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Captive In The Millionaire's Castle
Lee Wilkinson


Magnificent boss… Millionaire Michael Denver fiercely guards his privacy. The breathtaking views from his clifftop castle and the dark, thunderous elements provide the solitude this enigmatic writer needs to lick his wounds from a bitter past.Wide-eyed secretary! Secretary Jenny Mansell may be unworldly and shy, but she’s always been strictly business. However, on her first day working for the elusive Mr Denver she’s a little hesitant crossing the castle threshold. It’s not the imposing castle that sets Jenny’s heart trembling…it’s her captivating new boss!







As he bent his dark head andkissed her mouth her eyes closedhelplessly, shutting out the worldand leaving only sensation.



Just at first his lips felt cold. Then the coldness turned to heat as his mouth moved lightly against hers, making every nerve-ending in her body sing into life and sending her head spinning.



Though Jenny had been kissed many times, and though most of those kisses had been long and ardent, somehow they had failed to move her, leaving her feeling untouched, aloof, uninvolved.



But while Michael’s thistledown kiss couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, by the time he lifted his head her legs would no longer hold her, and her very soul seemed to have lost its way…


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:



THE BOSS’S FORBIDDEN SECRETARY

MISTRESS AGAINST HER WILL




CAPTIVE IN THE

MILLIONAIRE’S

CASTLE


BY

LEE WILKINSON




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



CAPTIVE IN THE MILLIONAIRE’S CASTLE


CHAPTER ONE

FEBRUARY the fourteenth.

The headlines in the morning paper read:

A WELL-DESERVED VALENTINE FOR WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR. For the second year running, Michael Denver, who, according to some of the top literary critics, is unsurpassed in the field of psychological thrillers, has won the prestigious Quentin Penman Literary Award, this time for his new book, Withershins. This makes him one of the most celebrated authors of his day, with five award-winning novels to his credit.

In spite of this, Michael Denver, after hitting the headlines with a high-profile divorce from top model Claire Falconer, and subsequent rumours of a reconciliation, guards his privacy fiercely and refuses to be either interviewed or photographed.

His four previous books have been snapped up by Hollywood and three of them have already become major box-office successes. Having been widely acclaimed, and quoted as being ‘his best so far,’ Withershins seems likely to follow suit.

Michael replaced the receiver and ran his fingers through his thick dark hair. The phone call from his long-time friend, Paul Levens, had finally served to make up his mind.

Well, almost.

He could do with a PA, and if Paul was right and this girl was the treasure he claimed she was, she might be just what he wanted.

No, not wanted. Needed.

For quite a while, hating the idea of working with another person rather than on his own, as he was used to, Michael had put off the evil moment. But now, of necessity, he was having to think again.

When Paul, who had just reached the position of Associate Director at Global Enterprises, had casually mentioned that he knew of the ideal woman to fill the position, Michael had raised various objections, all of which—unusually for him—were anything but logical.

‘Look,’ Paul said, his blue eyes serious, ‘I’m well aware that after the way women threw themselves at you following your divorce the entire female sex are anathema to you, but it isn’t like you to let emotions, especially such destructive ones, overrule your common sense.

‘You need a good PA. And I’m offering you the chance of a really first-class one. Believe me, Jennifer Mansell is as good as you’re going to get.’

With devastating logic, Michael demanded, ‘If she’s that good, why are you letting her go?’

‘Because I have little option. The powers that be have decided that in the present economic climate we have to trim staff wherever possible.

‘Arthur Jenkins, the departmental boss she’s worked for for more than three years, recently suffered a heart attack and is retiring on doctors’ orders.’

As Michael was about to interrupt he hurried on, ‘If it had been simply a matter of replacing Jenkins, that would have more or less kept the status quo. But it isn’t.

‘Home Sales are being amalgamated with Export, and Cutcliff, who’s run Export for over ten years, already has a good PA.’

A gleam of amusement in his forest-green eyes, Michael suggested dryly, ‘So you’re trying to palm this Jennifer Mansell off on me?’

Paul, a fair-haired, beefy rugby forward, sighed. ‘I’m trying to help you. Though God alone knows why.’

Michael grunted. ‘Well, I’ll think about it.’

Raising his eyes to heaven, Paul said with some exasperation, ‘Don’t overdo the gratitude, whatever you do.’

Grinning, Michael clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Thanks.’

But, for him, agreeing to have a woman in his office, under his feet, was a drastic step.

Perhaps if Paul’s protégée had been a man… But even then, he wasn’t sure if he could tolerate the presence of anyone else.

After almost a week, though he really needed to be at his rural retreat, Slinterwood, and starting on his latest book, he had still been undecided.

Then he had received a phone call from his ex-wife, Claire, telling him how badly she missed him and how much she wanted him back in her life, which had done nothing to improve his mood.

Her apparent conviction that she just had to snap her fingers to get him back had made him bitterly angry, and only served to reinforce his present dislike of women. Especially the ones who used sex as a weapon, as she had.

That same morning, Paul had rung and informed him flatly, ‘Well, this is your last chance. On Friday evening Miss Mansell will be hostess at Jenkins’s retirement party. After that, she’ll be leaving.’

Getting no immediate response, he suggested, ‘Tell you what, why don’t you take a quick look at her, see what you think? She’s easy on the eye without being too distracting. And I’m quite sure that she’s not the kind to throw herself at you.

‘If you want to actually meet her, I can introduce you simply as a friend of mine. If not, you can stay in the background, do the whole thing discreetly.’

In no mood for a party, Michael chose the latter course.

‘In the meantime,’ Paul promised, ‘I’ll find out as much as I can about her.’



At eight o’clock that Friday evening, partly concealed by the luxurious foliage of one of the decorative plants, Michael was standing on the balcony that encircled the Mayfair Hotel’s sumptuous ballroom, where Arthur Jenkins’s retirement party was taking place.

Already he was half regretting coming. Admittedly he needed a good PA, but a good PA didn’t have to be a woman. Still, to pacify Paul, he would stay long enough to hear what he had to say, and take a look at this Miss Mansell.

From the vantage point he had chosen almost opposite the raised dais, where later a presentation was to be made, he was able to get a commanding view over the assembled company.

An orchestra at present occupying the dais was playing dance music, and quite a lot of couples were circling the floor, while the remainder of the guests were standing in groups laughing and talking as the waiters dispensed champagne.

It was a truly glittering occasion. Arthur Jenkins had been with Global Enterprises for over thirty years, so in spite of the threatened economical slow-down no expense had been spared.

The woman Michael had come specifically to see wasn’t in evidence. So far he’d only glimpsed her from a distance. Tall and slim with dark hair taken up in an elegant swirl, she was wearing an ankle-length chiffon dress in muted, south-sea-colour shades of aquamarine, lapis lazuli and gold.

Paul, the only other person who knew he was there, had pointed her and Arthur Jenkins out to him.

‘What did you manage to find out about her?’ Michael asked quietly.

‘Not a great deal,’ Paul answered. ‘The only information Personnel could give me was that she’s twenty-four years old, quiet, efficient, and came to Global straight from a London business college.

‘The people she worked with say she did her job well, and described her as having a friendly manner, but tending to keep herself to herself.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Very little’s known about her private life but I did manage to pick up, from the grapevine, that for some time she wore an engagement ring.

‘After she stopped wearing it, a few months ago, it appears that several of the men in the office tried their luck, but all of them were given a very cool reception, not to say the cold shoulder. It seems she’s gone off men.’

Michael frowned thoughtfully. From that brief report, Jennifer Mansell sounded ideal.

However, reluctant to admit as much, he merely said, ‘Thanks for the information.’

Paul shrugged heavy shoulders. ‘Such as it is. Well, I’d better go and circulate. I take it you don’t want to meet her now?’

Shaking his head, Michael answered, ‘No.’

‘Well, when you’ve managed to get a good look at her, if you do change your mind, just let me know.’ Paul sketched a brief salute before heading for the stairs.

Michael was waiting only a minute or so when Arthur Jenkins and Jennifer Mansell came into view once again.

With no unseemly display of thigh or bosom, the simply cut dress she was wearing showed off her slender, graceful figure to perfection.

As she got closer he noticed that on her right wrist she was wearing a small watch on a plain black strap, and, on her right hand, a gold ring.

Her dark head was turned away from him as she conversed with her portly companion.

For some strange reason—a kind of premonition, perhaps—Michael found himself oddly impatient to see her face.

When she did turn towards him she was smiling, and he caught his breath. He knew that face, and not just because something about her reminded him of a young Julia Roberts.

Though they had never actually met, he had seen her before. But where and when?

And then he remembered, and he found his heart beating faster as he relived the little scene that had taken place at the castle, was it five years ago or six?

It had been late afternoon and, the only visitor still remaining, she had been standing in the cobbled courtyard, bright with its tubs of flowers.

Head tilted back, a coolish breeze ruffling her long dark hair, she had been watching some early swallows wheeling overhead, smiling then, as she was smiling now. He had been standing on the battlements, looking down. Still smiling, she had glanced in his direction. For a long moment their eyes had met and held, until, as though shy, she had looked away.

Though he hadn’t had the faintest idea why, even then she had seemed familiar to him, as if he had always known her.

Seeing her start to head towards the main gate, he had turned to hurry after her. But by the time he had descended the spiral stone stairway of the north tower she had vanished from sight.

Impelled by a sudden urgency, he had moved swiftly across the courtyard and beneath the portcullis. At the bottom of the steep, cobbled path that led up to the castle gate, a car had been just pulling away.

He had tried to attract her attention, to no avail. As he had stood there the car had bumped down the uneven dirt road, turned right, and disappeared round the curve of the rocky hill.

Climbing up to the battlements again, with a strange sense of loss he had watched the silver dot take the picturesque coastal road that skirted the island, and head in the direction of the causeway.

To all intents and purposes the little incident was over, finished, but he had thought about her, wondered about her, and her face had stayed etched indelibly in his memory.

He had tried to play his disappointment down, to tell himself that he couldn’t possibly feel so strongly about a woman he had only glimpsed, and never actually met. But wherever he went he had found himself scanning the faces of people passing by, unconsciously looking for her.

Over time, the impact she had had on him had gradually faded into the recesses of his mind, but he had never totally forgotten.

Now here she was again, as though fate had decreed it, and he was strangely shaken to see her once more.

In spite of his present aversion to women, he was tempted to go down, to see her at close quarters, to speak to her and hear her voice.

But common sense held him back.

Everything had changed. Instead of being a twenty-two year old with romantic ideals, he was older and wiser, not to say battle-scarred and bitter, with a newly acquired mistrust of women. And though her face was poignantly familiar, he didn’t know what kind of woman she really was.

As he stood watching a tall, balding man detached her from Arthur Jenkins’s side and led her onto the dance floor, where they were immediately swallowed up in the crowd.

Michael ran thoughtful fingers over his smooth chin. His inclination was to get to know her better, but, with all his previous reservations still intact, he didn’t feel inclined to rush things…

He was standing staring blindly over the throng of dancers when Paul reappeared and remarked, ‘So you’re still here? I wasn’t sure how long you intended to stay.’

‘I was planning to leave shortly,’ Michael told him, ‘but I wanted another word with you first.’

‘You’ve had a look at her, I take it? So what do you think?’

‘From what I’ve seen so far, your recommendation appears to have been a good one, but—’

An expression of resignation on his face, Paul broke in, ‘But you’re not going to do anything about it! Oh, well, it’s up to you, of course. But I personally believe it would be a mistake to let her slip through your fingers without at least taking things a step further.’

‘I have every intention of taking things a step further,’ Michael said quietly. ‘But as this is neither the time nor the place, I’d like you to have a quick word with her and tell her…’

A group of chattering, laughing people paused nearby, and he lowered his voice even more to finish what he was saying.

‘Will do,’ Paul promised crisply as Michael clapped him on the shoulder before striding away.



Hearing a car turn into the quiet square lined with skeletal trees, Laura went to the window and peeped through a chink in the curtains.

She was just in time to see a taxi draw up in front of the block of flats, and Jenny climb out and cross the frosty pavement.

‘Hi,’ Laura greeted her flatmate laconically as she came into the living-room.

‘Hi.’ Tossing aside her evening wrap, and glancing at Laura’s pink fluffy dressing gown and feathery mules, Jenny observed, ‘I thought you’d be tucked up in bed by now.’

Her round, baby-face shiny with night cream, and the long blonde hair that earlier in the evening she had spent ages straightening once again starting to curl rebelliously, Laura agreed. ‘I would have been, but Tom and I went out to Whistlers, and we had to wait ages for a taxi back.

‘How did the party go?’

‘Very well,’ Jenny answered sedately.

Noting her flatmate’s sparkling eyes and her barely concealed air of excitement, Laura asked, ‘What is it? Did Prince Charming turn up and sweep you off your feet?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘So what’s happened to make you look like the fifth of November? Come on, do tell.’

‘I could do with a cup of tea first,’ Jenny suggested hopefully.

‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Laura complained as she disappeared kitchenwards. ‘But as I could do with a cup myself…’

Slipping off her evening sandals, Jenny settled herself on the settee in front of the glowing gasfire, stretched her feet towards the warmth, and hugged the bubbling excitement to her.

After starting the evening in low spirits, knowing that she no longer had a job, Jenny was now on top of the world, with the hope of new things opening up.

She hadn’t felt so happy since Andy’s perfidy had torn her world apart, making her feel betrayed and unwanted, worthless even.

Laura returned quite quickly carrying two steaming mugs. Handing one to Jenny, she plonked herself down and urged, ‘Right. Spill it.’

‘You know Michael Denver?’

‘You mean the writer? The one you’ve always been nuts about?’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

‘Why not? It’s the truth…’

And it was. Since reading his first book, Jenny had been hooked, fascinated, not only by his intricate mind games and clever, complex plots, but by the brain behind them.

Yet for all their brilliance his books were easy to read, and his writing had compassion and sensitivity. His characters were real people with faults and failings and weaknesses, but also with courage and spirit and strength. People that his readers could understand and care about.

‘So what about Michael Denver?’ Laura pursued.

‘He’s in need of a PA, and I’m being interviewed for the job.’

Laura’s jaw dropped. ‘You don’t mean interviewed by the man himself?’

Jenny nodded. ‘Apparently.’

‘When?’

‘Eight-thirty tomorrow morning.’

‘It’s Saturday tomorrow,’ Laura pointed out.

‘Yes, I know. But it seems he’s in a hurry to fill the post. He’s sending a car for me. I can hardly believe it.’

‘Neither can I. Are you quite sure you haven’t had too much champagne?’

‘Positive.’

‘So how come?’

‘It appears that Mr Jenkins, bless him, has sung my praises to Paul Levens, one of Global’s directors, who happens to be a friend of Michael Denver’s.

‘When there was no available job for me with Global, Mr Levens, who knew that Michael Denver needed a PA, suggested me.’

‘And bingo!’

‘It may not be that simple. I may not get the job. But I certainly hope I do. It would be a dream come true to work for someone like him.’

Laura grunted. ‘Well, all I can say is, if he doesn’t realize how lucky he is and snap you up, he’s an idiot.’

Smiling at her friend’s aggressive loyalty, Jenny said, ‘Well, we’ll just have to wait and see.’

Finishing her tea, she added, ‘Now I’d better get off to bed, so I have my wits about me for the interview. I get the feeling that Michael Denver isn’t one to suffer fools gladly.’

Pulling a disappointed face, Laura protested, ‘Spoilsport. I was just going to ask you what you’ve found out about him.’

‘Hardly anything. But I’ll tell you what little I do know in the morning.’

‘It’s a deal! Sleep well.’



The following morning, after a restless night, Jenny was up early. By the time she had finished showering, her flatmate, who usually slept late on a Saturday, was already pottering round the kitchen making toast and coffee.

‘Sheer nosiness,’ she confessed in answer to Jenny’s query. ‘I couldn’t wait to hear all about the man himself. And I wanted to be up just in case he came in person to collect you.’

‘It’s hardly likely,’ Jenny said dryly.

‘Well, at least I’ll get to see his car… Now then, what about some toast?’

Shaking her head, Jenny admitted, ‘I’m too nervous to eat a thing. But I will have a coffee.’

Laura poured two cups before asking with unrestrained eagerness, ‘So what did you find out about him?’

‘Very little, except that he lives in a quiet block of flats in Mayfair.’ In a portentous voice, she added, ‘These days everything about him is shrouded in mystery.’

Only half believing her, Laura asked, ‘Honestly?’

‘Honestly.’

‘Why? There must be a reason.’

‘Well, as most of it seems to be public knowledge already, I’ll tell you what Mr Levens told me.

‘When Michael Denver first shot to fame after winning his second award, he became an overnight celebrity. But it seems that he’s a man who values his privacy, and he did his utmost to play it down and stay in the background.

‘Then he met and married a top photographic model named Claire Falconer—’

‘Oh, yes, I know her!’ Laura exclaimed. ‘Or rather I know of her.’ Then impatiently, ‘Go on.’

‘Both “beautiful people” and celebrities, they seemed to be madly in love with each other and ideally suited.

‘The media soon nicknamed them the Golden Couple, and followed them everywhere with their cameras. But while she enjoyed all the fuss and the media attention, he loathed it.

‘The attention was just starting to die down when a story that she’d been seen in the bedroom of a secluded hotel with another man while her husband was away got into the papers. She claimed it was a lie. But a follow-up story included a photograph of the pair of them trying to slip out of the hotel the next morning.

‘That gave rise to rumours that after only six months the marriage was breaking up, and the press had a field day. Michael Denver stayed tight-lipped and refused to comment, but his wife gave an interview in which she announced that she still loved him and was trying for a reconciliation. What he’d hoped would be a quiet divorce degenerated into a three-ringed circus—’

‘Now you mention it, I do remember reading about it. At the time I felt rather sorry for him.’

‘I gather from what Mr Levens told me that between his ex-wife, who continued to oppose the divorce, and the attentions of the gutter press, his life was made almost intolerable.

‘His refusal to give interviews or be photographed just made the paparazzi keener, and in the end he was forced to move flats and go to ground.’

‘It must have been tough for the poor devil.’

‘I’m sure it was.’

‘Do you know, in spite of all that press coverage I’ve no idea how old he is or what he looks like, have you?’

‘Not the faintest,’ Jenny admitted.

‘My guess is that he’ll be middle-aged, handsome in a lean and hungry way, with a domed forehead, a beaky nose and a pair of piercing blue eyes.’

‘What about his ears?’

‘Oh, a pair of those too. Unless he’s a tortured genius like Vincent Van Gogh.’

‘Fool! I meant flat or sticky out?’

‘Definitely sticky out, large, and a bit pointed.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because that’s what a brilliant writer ought to look like.’

Jenny laughed. ‘Well, if you say so.’

‘By the way, if you get back to find the flat empty, don’t be surprised. It’s Tom’s parents’ wedding anniversary, and later we’re off to Kent to spend the day with them.’

‘Well, I hope everything goes really well. Do give Mr and Mrs Harmen my best wishes.’

Her coffee finished, Jenny dressed in a taupe suit and toning blouse, swept her hair into a smooth coil, added neat gold studs to her ears and the merest touch of make-up.

With just a mental picture of Michael Denver, and no real idea of his age or what he might want in a PA, she could only hope he would approve of her businesslike appearance.

The car, a chauffeur-driven Mercedes, drew up outside dead on time.

Laura, who was stationed by the window, exclaimed excitedly, ‘It’s here! Well, off you go, and the best of luck.’

Trying to quell the butterflies that danced in her stomach, Jenny picked up her shoulder bag, and said, ‘Thanks. Enjoy your day.’

Outside, the air was cold, and Jack Frost had sprinkled the pavement with diamond dust and scrawled his glittering autograph over natural and man-made objects alike.

By the kerb, the elderly chauffeur was standing smartly to attention, waiting to open the car door for her.

As she reached him he bid a polite, ‘Good morning, miss.’

Jenny returned the greeting and, feeling rather like some usurper masquerading as royalty, climbed in and settled herself into the warmth and comfort of the limousine.

By the time they reached Mayfair and drew up outside the sumptuous block of flats, she had managed to conquer the nervous excitement, and at least appear her usual cool, collected self.

Having crossed the marble-floored lobby, she identified herself to Security before taking the private lift up to the second floor, as instructed.

As the doors slid open and she emerged into a luxurious lobby she was met by a tall, thin butler with a long, lugubrious face. ‘Miss Mansell? Mr Denver is expecting you. If you would like to follow me?’

She obeyed, and was ushered into a large, very well-equipped office.

‘Miss Mansell, sir.’

As the door closed quietly behind her a tall, dark, broad-shouldered man dressed in smart casuals rose from his seat behind the desk.

A sudden shock ran through her, and though somehow her legs kept moving she felt as if she had walked slap bang into an invisible plate-glass window.

While she was convinced they had never met, she felt certain that she knew him. Some part of her recognized him, remembered him, responded to him…

But even as she tried to tell herself that she must, at one time, have seen his photograph in the papers, she felt quite certain that that wasn’t the answer. Though there had to be some logical explanation for such a strong feeling.

Michael, for his part, was struggling to hide his relief. For a man who was normally so confident, so sure of himself and the plans he was putting into action, he had been unsettled and on edge. Half convinced that she wouldn’t come, after all, and angry with himself that it mattered.

Now here she was, and though for some reason her steps had faltered and she had appeared to be momentarily disconcerted, she had quickly regained her composure.

Holding out his hand, he said without smiling, ‘Miss Mansell… How do you do?’

His voice was low-pitched and attractive, his features clear-cut, but tough and masculine rather than handsome.

‘How do you do?’ Putting her hand into his, and meeting those thickly lashed, forest-green eyes, sent tingles down her spine.

She had expected him to be middle-aged, but he was considerably younger, somewhere in his late twenties, she judged, and nothing at all like the picture Laura had painted of him.

At close quarters, Michael found, she was not merely beautiful, but intriguing. Her face held both character and charm, and a haunting poignancy that made him want to keep on looking at her.

Annoyed by his own reaction, he said a shade brusquely, ‘Won’t you sit down?’

Despite the instant impact he had had on her, she found his curt manner more than a little off-putting, and she took the black leather chair he’d indicated, a shade reluctantly.

Resuming his own seat, he placed his elbows on the desk, rested his chin on his folded hands, and studied her intently.

Her small, heart-shaped face was calm and composed, her back straight, her long legs crossed neatly, her skirt drawn down demurely over her knees.

There was no sign of the femme fatale, not the faintest suggestion that she might try to employ any sexual wiles, which seemed to confirm that she was different from the women who had, in the wake of his divorce, seemed to think he was fair game.

Appreciating the natural look, after all the artificial glamour of the modelling world, he was pleased to note she wore very little make-up. But with a flawless skin and dark brows and lashes, she didn’t need to.

Up close, the impact of those big brown eyes and the wide, passionate mouth was stunning. But though she was one of the loveliest and most fascinating women he had ever seen, it wasn’t in a showy way.

Her hands were long and slender, strong hands in spite of their apparent delicacy, and he was pleased to see that her pale oval nails were buffed but mercifully unvarnished.

On her right hand he glimpsed the gold ring she had worn the previous night, but her left hand was bare.

Becoming aware that she was starting to look slightly uncomfortable under his silent scrutiny, and wanting to know more about her, he instructed briskly, ‘Tell me about yourself.’

‘What exactly would you like to know?’

She had a nice voice, he noted—always acutely sensitive to voices—soft and slightly husky.

‘To start with, where you were born.’

‘I was born in London.’

‘And you’ve lived here all your life?’

‘No. When I was quite small, we moved to the little town of Kelsay. It’s on the east coast…’

With a little jolt of excitement, he said, ‘Yes, I know it.’ The fact that she came from Kelsay seemed to confirm—though he hadn’t really needed any further confirmation—that she was the girl he had seen at the castle.

‘So how come you’re back in London?’

‘When my great-grandmother, whom I was living with, died just a few weeks after I left school, I enrolled at the London School of Business Studies. Then when I had the qualifications I needed, I applied for, and got, a job with Global Enterprises.

‘I started work in the general office, then became PA to Mr Jenkins, one of the departmental heads.’

‘I understand from Paul Levens that Mr Jenkins is retiring, and that the department he ran is being merged with another. Which is why you’re looking for a new position?’

‘That’s right.’

‘He also mentioned that Mr Jenkins spoke very highly of you, praising your loyalty, your tact and your efficiency. All attributes that as far as I’m concerned are essential.’

When she said nothing, merely looked at him steadily, he went on to ask, ‘What, in your opinion, is a PA there for?’

‘I’ve always thought that a good PA should keep things ticking over smoothly and do whatever it takes to keep her boss happy.’

‘Even if it includes running his errands and making his coffee?’

‘Yes,’ she answered without hesitation.

Thinking that after some of the women he had known she was like a breath of fresh air, he asked, ‘You wouldn’t regard that as infra dig?’

‘No.’ Seriously, she added, ‘I’ve always thought of a PA as a well-paid dogsbody.’

Managing to hide a smile, he said, ‘Good. Though the majority of the work would involve taking shorthand then transferring it onto a word-processor, it’s that part that slows me down, I’m looking for a PA who isn’t going to quibble about exact duties.

‘I also need someone who, as well as being efficient, is discreet and trustworthy.’

‘Mr Levens explained that.’

‘And you think you fit the bill?’

‘Yes, I believe I do.’

‘Though the monthly salary will stay the same, between books there may be longish periods when I won’t need a PA at all.

‘But I must warn you that when I am writing, I often work seven days a week, and should I decide to work in the evenings, I’ll expect my PA to be available. Would you be happy with that kind of “all or nothing” arrangement?’

She answered, ‘Yes,’ without hesitation.

Michael was well satisfied with that firm ‘yes’. If he did decide to give her the job, and it was still a big if, it sounded as if she might well take it.


CHAPTER TWO

JUST for a moment the thought stopped Michael in his tracks. Was he seriously considering letting a woman into his life again, even on a purely business basis?

He wished he could come up with a resounding no way! But somehow this woman was different. And he was strangely reluctant to let her walk away from him for a second time.

Glancing up, and finding Jenny was looking at him expectantly, he rounded up his straying thoughts and resumed his questioning. ‘While you’ve been working for Global Enterprises, how many times have you been off sick?’

‘None at all. Luckily, I’m very healthy.’

‘Then we come to the question of salary, and holidays. The commencing salary would be…’

He named a sum so in excess of what she might have hoped for that she blinked.

‘But I expect holidays to be fitted in during the slack periods. Any taken during the busy spells would need to be agreed on well in advance. Does that seem reasonable to you?’

‘Perfectly reasonable,’ she answered steadily.

Running lean fingers over his smooth jaw, he regarded her in a contemplative silence for a moment or two.

She was a very beautiful woman, and, even taking into account a broken engagement, it was hard to believe that there was no current man in her life.

Deciding that that was one thing he ought to establish, he began carefully, ‘Do you live alone?’

‘I have a flatmate.’

‘As distinct from a live-in lover?’

A little stiffly, she objected, ‘I’m afraid I don’t see why my private life is relevant.’

His face cold, he said, ‘It’s relevant on more than one count. Apart from the long hours which this kind of work sometimes involves, when I begin a new book I prefer to leave London and work in comparative isolation, where I can be quite free from any unwanted social distractions.’

‘Oh…’

Deciding to spell it out, he added, ‘Which means I need a PA who is free from any personal commitments or obligations.’

‘I see,’ she said slowly.

‘Is that a problem for you?’

She shook her head. ‘No, not really.’

No nearer to finding out what he wanted to know, he applied a little more pressure.

‘Then you have no ties? For example, no fiancé, who would almost certainly object?’

‘No.’

Well, that seemed decided enough. Though he knew to his cost that, if it suited them, some women could lie with composure.

‘And you don’t dislike the thought of having to leave London?’

‘No, not at all.’

She sounded as if she meant it.

He was oddly pleased.

Claire had hated the thought of leaving the bright lights of London and burying herself in what she referred to as ‘the back of beyond’, and after the first time she had refused point blank to go to Slinterwood again.

To please her, he had tried staying in town to finish writing Mandrake, but after several unproductive weeks he had given it up as hopeless.

With that important deadline fast approaching, she had suggested that he should go to Slinterwood while she remained in London.

Now, in retrospect, he could see that that had been the beginning of the end as far as their marriage was concerned…

Jenny was sitting quite still, but, sensing that she was once again growing uncomfortable with the lengthening silence, he went on, ‘In that case I’m prepared to offer you a month’s trial period.’

He hadn’t consciously made up his mind, and his abrupt offer of a job had surprised even himself.

Jenny, also taken aback by the suddenness of the offer, hesitated, wishing she had more time to think.

Picking up the vibes, and sensing his earlier indecision, not to mention a certain amount of antagonism, she had expected further searching questions, and then a cool promise to ‘let her know’.

She wanted the job, so she really ought to be over the moon, but she had found his attitude, and the intentness of his gaze, more than a little daunting.

But that wasn’t insurmountable, she told herself stoutly. The important thing was that she had been offered the chance to work for a writer she admired enormously, and even if her job was only to transcribe his words she wanted to be part of the creative process…

Now, watching her hesitate, and suddenly concerned that she was about to refuse after all, he asked brusquely, ‘So what do you say?’

Telling herself that if it did prove to be a mistake, it was only for a month, she said, ‘Thank you. I—I accept.’

He nodded. ‘Good. Now the only thing is, how soon can you start?’

‘Whenever you like.’

‘Then let’s say immediately.’

‘You mean Monday?’

Deciding to strike while the iron was hot, he told her, ‘I mean now.’

Sounding a little startled, she echoed, ‘Now?’

‘As I told you, when I begin a new book I prefer to leave London and work in comparative isolation. I was planning to go today. Seeing that you’re free to start at once, it would be more convenient if you travelled with me.’

‘Very well.’

‘If my chauffeur takes you home, how long will you need to get organized and pack enough clothes for…shall we say…up to a month? Then we’ll both be free to reassess the situation.’

‘Half an hour at the most.’

‘Excellent.

‘By the time you get down to the lobby, the car will be outside, waiting. The car will drop you home and when you’ve had time to pack, I’ll pick you up myself.’

‘Thank you.’

Feeling as though she had been caught up and swept along by a tidal wave, she got to her feet and prepared to leave.

Wondering if he’d done the right thing, or if he’d allowed his subconscious feelings to hurry him into something he might regret, Michael rose to accompany her. If he found he had made a mistake he could always pay her for the month but get rid of her straight away.

Once again picking up the vibes, and not altogether at ease, Jenny headed for the door. Though at five feet seven inches she was tall for a woman, he was a good head taller, with a mature width of shoulder, and for once in her life she felt dwarfed, towered over.

As he opened the door the butler appeared as if by magic to escort her to the lift.

‘I’ll call for you in approximately an hour, depending on the traffic,’ her new boss reminded her.

‘I’ll be ready,’ she promised.

She had moved to join the manservant when a thought struck her, and, turning to Michael Denver, she began, ‘Oh, by the way, where are we—?’

At the same instant the phone on his desk rang, and with a murmured, ‘Excuse me,’ he turned to answer it.

Oh, well, Jenny thought resignedly, she could find out exactly where they were going when he came to pick her up.



The Saturday morning traffic proved to be relatively light, and the drive back to her Bayswater flat was over quite quickly.

As good as her word, some half an hour after the chauffeur had dropped her Jenny’s case was neatly packed with easy-care, mix-and-match stuff, and she was ready and waiting.

Smiling to herself, thinking of her flatmate’s excitement when she read it, Jenny began to scrawl a hasty note.

Got the job, subject to a month’s trial period. Will be starting immediately. Being whisked off to what I presume is his house in the country to begin work on his latest book.

Will be in touch. Jenny.

PS. The man himself is nothing like either of us pictured. He’s quite young and not bad-looking, but rather cold and unapproachable, so he might not be pleasant to work for.

She had just finished writing when, glancing out of the window, she saw a large black four-wheel drive with tinted windows draw up by the kerb. It seemed somewhat out of place in London, but no doubt it would have its uses in the country.

Picking up her case and shoulder bag, her coat over her arm, she brushed aside the niggling doubt that she was doing the right thing, and hurried out.

The air was still cold, but the sun was now shining brightly from a clear, duck-egg-blue sky, and reflecting in the car’s gleaming paintwork.

As she walked across the pavement Michael Denver opened the car door and jumped out, and she felt the same strange impact she’d felt on first seeing him.

‘Good timing,’ he congratulated her as he came round to take her case, before opening the car door.

By the time she had climbed in and fastened her seat belt he had stowed her case and was sliding behind the wheel once more.

While he skilfully threaded his way through the traffic, she stayed silent and tried to relax, but she was very conscious of him and could only manage, at the most, an appearance of tranquillity.

It wasn’t until they had reached the suburbs and were heading out of London that she broached the question that had been at the back of her mind. ‘By the way, Mr Denver—’

‘I’d prefer to be on first-name terms,’ he broke in coolly, ‘if that’s all right with you?’

She had expected him to retain the formality of surnames, at least for the time being, and, startled, she answered, ‘Oh, yes… Quite all right…’

‘Michael,’ he prompted.

It seemed somehow momentous to be using his given name, and it took a second or two to pluck up enough courage to say, ‘Michael.’

‘And you’re Jennifer?’

‘Yes. But I usually get called Jenny.’

‘Then Jenny it is. A nice old-fashioned name of Celtic origin,’ he added. ‘Now, you were about to ask me something?’

‘Oh, yes… I still don’t know where we’re going. I presume you have a house somewhere in the country?’

‘Yes, it’s called Slinterwood.’ His tone of voice holding an undercurrent of something she couldn’t quite pin down, he added with apparent casualness, ‘You know the Island of Mirren?’

‘Of course.’ Her voice held a little quiver of excitement. ‘It’s just down the coast from where my great-grandmother used to live.’

‘Have you ever visited it?’

‘I went once.’

‘How long ago?’

‘I was eighteen at the time. It was a short while before I moved to London.’

‘You went to see Mirren Castle?’

‘Yes. In those days it was open to the public at certain times.’

‘What did you think of it?’

‘I didn’t see a great deal,’ she admitted. ‘I’d gone on the spur of the moment, quite late one afternoon, and I’d chosen the wrong day, which meant I couldn’t go inside.

‘But what I did see of the place was absolutely wonderful and I’ve never forgotten it. I had hoped to go back one day and see more of it.’

‘And did you?’ he pressed.

She shook her head. ‘Things change, and by the time I had a chance it was too late. I heard that Mirren’s new owner had closed the castle to the public and made it clear that visitors to the island were no longer welcome.’

‘So you’ve never been back?’

‘No.’

‘Well, as you say, things change. But there’s nothing to stop them changing again.’

She was wondering about that rather cryptic remark when he pursued, ‘Did you ever find out who the new owner was?’

She shook her head. ‘No. But I believe the island stayed in the hands of the same family. It was just a different policy in force.’

‘A policy that caused you great disappointment?’

‘Well, yes… Though I can’t say I really blamed the new owner.’

In answer to her companion’s questioning glance, she admitted, ‘If it was mine, I wouldn’t want visitors tramping around making a noise and dropping litter.’

When he said nothing, feeling the need to justify that remark, she added, ‘I can’t help but feel that a lot of the island’s charm must lie in its isolation and the serenity that kind of isolation brings.’

Either her feelings echoed his own, or, he thought cynically, she was clever enough to realize that they were what his feelings would be, and to play up to him.

‘Then you’re not a gregarious creature?’ he asked.

‘No, not really.’

‘Yet you chose to live in London.’

‘I don’t dislike London. It’s an exciting, vibrant place to live, and of course it’s where a lot of the jobs are.

‘But after I’d left Kelsay I found I missed the sound of the sea and the dark night sky and the stars. With the glow from the street lamps it’s not easy to see the stars in central London—’ Suddenly realizing her tongue was running away with her, she broke off abruptly.

It wasn’t at all like her to talk so freely to a man who was not only a virtual stranger but her new employer, and she wished she had been more circumspect, more restrained.

When he made no effort to break the ensuing silence, fearing she had already got off on the wrong foot, she apologized. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I was babbling. You can’t possibly be interested in my—’

‘Oh, but I am,’ he broke in smoothly. ‘And I found your “babbling”, as you call it, quite poetic.’

Unsure whether or not he was making fun of her, she let that go, and, trying to get back to the more mundane, pursued, ‘I presume from what you said just now that Slinterwood is somewhere near Mirren.’

‘Slinterwood is on Mirren.’

‘Sorry?’

He repeated, ‘Slinterwood is on Mirren.’

Still unsure if she had heard correctly, she echoed, ‘On Mirren?’

‘That’s right.’

She caught her breath, bowled over by the thought of actually staying on Mirren.

For as long as she could remember, she had felt a strange affinity with the place, a secret fascination that almost amounted to an obsession.

She had thought of it as her island.

It drew her, called to her. Even when she and her parents had been living in Jersey, Mirren had often been in her thoughts.

Having decided to go back to Kelsay to take care of her great-grandmother, she had made up her mind to ask the old lady—who had lived within sight of the island all her life—to tell her everything she knew about it.

But on the day before Jenny’s arrival another stroke had left her namesake partially paralyzed and unable to speak coherently.

Now fate seemed to be offering a chance, not only to learn something about her island, but to live on it for a while.

She could barely restrain her surprise and delight.

Giving her a sidelong glance, he commented, ‘You look pleased.’

Steadying herself, she said, ‘I am rather.’

‘And surprised?’

‘That too. For one thing, I thought Mirren was still privately owned.’

‘It is.’

So if he rented a house there, even if it was through an agency, he probably knew the name of the family who owned it.

She waited hopefully, but, when he volunteered no more information, unwilling to appear over-curious in case it stalled the conversation she refrained from asking.

No doubt she could broach the subject again, when they had got to know each other better.

Her restraint was rewarded when he went on, ‘You said, “For one thing”… So what was the other?’

‘I hadn’t realized there were any buildings on the island, apart from the castle.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘So where is Slinterwood, exactly?’

‘It stands overlooking the sea, about a mile south of the castle.’

‘How strange I never saw it.’

‘Not really. I’m half convinced that, like Brigadoon, it’s enchanted, and only appears from time to time…’

He sounded perfectly serious. But when she glanced sideways at him she saw the corner of his long, mobile mouth twitch.

‘Apart from that, until you actually reach it, it’s hidden by a curving bluff and a stand of trees.’

‘Is it the only house on the island?’

‘No. There’s a couple of farms, and about half a mile down the coast from Slinterwood there’s a small hamlet that was built in the eighteen hundreds to house the estate workers.’

Seeing her puzzled frown, he went on, ‘You wouldn’t have noticed it—because of the lie of the land it’s only visible from the seaward side.’

‘Oh… Do people still live there?’

‘Yes. Though the castle itself is no longer inhabited, the estate still needs its workers, most of whom have lived on the island for generations.

‘Though, of necessity, the young, unmarried ones leave to look for partners, there’s something about Mirren that seems to draw them back, and keeps the cycle going.’

He relapsed into silence, leaving her to mull over what she had learnt, which was both thrilling and a little disturbing.

Thrilling because she would be living on her dream island and working for a famous author. Disturbing because—though Michael Denver had told her from the beginning that he liked to work in ‘comparative isolation’—she was just starting to appreciate exactly how isolated they would be, and to wonder, with the faintest stirring of unease, if she had been wise to come.

Slinterwood, it appeared, was on the opposite side of the island to the causeway, which meant that once she was there it was a long way back.

Added to that, the causeway itself, which for part of the time would be under water, was well over a mile long and only safe to cross at low tide and in good weather conditions. So with no transport of her own, she would be a virtual prisoner.

Oh, don’t be so melodramatic! she scolded herself. All it amounted to was that she and Michael Denver were bound to be thrown together a good deal in relative isolation.

But so what? A man of his standing was hardly likely to turn into a Jekyll and Hyde, or prove a threat in any way. And though the house was isolated, there must be a housekeeper or a manservant, someone to take care of the place and look after Michael while he was there.

But would he expect her to provide some companionship for the odd times he wasn’t working?

It was a bit of a daunting prospect.

Though with his reputed aversion to women, he would hopefully prefer to spend his leisure time alone.

If by any chance he didn’t… Well, she had taken on the job, and if providing some companionship while he was at Slinterwood proved to be a part of it she would just have to cope.

After all, she was getting very well paid. And if, at the end of a month, she wasn’t happy with her duties, she could always say so and let someone else have the post.

Her thoughts busy, for the past few miles Jenny had been staring blindly into space, but now, her immediate concerns shelved, she was able to give her attention to the scenery.

They were travelling through pleasant rolling countryside where, in the shade, the grass was still stiff and white with frost, and the skeletal trees stood out black and stark against the pale blue of the sky.

Topping a rise, they ran into a small sunlit village with old mellow-stone cottages fronting a village green.

Standing opposite a duckpond, where a gaggle of white geese floated serenely, was a black and white half-timbered inn called the Grouse and Claret.

‘I thought we’d stop here for lunch,’ Michael said. ‘If you’re ready to eat, that is?’

‘Quite ready. I didn’t have any breakfast.’

‘Why not? Pushed for time?’

She shook her head. ‘To tell you the truth, I was a bit nervous.’

He found himself wondering about that rather naive statement. Had it been made for effect? To encourage him to think she was sweet and innocent?

When, his face cool and slightly aloof, he made no comment, she regretted her impulsive admission and wished she had simply said that she was hungry.

He drove through a stone archway into the cobbled yard of the inn, and, stopping by a stack of old oak beer barrels, came round to open her door.

Well, whatever faults he might prove to have, she thought as she climbed out, his manners, though quiet and unobtrusive, were flawless.

With the kind of surety that made her guess he had stopped here before, he escorted her through the oak door at the rear, and into a black-beamed bar where a log fire blazed and crackled cheerfully.

The bar, its low, latticed windows tending to keep out the sunshine, would have been gloomy if it hadn’t been for the leaping flames. It was empty apart from a broad-faced, thick-necked, cheerful-looking man behind the bar, and two old cronies in the far corner who appeared to be regulars.

The landlord’s hearty greeting proved Jenny’s supposition to be correct.

‘Nice to see you again, Mr Denver.’

‘Nice to see you, Amos.’

‘Me and the wife have been wondering if, the next time you came, Mrs Denver might be with you?’

Jenny saw Michael’s jaw tighten, but his voice was still pleasant and level as he asked, ‘And what made you wonder that?’

‘Why, the newspaper stories that you and ’er were getting together again. You must have seen them.’

‘I never look at the papers,’ Michael told him. ‘Half the stuff they print is suspect, to say the least. It pays not to believe a word.’

Amos grunted his agreement. ‘We might not have done, but it sounded as though it was Mrs Denver herself who had told the reporters.’

‘Well, whoever told them, there’s not a word of truth in it,’ Michael said shortly.

With an unexpected show of tact, Amos changed the subject to ask, ‘So what’s it to be? Your usual?’

At Michael’s nod he enquired, ‘And what about the young lady?’

‘Miss Mansell is my new PA,’ Michael answered the man’s unspoken curiosity.

Then giving Jenny a questioning glance, he asked, ‘What would you like to drink?’

As she hesitated, wondering what he would consider suitable, he suggested, ‘A glass of wine? Or would you prefer a soft drink?’

Fancying neither, and having noticed a sign over the bar that announced, ‘We Brew Our Own Ale’, she abandoned the idea of ‘suitable’ and said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d like half a pint of the home-brewed ale.’

‘An excellent choice,’ Amos said heartily. Then to Michael, who had managed to hide his surprise, ‘No doubt you’ve been singing its praises.’

‘I don’t need to,’ Michael answered gravely. ‘I’m convinced that Miss Mansell can read my mind.’

‘Dangerous thing, that,’ the landlord remarked with a grin as he drew two half pints of ale. ‘I’m only pleased my wife can’t read mine. Though, mind you, she makes up for it by reading my letters and going through my pockets…

‘Now then, you’ll be wanting a good hot meal?’

‘If that’s possible?’

‘It certainly is. My Sarah has her faults, but she’s an excellent cook. I can recommend the rabbit casserole and the apple pie. If the young lady wants something lighter, we can always run to a salad.’

Used to Claire, who had needed to rigorously watch her diet, Michael turned to Jenny and lifted a dark, enquiring brow.

‘The casserole and the pie sound great,’ she said, surprising him yet again.

‘Then make that two, please, Amos.’

Nodding his approval, Amos disappeared in the direction of the kitchen while, frowning a little, Jenny found herself having second thoughts.

Her new boss had obviously been a little startled by her robust choices, and she wondered if, in order to create a good impression, she should have gone for a more ladylike salad and a soft drink.

Oh, well, it was too late now to worry about it.

He carried both their glasses over to a table by the fire, and was about to settle Jenny in one of the comfortable, cushioned chairs when, seeing the firelight flicker on her face, he made to move it back. ‘That might be too close for you…’

‘No… No, it’s fine.’

Hearing the hint of surprise in her voice, he explained, ‘I suppose I got used to my ex-wife. She never liked to sit close in case the heat ruined her skin.’

When he said nothing further, deciding he was disinclined for conversation, Jenny turned her head and watched the leaping flames while she slowly sipped her drink.

Lifting his own glass to his lips, Michael found himself wondering why on earth he was talking about Claire, when for months he had done his best to avoid mentioning her name or even thinking about her.

Perhaps it was Amos’s revelations that had brought his ex to the forefront of his mind.

He had little doubt that Claire’s talk with the reporters had been deliberately staged. Though he was sure she no longer loved him, and probably never had, he knew that she couldn’t bear to let go any man that she had once considered hers.

But she was wasting her time. He hadn’t the slightest intention of taking her back. In the short time they had been married she had cuckolded him and almost succeeded in emasculating him.

Anything he had once felt for her had long since died, and when the divorce had been finalized, mingled with the pain and bitter disillusionment had been relief.

Unconsciously, he sighed, and with a determined effort he brought his mind back to the present.

His companion was sitting quietly staring into the fire. Watching the pure line of her profile, he noted that though she appeared to be at ease, she wasn’t nearly as composed as she looked.

He was still studying her surreptitiously when their food arrived, and he suggested, ‘Tuck in.’

It looked and smelled so appetizing that, in spite of her previous misgivings, when a generous plateful was put in front of her Jenny obeyed.

It was every bit as good as the landlord had boasted, the tender meat served with small, fluffy dumplings, a selection of root vegetables, and rich, tasty gravy.

Michael noted that she ate neatly and daintily, but with a healthy appetite. After getting used to seeing Claire toy with a salad and then leave half of it, he found it a pleasure to lunch with a woman who obviously enjoyed her food.

The pie that followed was just as good, with light, crisp pastry, tangy apples cooked to perfection, and lashings of thick country cream.

When Jenny had finished the last spoonful, she sat back with a satisfied, ‘Mmmm…’

Watching her use the tip of a pink tongue to catch an errant speck of cream, he felt a sudden fierce kick of desire low down in his belly, and was forced to glance hastily away.

Since his divorce he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman, and that sudden, unbidden reaction threw him off balance.

Seeing she was looking at him, and hoping his tension didn’t show, he asked unnecessarily, ‘I take it you enjoyed the meal?’

‘It was absolutely delicious. I can quite see why you like to stop here—’

All at once she broke off, flustered, wondering if he’d thought her greedy.

She was trying to find some way to change what had become an uncomfortable subject when the landlord appeared to clear away the dishes and bring the coffee, sparing her the need.

‘A grand meal, Amos,’ Michael said heartily.

He sounded sincere, and, realizing that he too had enjoyed it, Jenny relaxed. Perhaps, because of what she saw as the newness and possible fragility of the relationship, she was simply being over-sensitive.

‘I haven’t tasted anything as good as that since I was here last.’

‘I’ll tell Sarah,’ the landlord promised. ‘She’ll be pleased.’

For a little while they sipped their coffee without speaking, and, a quick glance at her silent companion confirming that he was once again in a brown study, she seized the opportunity to watch him.

His dark hair was thick and glossy, still trying to curl a little in spite of its short cut, and, though he lacked either charm or charisma, his face was interesting, lean and strong-boned, with a straight nose and a cleft chin.

It was the kind of face that wouldn’t change or grow soft and flabby with age. At sixty or seventy he would look pretty much as he looked now.

His eyes were handsome, she conceded, long and heavy-lidded, tilted up a little at the outer edge, with thick curly lashes. His teeth too were excellent, gleaming white and healthy, while his mouth had a masculine beauty that made her feel strange inside.

Dragging her gaze away with something of an effort, she studied his ears, which were smallish and set neatly against his well-shaped head. A far cry from the large, sticky-out ears Laura had predicted.

Jenny was smiling at the remembered picture when he glanced up unexpectedly.

As he watched the hot colour rise in her cheeks, pointing to her guilt, she saw his eyes narrow.

He obviously thought she had been laughing at him, and, knowing how fragile a man’s ego could be, she braced herself for an angry outburst.

But, his face showing only mild interest, he suggested blandly, ‘Perhaps you’d allow me to share the joke?’

Seeing nothing else for it, she drew a deep breath and admitted, ‘I was smiling at the mental picture my flatmate had painted of what you, as a successful author, ought to look like.’

‘Oh? So what should a successful author look like?’

She repeated as near as she could remember word for word what had been said that morning.

His face straight, but his green eyes alight with amusement, he said quizzically, ‘Hmm… Large, pointed, sticky-out ears… So how do I compare? Favourably, I hope?’

She smiled, and, relieved that he’d taken it so well, dared to joke. ‘Not altogether. After seeing some old reruns of Star Trek, I’ve developed a passion for Mr Spock.’

Her lovely, luminous smile, the hint of mischief, beguiling and fascinating, hit him right over the heart, and for a moment that vital organ seemed to miss a beat.

Striving to hide the effect her teasing had had on him, he pulled himself together, and complained, ‘Being compared to Mr Spock and found wanting could seriously damage my ego.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, with mock contrition. ‘I wouldn’t want to do that.’

‘So you weren’t suggesting that my ears aren’t as exciting as a Vulcan’s?’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

‘I should hope not.’

His sudden white smile took her breath away and totally overturned her earlier assessment that he lacked either charm or charisma. Obviously he had lashings of both, hidden beneath that cool veneer.

All at once, for no reason at all, her heart lifted, and she found herself looking forward to the days and weeks ahead.


CHAPTER THREE

WATCHING her big brown eyes sparkle, Michael thought afresh how lovely she was.

He had been in Jenny’s company now for several hours, and ought to be getting used to her beauty, almost taking it for granted.

But he wasn’t.

In fact, just the opposite.

The fascination the first sight of her had aroused was still there, and growing stronger.

Which was bad news.

The last thing he wanted or needed was to be attracted to his new PA. That would be the ultimate irony, as Paul would be quick to point out.

That morning, when Paul had phoned to find out the result of the interview and Michael had admitted that Jennifer Mansell was on a month’s trial, Paul had been quietly jubilant.

‘I’m sure that in spite of all your doubts she’ll prove to be just what you need.’

‘We’ll see,’ Michael said cautiously. ‘It depends on what kind of woman she turns out to be, and how I get on working with someone else.’

Paul grunted. ‘Well, of course I can’t answer for the latter, but, so far as Miss Mansell’s concerned, I’ve heard nothing but good about her.

‘Though I’ll keep my ear to the ground, just in case, and if I do hear anything further I’ll let you know. In the meantime stop being such a misogynist and give the poor girl a chance.

‘She’s known to be good at her job, and, as I said before, I don’t think she’s the kind to throw herself at you. If by any chance she does, for heaven’s sake take her to bed. It might be just what you need to turn you back into a human being.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ Michael said dryly, ‘but I’ve had my fill of women.’

Now he found himself wondering how he would react if Jenny Mansell did throw herself at him.

So far she’d given not the slightest sign of wanting to do any such thing. Rather, she had trodden warily, as though negotiating a minefield, looking anything but comfortable whenever the conversation showed signs of straying into the more personal…

Becoming aware that time was passing, he swallowed the remains of his coffee and remarked, ‘If you’re ready, we really ought to be on our way.’

Jenny, who had been sitting quietly watching his face, wondering what he was thinking, said, ‘Yes, I’m quite ready.’

‘There would be no hurry if we didn’t need to be over the causeway before the tide turns.’

His words reminded her of her earlier doubts about the advisability of being so isolated, and perhaps some of that uncertainty showed on her face because, frowning, he queried, ‘Is there something wrong?’

She hesitated. If she did still have doubts, common sense told her she should voice them now, before it was too late…

He was watching her face, concerned that for some reason she was going to back out at the last minute, and his voice was tense as he demanded, ‘Well, is there?’

She lifted her chin, and, knowing that she was going anyway, regardless of doubts, answered, ‘No, there’s nothing wrong.’

‘Then perhaps you’d like to freshen up while I pay the bill? I’ll see you back at the car.’

As Jenny washed her hands and tucked a stray hair or two into the silky coil she rationalized her decision by telling herself that, having come this far, had she confessed to doubts he would have had every right to be angry.

She had a feeling that, in spite of his offer of a month’s trial period, he hadn’t been particularly keen to engage her in the first place, so he might have been glad of the opportunity to send her packing back to London.

Then not only would she have missed her chance to stay on Mirren, but it would have meant losing a job she’d really wanted without even starting it, and never seeing Michael Denver again.

The latter shouldn’t really matter.

But somehow it did.

Though she was too aware of him to be altogether at ease in his company, she wanted the chance to get to know him better, to find out for herself just what kind of man he was, what made him tick.

When she made her way outside, he was waiting to settle her into the passenger seat.

The sun, though low in the sky, was still shining, but already the air seemed chillier, less clear, promising the onset of an early dusk.

‘How long before we get to Mirren?’ she asked as they left the Grouse and Claret behind them and headed for the coast.

‘Half an hour or so.’



Unwilling to ask direct questions, she suggested innocently, ‘Perhaps you could tell me something about the island?’

‘What do you know already?’

‘Apart from what I saw on that one short visit, and what you’ve already told me, nothing, really. I only know that it’s always fascinated me.’

‘Well, it’s roughly nine miles long by three wide. The higher ground is interspersed with pasture land, and, apart from some stands of pines, the only trees are the ones around Slinterwood.

‘Because the island has fresh water springs, it’s been inhabited for centuries, and for most of that time it’s been home to a rare breed of sheep similar to merinos, prized the world over for their fine, soft wool.

‘These days a lot of the farmland has been turned into market gardens, which produce organic fruit and vegetables for the top London hotels.’

With a slight grin, he went on, ‘At the risk of sounding like a guidebook, I’ll just add that on the seaward side there are some pleasant sandy coves, ideal for summer picnics and swimming.’

‘It sounds lovely.’

‘It’s certainly picturesque.’

She waited, hoping he’d tell her more about his connection with the island, and about the family who owned it.

But he changed the subject by remarking, ‘One good thing about travelling at this time of the year is that there’s not too much traffic.’

There proved to be less as they approached their destination. Even in high summer this part of the coast was relatively quiet, and now the coastal road was deserted in both directions as they joined the rough track that led down to the causeway.

Glancing at the water, Michael remarked, ‘The tide must have turned some time ago.’

‘How can you tell?’ she asked.




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