoken, yet much deeper kind of communication was taking place.

Eventually, with evident reluctance, Ross rose to his feet, and remarked, ‘You’ve still got a fairly long drive tomorrow, so I really must go and let you get some sleep…’

Since her divorce, hurt and bitterly disillusioned, Cathy had steered clear of men, freezing off any that had shown the slightest desire to get too intimate.

But now the thought of Ross Dalgowan leaving made her heart sink, and she faced the fact that, though she knew virtually nothing about him, she wanted him to stay.

Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘Oh, but I should feel guilty if you were uncomfortable when there’s more room here than I need.’

‘There’s absolutely no reason for you to feel guilty. Where I sleep really isn’t a problem. I’ve no objection to stretching out on one of the couches in the lounge.’

‘They’re much too short,’ she pointed out a shade breathlessly, ‘and you would have no privacy.’

Already he knew that this woman was different, special—not the kind he could lightly walk away from—and, remembering his decision to avoid emotional entanglements, he knew he should go. But very tempted to stay, to see what came of it, he hesitated.

Seeing that hesitation, she went on in a rush, ‘The bunk beds don’t look particularly inviting, but if you want stay in the suite—which you can do with pleasure—at least you’ll be able to shower and take off your clothes.’

‘The thought of not having to sleep in my clothes makes your offer practically irresistible,’ he told her with a grin.

‘Then stay.’

‘Well, if you’re sure?’

‘I’m sure.’ To leave no doubt in his mind, she added, ‘The bathroom’s yours when you want it.’

Shaking his head, he told her, ‘Ladies first.’

While Cathy found her toilet bag and night things, he resumed his seat by the fire.

When she had showered, wearing a plastic cap to keep her hair dry, she cleaned her teeth and put on her nightdress.

Looking in the mirror while she removed the pins from her thick coil of fair hair and brushed out the long silken mass, she saw that her cheeks were a little flushed and her eyes were bright, as though something wonderful had happened to her.

Warning herself that she mustn’t get carried away, she pulled on her robe, tied the belt and, picking up her pile of clothes, returned to the bedroom.

Just the sight of him made her heart leap.

He was sitting staring into the fire as though lost in thought, the ruddy glow turning his face into the mask of an Inca god.

Putting her clothes beside her bag, she took a deep breath and told him, ‘Your turn now.’

He rose, his glance running over her slender figure in the clinging ivory satin. She saw his grey eyes darken to charcoal, then saw the little lick of flame that had nothing to do with the firelight.

For a moment they gazed into each other’s eyes, before, turning on his heel abruptly, Ross made his way into the bathroom, and a moment or two later she heard the shower running.

Finding her knees were trembling, she sank down in the chair she had occupied previously, while her thoughts tumbled over one another in a joyous confusion as she went over the events of the evening spent with Ross.

Some kind of magic had taken place, as though they had both been caught in a spell. He felt it, too, she was certain.

Then, like a dark cloud, came the doubts. Perhaps she was wrong, mistaken. She had been mistaken about Neil, about his feelings. After that fiasco, could she—dared she—trust her own judgement?

But she was quite a few years older now, and much less naive. And Ross was nothing at all like Neil. Apart from the physical attraction she felt, there was so much about him that drew her—a warmth, a sensitivity, a quiet inner strength, a reliability.

She didn’t hear him return, but some sixth sense made her glance up to find he was standing only a few feet away quietly watching her.

He was freshly shaven, his corn-coloured hair was still slightly damp and trying to curl, and he was wearing one of the navy-blue towelling robes that had been hanging behind the bathroom door.

‘Are you sure you’re happy about a perfect stranger sharing your suite?’ he asked.

Looking up at him, she spoke the exact truth. ‘You don’t seem like a stranger. I know it sounds incredible, but I feel as if I’ve always known you.’

He took a step forward, and stooped to brush a strand of hair back from her cheek.

She caught her breath.

His hands closing lightly around her upper arms, he lifted her to her feet. Gazing down at her, he said softly, ‘Yes, I was sure you felt the same rapport, the same sense of closeness. It was there when I looked in your eyes.

‘But though I’m certain we have something special going for us, it’s early days yet, so if you want me to use one of bunk beds…?’

She didn’t. But, too shy to say so outright, she bent her head and mumbled, ‘What do you want?’

He lifted her chin and studied her face.

A couple of hours in her company had confirmed his first impression that she was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.

There was no trace of hardness or worldliness about her; instead mingled with a faint aura of sadness was a certain innocence, a sweetness, a vulnerability that touched his heart.

His voice a little husky, he said, ‘You can’t possibly not know. I want to hold you, to kiss you, to feel your naked body against mine. I want to take you to bed and make love to you until we’re both up there with the stars, then I want to sleep with you in my arms.’

All her life she’d been cautious, inhibited, and after her disastrous relationship with Neil she’d felt frozen through and through, certain she’d never feel the warmth of true love, the pleasure of being held in caring arms.

Now, however, her inhibitions gone—driven away by the unaccustomed whisky, perhaps?—she longed to reach out and take the happiness that this man seemed to be offering.

But suppose she was frigid, as Neil had charged?

Ross had been watching her face, the changing expressions, and now, with a slight sigh, he released her arms and stepped back.

His voice level, he told her, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take the couch…’

He was turning to walk away when she whispered, ‘Don’t go. Please, don’t go.’

‘I think I’d better.’ Wryly he added, ‘It might prove too much of a temptation if I slept on one of the bunks.’

‘But I don’t want you to sleep in the other room.’

‘Are you sure? A moment ago you looked seriously worried at the thought of me sharing your bed.’

‘No, no… It wasn’t that,’ she said. ‘But I…I don’t usually behave like this.’

‘I never thought you did. But, as I said, it’s early days yet, so if you’re not happy…’

‘I am happy,’ she assured him. ‘Please stay.’

With a little inarticulate murmur he rested his forehead against hers, melting her heart with the tenderness of the gesture, and bringing unexpected tears to her eyes.

As he lifted his head, twin teardrops escaped and trickled down her cheeks.

He kissed them away softly, before touching his lips to hers.

She was still trembling from the delight of that kiss when he drew her close and kissed her again.

Contact with his firm, muscular body turned her very bones to jelly, and she melted against him, her lips parting helplessly beneath the light, yet masterful pressure of his.

With a little murmur of satisfaction he deepened the kiss while he unfastened her robe and slipped it off her shoulders, letting it puddle at her feet.

As he kissed her, his hands moved over her seductively, tracing her slender hips and buttocks through the thin satin of her nightdress before moving up again to the soft curve of her breasts.

Feeling her body’s instinctive response, he cupped the weight of one breast in the palm of his hand and rubbed his thumb over the firming nipple.

He heard her soft gasp, and, slipping the satin straps from her shoulders, he sent the nightdress to join the robe at their feet. Then, taking one pink, velvety nipple in his mouth, he teased its fellow between his finger and thumb.

For a while, with a skill and delicacy that Neil had totally lacked, he pleasured her, before pulling back the covers and lifting her onto the bed.

He was standing looking down at her, admiring her flawless skin, the firm, beautifully shaped breasts, the enticing flare of her hips, and the long, slender legs, when she opened dazed eyes.

Smiling down at her, he discarded the towelling robe, switched off the bedside lamp, and, stretching out beside her, with hands and mouth he explored her body, finding every erogenous zone and producing the most exquisite sensations, the kind of singing pleasure she had never known before.

He whispered softly how beautiful she was, how desirable, how much her body delighted him, while he brought her to a fever pitch of wanting.

Just for an instant when he moved over her she felt a touch of panic. Suppose she couldn’t respond? Suppose he was disappointed?

But as though sensing her fear, he kissed her gently, reassuringly, and the panic died.

Then in the flickering firelight, while the blizzard beat at the window panes with frozen fingers, he made love to her, tenderly, passionately, so that she was caught up and carried along by the wonder of it.

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined love could be like this, and after a climax of such intensity that she thought she might die, she slowly drifted back to earth to lie in a blissful haze.

After a while, her breathing and heart-rate returned to something approaching normal, and she became aware that his fair head was pillowed on her breast.

She lay quietly, savouring the pleasure of it, until he stirred and lifted himself away.

At this point Neil had invariably turned his back, leaving her cold and unsatisfied, with a leaden feeling of depression, of failure, as though the fault was hers.

And though this time she was warm and satisfied, the remembrance of that failure was descending like a fog when Ross leaned over her and, taking his weight on his elbows, kissed her mouth deeply, tenderly.

Then, his lips wandering over her face and throat, punctuating the words with soft, baby kisses, he told her how infinitely desirable she was, how warm and responsive, and how much he had enjoyed making love to her.

His words and his kisses dispersed the miasma as sunlight dispersed mist, and, her heart light, her spirits rising, for the first time in her adult life she felt happy, fulfilled, like a real woman.

He turned on his back, and, as though he didn’t want to lose contact, he gathered her to him and, his body half supporting hers, settled her head on the comfortable juncture between chest and shoulder.

She lay contentedly, enjoying the strong beat of his heart beneath her cheek, the feel of his skin against hers, the clean male smell of him and the scent of his aftershave.

Never in her wildest imaginings could she have visualized all her dreams coming true like this. To have an unspoken longing, a tenuous hope, a hidden desire become wonderful reality so fast seemed almost unbelievable.

He was everything she had ever wanted in a man, and she thanked fate for the snowfall that had brought him into her life.

Though she wanted to stay awake for a while to savour the magic of it all, in the blink of an eye she was asleep—deeply, dreamlessly.

Some time during the night Ross awakened her with a kiss and a soft caress, and they made love again.

For Cathy it was a rocket trip to the stars, and when it was over she lay in his arms, blissfully happy, and once more thanked fate for bringing him into her life.

Her last thought before sleep claimed her once more was that now their instant and mutual attraction had become so serious so quickly, over breakfast she must explain about Carl and the deception she’d agreed to.

She could always ask him to keep it to himself until Carl had managed to prove his worth and was able to tell his employers the truth…



In the early hours of the morning she started to dream. She was lying contentedly in bed in the arms of her lover, while they made wonderful plans for their future together.

Then in her dream she heard the urgent shrill of a phone, and, summoned away, her lover left her side.

Cold and bereft, she wept soundlessly, heartbroken, until he returned and she felt the brush of his lips as he kissed her softly.

But it was a goodbye kiss.

She put her arms around his neck and tried to keep him, to make him stay, but as though she was embracing a wraith he slipped from her grasp and walked away, and in the way that dreamers do she knew he was gone for ever.

Still, she searched for him everywhere, through strange, empty rooms and on every busy street, scanning faces as they went past, and in despair stopping anyone who looked remotely like him.

Then she saw him walking just ahead of her and, filled with joy, she ran after him and caught his arm. But when he turned to face her it was Neil and, his eyes cold and uncaring, he pulled his arm free and pushed her roughly away.

Though the disturbing dreams went on, they grew vague, hazy, until eventually she fell into a more settled slumber.

From then on she slept deeply, until her brain finally stirred into life and struggled to free itself from the clinging cobwebs of sleep.

But even when she was almost awake, she was aware of a lingering feeling of sadness and loss.

Opening her eyes, she found herself in a strange room. It was a split second before memory kicked in, and she recalled everything that had happened the previous night. The unexpected snow, meeting Ross, the instant attraction that had flared between them and the delight and magic they had shared.

Her spirits soaring, a smile on her lips, she turned towards him.

But the place beside her was cold and empty. If she smoothed the sheets and plumped up the pillow the last traces of him would be gone and it would be hard to believe he had even existed.

Pushing the gloomy thought away, she glanced at her watch. Almost eight-thirty.

He was probably shaving.

She clambered out of bed and, pulling on her robe, headed for the bathroom. But even before she tapped on the door the utter stillness convinced her that he wasn’t there.

When she opened the door, the two towelling robes hanging side by side and the absence of his clothes confirmed the fact that he was gone.

He must be having breakfast.

But why hadn’t he awakened her so they could breakfast together?

Her heart grew cold.

Had she been mistaken after all? Had Ross—despite his caring words—seen her simply as a one-night stand? A casual bed partner that he felt nothing for?

Turning away, she saw the note on the floor—a small, flimsy page torn from a pocket diary and almost hidden by the quilt. It must have fluttered off the bedside cabinet.

She picked it up with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. Though obviously hurried, the writing was firm and decisive. It said simply:

You were sleeping so soundly it seemed a shame towaken you. Thank you for last night. You were a delight. Mrs Low will explain why I’m having to rush off. Have a safe journey up to Luing, and I’ll see you as soon as I possibly can. Ross.

She hadn’t told him exactly where she was staying, so unless Luing was a very small place how would he find her? She desperately wanted him to. But if he turned up asking for a Miss Richardson, it could cause problems. Oh, if only she had explained about Carl…

But perhaps he hadn’t gone yet. She might be in time to catch him…

She showered quickly, brushed her hair and coiled it neatly, then, having put on fresh undies and the fine wool suit she’d worn the previous day, she hurried along to the breakfast room.

But it was empty apart from an elderly couple who were just on the point of leaving.

As they exchanged a civil good morning, Mrs Low came busily in.

‘Ah, there you are, Miss Richardson,’ she exclaimed. ‘Perfect timing. Mr Dalgowan said if you weren’t down for breakfast by nine o’clock I was to call you.’

‘Has he gone?’

‘Oh, yes, he left before five-thirty. I was barely up myself. I understand he’d had a phone call from home in the early hours of the morning to say there was some kind of emergency…’

It must have been the phone ringing that had started her off dreaming, Cathy realized, and sighed. If only she had awakened properly and been able to talk to him before he left.

But Mrs Low was going on. ‘The poor man didn’t even stop for a bite to eat, he just swallowed a cup of coffee and went, saying he’d be sure to see you as soon as may be. Luckily a warm front followed the blizzard through, so instead of freezing the snow has turned to slush, which means the main roads should be clear.

‘Now, what would you like for breakfast? We’ve bacon and eggs, or a pair of nice kippers?’

A mixture of excitement and apprehension over what the day might bring robbing her of her appetite, she said, ‘Just coffee, please.’

‘Well, if you’re sure?’

‘Quite sure, thanks.’

When Mrs Low had gone, Cathy walked to the window and looked out.

Though the garden was still mostly covered with white there were several dark patches where the snow had already gone, and the trees and bushes were bare and dripping.

As Mrs Low had said, the main roads should be clear, so Ross would be well on his way home by now. But where was home?

Though he’d talked about being born on the edge of the Cairngorms and had said he knew Luing well, he hadn’t told her exactly where he lived. So there was no way she could get in touch with him.

Once again she wished fervently that she had explained about Carl. But she hadn’t. And now it was too late.

When her coffee arrived, Cathy said, ‘I’d like to make a start as soon as possible, so if you can let me have the bill?’

‘Mr Dalgowan took care of that,’ Mrs Low told her. ‘He’s a fine young man, good-looking and generous to a fault…’

‘How well do you know him?’ Cathy asked.

‘He stayed here in the autumn when his car broke down. Charlie and he got talking and discovered they had some mutual friends. He promised to call in and see us next time he was passing.’

‘Do you know exactly where he lives?’

Looking somewhat surprised at the question, Mrs Low answered vaguely, ‘The name of his house just escapes me, but it’s on the edge of the Cairngorms, a few miles from Luing, I believe…

‘Oh, excuse me, I think I hear the phone ringing. In case I’m not around when you leave, I’ll say goodbye now. Have a safe journey…’ She hurried away and a moment later the ringing stopped.

As soon as Cathy had drunk her coffee, she went along to her room and packed her night things and toilet bag, before taking the ring she would need to wear from her handbag.

It was her mother’s wedding ring—Neil had taken Cathy’s when he’d left, along with everything else he could lay his hands on. Because of the distinctive engraving it had been amongst the pitifully few belongings that had been returned to Cathy and Carl after the plane crash.

Slipping the wide gold band chased with lover’s knots onto the third finger of her left hand, she discovered it was quite loose. Which meant she must be careful not to lose it before she could find some way to make it a better fit.

With a sigh, and one last look around the room that held such happy memories, she pulled on her coat and hurried out to the four-wheel drive.

Though the damp air felt chill, the snow had melted and slid off the roof and windscreen, and a watery sun was trying to shine. She stowed away her bag, climbed into the car and started the engine.

The drive was still slushy, and the car slid a little on the humpback bridge, but as soon as Cathy reached the main entrance she found the road was clear in either direction.

It proved, in many ways, to be an enjoyable journey. She was making reasonably good time and the scenery en route was picturesque.

Towards lunchtime she looked for somewhere to have a sandwich and a hot drink, but, unable to find anywhere suitable, she pressed on.

Then just north of Blair Brechan she took the wrong road, and it was late afternoon when, with fresh snow falling, she neared her destination.

Luing turned out to be a tiny hamlet with a backdrop of wonderful scenery. It was made up of a hill farm, five whitewashed cottages and an old grey kirk huddled together at the junction where three narrow roads converged.

The rotting remains of what had obviously once been a signpost lay forlornly on its side, one arm in the air and partially covered by snow.

Uncertain which road to take, Cathy was hesitating when a man wearing a heavy mac and a deerstalker appeared with a spaniel at his heels.

Rolling down the window, she called, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Beinn Mor.’

‘You’ll be wanting the road straight ahead, lassie, and it’s a mile or so farther on.’

She thanked him gratefully and set off on the final lap of her journey.

On her left the road—little more than a lane—was edged with pine trees, and soon on her right an old stone wall came into view and began to meander alongside the road.

After about a mile and a half she came to a pair of massive stone gateposts topped with snarling lions that seemed to forbid entrance. In contrast, the black wrought-iron gates were drawn back, open wide in welcome.

Alongside the entrance a dark green board with gold writing announced that she had reached Dunbar Estate and the Beinn Mor Hotel and Ski Lodge.

Snow was falling softly, gently drifting down as if it were in no particular hurry, as she drove up the winding drive. It was starting to get dark, and the long, low building that came into view was a blaze of lights.

Though she had been warned that the Scots celebrated New Year more than Christmas, it was a lovely Christmassy scene that met her eyes.

Yule tide lanterns on long poles had been placed at intervals, swags of greenery adorned the porch, and a tall, beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood in a massive pot to one side of the entrance.

When she drew up on the forecourt, the heavy oak door opened and Carl—who had obviously been watching for her—appeared, a tall, slim woman with blonde hair by his side.

As Cathy got out into the cold, crisp air that smelt of frost, he hurried over.

For the first time since Katie had left him he looked excited and happy, and, despite the difficulties she knew lay ahead, Cathy rejoiced at the sight of him.

‘Darling, it’s great to see you.’ He gave her a hug and, his lips close to her ear, whispered, ‘Everything’s going wonderfully well. I hope you remembered the ring?’

‘Yes, I’m wearing it,’ she whispered back.

Giving her another grateful hug, he said in his normal voice, ‘Come and meet Mrs Bowan… I’ll do the unpacking later.’

An arm around her, he escorted her to where the blonde woman waited beneath the shelter of the porch.

At close quarters Cathy could see that, though she wasn’t strictly speaking beautiful, she was very attractive, with good features, light blue eyes and naturally blonde hair. She was also much younger than Cathy had expected.

Carl introduced the two of them. ‘Darling, I’d like you to meet Mrs Bowan… Margaret, this is my wife, Cathy.’

‘It’s very nice to meet you…Cathy.’ Then, with an apologetic smile, Margaret added, ‘I’m so sorry, but I’d got it into my head that your name was Katie.’

So, at some time, no doubt during his first interview and before the break-up, Carl must have mentioned that his future wife was called Katie.

Feeling horribly guilty that she was deceiving this nice, friendly-looking woman, Cathy murmured, ‘How do you do, Mrs Bowan?’

‘Oh, call me Margaret, please. We don’t stand on ceremony here. Now, come on in out of the cold and we’ll have a nice cup of tea before Carl takes you over to your flat.’

Pushing open the door, on which a holly wreath entwined with scarlet ribbons hung, she ushered them into a warm, nicely decorated lobby-cum-lounge.

Two soft leather couches, several armchairs and a couple of low tables were grouped in front of the blazing fire.

On the left at the far end was a semicircular bar with a scattering of high stools, and on the right a polished reception desk.

Behind the desk, going through a sheaf of papers, was a pretty young woman with dark curly hair.

‘This is Janet Muir,’ Margaret said. ‘She helps to run the place. I don’t know what I’d do without her… Janet, this is Cathy, Carl’s wife…’

Once again Cathy cringed inwardly, but, murmuring an acknowledgement to the friendly greeting, she returned Janet’s smile.

‘Have you time to join us for a cup of tea?’ Margaret asked the other woman.

Janet shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’d better finish what I’m doing.’

Opening a door to the right that said ‘Private’, Margaret led the way into a small but cosy room where a teatray had been set on a low table in front of the hearth.

‘This is our sitting room, and through there is our bedroom, a bathroom and a small kitchen. As you can guess, it’s a bit cramped.

‘My brother, who owns the Dunbar Estate, would be only too happy for us to live in the main house, but when the lodge and the log cabins are full, as they are at the moment, we feel that we need to be here on the spot, just in case there are any problems. Do take your coat off and sit down.’

Waving them to a couch in front of a cheerful fire, she sat down opposite and smiled at them both, before asking, ‘So what kind of journey did you have?’

Her mouth so dry with nerves that she could hardly speak, Cathy managed, ‘It was very good on the whole. Though I was rather surprised to run into snow quite so soon.’

Reaching to pour the tea, Margaret said, ‘Yes, we’ve had several quite heavy falls already this season, which of course is good for the skiing, if not for travelling… Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’

When she had handed them a cup of tea each, she offered a plate of homemade cake. ‘Janet makes the best fruitcake you’ve ever tasted.’

Unsure whether she could swallow it, Cathy declined, but, with an appreciative murmur, Carl accepted a piece.

‘You don’t know what you’re missing, S—’ On the verge of saying Sis, he pulled himself up short and changed it to, ‘Sweetheart’.

‘It certainly smells delicious,’ Cathy said and, wishing she was anywhere but where she was, added, ‘But I’m not really hungry.’

Margaret smiled at her. ‘In that case, as we’re all invited to have dinner at Dunbar tonight, it would make sense not to risk spoiling your meal.’

Then in a heartfelt voice she added, ‘We’re so pleased and relieved to get a nice married couple like you. Last season was an absolute nightmare. Unfortunately, André, the ski instructor we hired, proved to be a real Casanova. We had several complaints from women, and one from an irate husband, who found André and his wife together in one of the ski huts. She swore that André had lured her there, and her husband threatened us with legal action.’

Refilling their cups, she went on, ‘We decided there and then that in the future we would only consider a married couple. So earlier this year, before the season started, we took on a couple who said they were married and gave their names as Mr and Mrs Fray. But we soon discovered that they weren’t married at all, and each considered themselves free to roam, so we felt justified in asking them to leave…’

Her face burning, Cathy didn’t know where to look. This was proving even worse than she had imagined.


CHAPTER THREE

‘OF COURSE,’ Margaret went on, ‘the skiing proper is just getting underway, but so far things seem to be going reasonably well. Though we had something of a scare last night when a couple out on a day’s cross-country skiing went missing. Thank the Lord they were eventually found safe and sound…

‘But here I am keeping you when you’re probably dying to be alone… Your flat is over at the main house. Carl has already settled in, so hopefully it should soon start to feel like home.

‘There’ll be pre-dinner drinks in the study at seven, which should give you just about enough time to unpack and get settled in.’

Only too anxious to go, Cathy rose to her feet and, with a murmur of thanks for the tea, pulled on her coat and headed for the door, followed by Carl.

Feeling mean and despicable, she wished heartily that she had never agreed to this deception.

But if she hadn’t come up to Scotland she would never have met Ross Dalgowan. And meeting him meant more to her than she could say. Just those few hours they had spent together had changed her life and given her a bright and shining hope for the future.

This time the foyer was empty and, as they reached the porch door and went out into the falling snow, Carl muttered, ‘I’m sorry, Sis. I could tell you were loathing every minute.’

‘I just feel so bad about it,’ Cathy said helplessly. ‘She’s such a nice woman and I hate having to deceive her.’

‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’ Carl assured her as they made their way to the car, which was already covered with snow. ‘But, having once started, we’ve just got to carry it through… Now, you jump in, and I’ll drive.’

Having helped Cathy in and slammed the door, he cleared snow from the wing mirrors before sliding into the driver’s seat.

Reaching to fasten his seat belt, and noticing her unhappy face, he begged quietly, ‘Please, Sis, this chance means so much to me. I know already that the job is exactly what I’ve been hoping for, and if it wasn’t for having to deceive people I like, I’d be on top of the world…

‘Believe me, as soon as they’ve got to know me, and I’ve proved that I can do the job and that I’m no Casanova, I’ll be more than happy to tell them the truth.’

‘Suppose when you do they’re so angry at the way you deceived them that they tell you to leave?’

‘Having come this far, that’s a chance I’ve got to take. I hope they won’t. I already love it here. But if they do then we’ll get other jobs, find somewhere else to live. Until then, I’m relying on you to support me.’

With a sigh, she told him, ‘Very well, I’ll do my best, but I’m no good at living a lie.’

‘Neither am I, really,’ he said as the engine sprang into life. ‘I nearly gave the game away just now by calling you Sis…’

The wipers pushing aside the accumulated snow, and their lights making a golden tunnel through the white, they set off up a steady incline, the four-wheel drive coping well with the loose snow.

‘But once we’re over this initial period of meeting people and settling in,’ he went on, ‘and we’re both doing the jobs we came here to do, it should prove to be a great deal easier.’

She could only hope so, Cathy thought and, in an effort to drop the uncomfortable subject, asked, ‘How far is it to the big house?’

‘Dunbar itself is about a mile up the drive, but if you’re on foot and go out the back way there’s a shortcut through the coppice that only takes a matter of minutes.’

As they reached the top of the rise and turned a corner to begin their descent, Cathy saw lights gleaming through the trees.

In her mind’s eye she had formed a picture of ‘the big house’ as being grey and square and dour, stark and uncompromising in its ugliness.

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

Through the dusk and the falling snowflakes she could just make out an old grey house cradled lovingly in a snowy fold of the hills.

Long and low, it had a hotchpotch of crooked chimneys and gable ends, mullioned windows and creeper-covered walls.

It was picturesque and beautiful, and, staring at it, entranced, Cathy murmured, ‘My house.’

‘What?’ Carl asked, startled.

‘The house,’ she explained. ‘Seeing it in the falling snow like this reminded me of a house I once saw in an old paperweight snowstorm.’

The snowstorm had charmed and captivated her, and now she felt the same kind of enchantment as they approached the house and drew up near a side entrance with a glowing lantern over the doorway.

Carl jumped out and, having taken one of Cathy’s bigger suitcases from the boot, handed her her overnight bag.

Then fishing in his pocket, he produced a keyring with three Yale keys on it and proceeded to unlock the door, which opened into a hall with a stone fireplace and a stone-slabbed floor, smoothly polished by many feet.

‘At one time this was the servants’ hall. But these days there’s only a handful of staff to run things.’

Though no fire burnt in the huge grate, it was anything but cold, and when Cathy remarked on the fact, Carl explained that the entire house had discreet central heating.

There were several doors leading off, and, opening the nearest one, he remarked, ‘Oh, while I think about it, this door doesn’t always close properly. Odd times the latch fails to click into place…’




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