Kitabı oku: «The Spaniard's Pleasure: The Spaniard's Pregnancy Proposal / At the Spaniard's Convenience / Taken: the Spaniard's Virgin»

These Latin men won’t be denied!

The Spaniard’s Pleasure

Three smouldering Mediterranean seductions from three favourite Mills & Boon authors!

The Spaniard’s Pleasure
Kim Lawrence
Margaret Mayo
Lucy Monroe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In August 2010 Mills & Boon bring you four classic collections, each featuring three favourite romances by our bestselling authors

THE SPANIARD’S PLEASURE

The Spaniard’s Pregnancy Proposal by Kim Lawrence

At the Spaniard’s Convenience by Margaret Mayo

Taken: the Spaniard’s Virgin by Lucy Monroe

BOUGHT FOR HIS BED

Virgin Bought and Paid For by Robyn Donald

Bought for Her Baby by Melanie Milburne

Sold to the Highest Bidder! by Kate Hardy

THE MILLIONAIRE’S CLUB: CONNOR, TOM & GAVIN

Round-the-Clock Temptation by Michelle Celmer

Highly Compromised Position by Sara Orwig

A Most Shocking Revelation by Kristi Gold

PROTECTOR, LOVER…HUSBAND?

In the Dark by Heather Graham

Sure Bet by Maggie Price

Deadly Exposure by Linda Turner

The Spaniard’s Pregnancy Proposal

By

Kim Lawrence

About the Author

KIM LAWRENCE lives on a farm in rural Anglesey. She runs two miles daily and finds this an excellent opportunity to unwind and seek inspiration for her writing! It also helps her keep up with her husband, two active sons, and the various stray animals which have adopted them. Always a fanatical consumer of fiction, she is now equally enthusiastic about writing. She loves a happy ending!

Don’t miss Kim Lawrence’s exciting new novel, Unworldly Secretary, Untamed Greek, available in September 2010 from Mills & Boon.

Chapter One

FLEUR STEWART woke up and after a few minutes of lying there listening to bird song she forced her eyelids open. Yawning, she squinted at the clock on the bedside table. It was eight-thirty.

It was also her birthday. She was twenty-five, an entire quarter of a century. She resisted the temptation to ask herself what she had done with the first twenty-five years, because that would have inevitably led to her asking herself what she planned to do with the next twenty-five.

And Fleur didn’t know.

She wasn’t making any plans at all. She was going with the flow. Because life, she reflected, pulling the duvet over her head and burrowing down, never quite turned out the way you expected.

She had only ever wanted to act. The dream had been born the day her parents had taken her to see a matinee performance of a West End musical when she was eight. It had died midway through her second term at drama school. To be precise, on the day she had badly botched an audition everyone had thought was hers and realised that the only thing standing between her and a glittering career was a complete absence of talent.

The next day, and still in the same self-pitying, despondent frame of mind, she had met Adam Moore, a final-year law student. Good-looking Adam had been incredibly supportive and sympathetic when, over her second glass of wine, she had confided her doubts. A kindred spirit, he had seen her point immediately. What was the point staying on at drama school if you were only ever going to be mediocre?

This had been a lot easier to hear than, ‘You’ve got to develop a thicker skin,’ which was the attitude her friends, who hadn’t taken her crisis of confidence seriously, had adopted.

Adam had told her that a girl with her brains could do a lot better for herself than acting and Fleur had been flattered and believed him. Or at least she had convinced herself she believed him. Deep down even then Fleur had known that what she was really doing was choosing the easy option.

Three months later she and Adam had been engaged and she’d been happily waiting tables. And if she’d ever stopped to wonder what she was doing or ask herself if she was really happy, she’d reminded herself that this was a purely temporary measure. And the tips had been very good, which had been great because it had made sense for Adam to concentrate on his studies without worrying about little things like paying the rent.

Contemplating the painful naïveté of her younger self inevitably made Fleur despise herself, so she tried hard not to revisit the past. She tried to live in the present.

The present was actually surprisingly good.

Four years on there was no Adam. Admittedly there was no stage career either, but happily she was no longer waiting tables!

She loved her job teaching drama at the local college. Her colleagues were a decent bunch, the work was challenging and she loved the buzz of being around young, and, for the most part, enthusiastic people. If ever any of her students felt like throwing in the towel, Fleur told them that, sure, they might not have what it took, but they’d never know for sure if they didn’t show a little backbone when the going got tough.

The biggest plus of the job was that nobody here knew about her recent history. That being so, there were none of the sympathetic looks she hated or ‘I do admire you, you’re so brave for getting on with your life’—as if she had a choice—remarks to deal with.

No matter how much you enjoyed your job it was still a nice feeling come Saturday to wake up and pull the covers over your head and have a nice lazy lie-in. This Saturday, birthday or no, the lie-in was not a long one. The late-August sun shining through the thin curtains of her bedroom was just too tempting. It made her think of blackberries, walking the rescue dog her friend Jane had foisted on her the previous month and the million and one things that needed doing in the garden.

For a town girl she had adapted to the rural existence really well.

Fleur was still in her pyjamas when the phone rang.

She set aside an unopened birthday card and took a slurp of her freshly brewed coffee before padding barefoot through to the hallway to answer it.

‘Happy Birthday!’ The sound of Jane’s voice brought a smile to her face. Jane, a fashion photographer with copper hair and a sarcastic tongue, was the sort of person whose enthusiasm for life was infectious.

Sometimes Fleur wished she had half of Jane’s energy. It was Jane who had encouraged her to move out of London after the miscarriage, and after Adam’s infidelity had been exposed, and it had been Jane who had told her to go for it when the job in the drama department had been advertised.

‘Did you get my card?’

‘I was just about to open it.’

‘I wish I could be there. Next week, though, we’ll really let down our hair,’ Jane promised. ‘Get out your sexiest shoes, I have plans.’

Fleur winced. She had a horrible suspicion that her friend’s plans would involve pushing her at a member of the opposite sex. The problem with Jane, she brooded, was she imagined she was subtle. She was anything but! ‘There’s not a lot of call for sexy shoes around here.’

‘Now you just sound sad,’ Jane informed her tartly. ‘There is always room in a girl’s life for sexy shoes. It makes me really mad when I think how you waste your legs.’ She sighed enviously. ‘Look at me—legs like a Welsh Corgi, but do I sit at home nights moping? No, I—’

‘All right, I get the message,’ Fleur protested. ‘I’ll make an effort.’

‘Have you got anything planned for tonight?’

Fleur knew that admitting the only thing she had planned was a night in front of the TV would earn her a stern lecture on the need to get out there, so she got creative. ‘A drink with some friends from work.’ Nobody at work, where she had cultivated a reputation for being reserved, actually knew it was her birthday.

‘Well, that’s good. And how is our dog?’

‘Our dog is eating his way through my furniture. I don’t possess a chair without teeth marks. You’ve no idea how happy I am you decided I needed the company.’

An overlong pause followed her teasing comment.

‘You know I’m only kidding…?’ Fleur frowned. It wasn’t like Jane not to come back with a sarcastic retort. ‘I love the mutt.’

‘It’s not like you’re not totally over him. You are, aren’t you? Over him, that is.’

‘I assume you’re talking about Adam?’ This much Fleur had managed to extract from her friend’s disjointed monologue. ‘I’m insulted you can ask, but, yes, I am very much over him.’

‘Paula’s pregnant,’ Jane blurted. ‘She and Adam are having a baby.’

It was a guilty-sounding Jane who eventually broke the lengthening silence.

‘I’m sorry, Fleur, I didn’t know whether to tell you…’

Fleur took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her churning stomach. A baby…!

She inhaled deeply, recognising her reaction to the news her ex-fiancé and his new wife were having a baby as irrational. Recognition didn’t make the feeling go away; crazily it felt more of a betrayal than learning about his affair had.

‘No, I’m glad you did, Jane,’ she said, trying hard to sound as though she meant it.

‘I thought Adam might have mentioned it…?’

‘I haven’t spoken to him for months.’ Not since her ex-fiancé had married the woman she now knew he had started sleeping with while she’d been pregnant.

A perfectly natural reaction, he had belligerently claimed for a man who had found himself forced against his will into fatherhood. The implication, false though it was, that she had deliberately trapped him with the pregnancy had hurt and angered Fleur incredibly deeply at the time. But then she had still harboured some daft idea that her ex wasn’t a total loser!

God, how was I ever that stupid?

‘The slimy rat!’ Jane, never one to hold back, observed viciously. ‘That pair deserve one another.’

‘I suppose Adam’s allowed a life.’

With a sigh she brushed her hair from her face anchoring it at the nape of her neck, and wondered, Am I jealous? Not of Adam and Paula. She had long ago recognised that her feelings for Adam had never amounted to love, not the lasting variety. But maybe of what they had…?

What she would never have. It wasn’t men she didn’t trust, just her own judgement.

‘After what he did to you! The only life slimy rat is allowed is one filled with misery and suffering!’ Jane, not a big believer in turning the other cheek, bellowed down the other end of the line.

Holding the receiver away from her ear, Fleur heard Jane add bitterly, ‘The man was in bed, your bed, with that woman when you were in hospital…sorry, Fleur,’ she added immediately, sounding contrite. ‘Me and my big mouth…I didn’t mean to open old wounds.’

Fleur eased her bottom onto the edge of the small console table and fiddled with the top button of her pyjama jacket. ‘Don’t worry about it, Jane. I was going to find out some time,’ she said, thinking some wounds never did heal. And the wound in question wasn’t actually such an old one.

Sometimes it felt like a lifetime ago and other times it felt like yesterday, but in reality it had been eighteen months since Fleur had been rushed into Casualty midway through what had been a difficult pregnancy.

Jane, who had been there with her, had desperately tried to contact Adam for her while the grave-faced doctor had told Fleur that he was very sorry but there was no heartbeat.

‘I do worry. It’s my fault you split up…’

‘Because you caught them in bed?’ When she had not been able to locate Adam Jane had offered to go to the flat to fetch Fleur’s night things. She had found more than she had expected! ‘Don’t be stupid, Jane. How could it possibly be your fault?’ Fleur protested angrily.

‘They say personal tragedy can make people closer than ever…?’ From her voice Fleur could imagine the look of guilt on Jane’s face. ‘If I’d just—’

Fleur cut her off. ‘If we’d been that close I doubt if you’d have found him in bed with someone else.’

In retrospect it didn’t seem possible that she had missed the signs that Adam was having an affair. Nothing had clicked with her—not his unexplained absences, or the caller who had always rung off when Fleur had picked up the phone. Fleur had been concerned, but only about Adam’s increasing resentment of the restrictions the doctors had placed on her after the threatened miscarriage earlier on in her pregnancy.

‘He started an affair with Paula weeks after we moved into the flat.’ And it is not my fault, she told herself firmly. ‘You and I both know that the split-up was inevitable. If I hadn’t fallen pregnant I think it would have happened sooner,’ she admitted.

Once she had discovered she was having a baby, Fleur had pushed her growing doubts about their relationship to one side. She’d had to make it work, for the baby’s sake. A child needed two parents.

‘I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t, not after what you’d just been through. I was going to wait until you were better, and then he turned up at the hospital with those stupid flowers, all concerned. Ugh! He looked so smug and smarmy and had the nerve to act as though nothing had happened, I just flipped. I couldn’t help myself. It was a red-mist moment.’

‘I’m glad you did flip.’ Of course, gratitude hadn’t been Fleur’s response at the time, but later she had come to appreciate she had actually had a lucky escape.

She would never again let a man do to her what Adam had.

Let one try, Fleur thought, her eyes narrowing as she contemplated what she would do to any man unwise enough to attempt to locate her heart. She was no longer the hopeless romantic; her defences were totally impregnable.

He was gifted, rich, handsome and then some. If pressed to explain the secret of his success, Antonio Rochas explained there was no magic formula—he just didn’t accept less than excellence from himself.

Only the previous week his face had graced the cover of no fewer than three internationally acclaimed financial journals. His reputation alone swung deals.

His reputation cut no ice with one particular female.

Antonio had been a father for a week.

He wasn’t excelling at parenthood!

If his colleagues wondered about the source of uncharacteristic moodiness displayed by their charismatic and normally even-tempered boss during the last week, they had not done so outloud.

Huw Grant, a top-notch criminal lawyer and one of Antonio’s closest friends, was less restrained.

‘You don’t look like a man who has just won…now they have reason to look less than happy,’ Huw observed, watching from the privacy of the penthouse executive office suite as a trio of dark-suited figures far below left the London Rochas building. ‘The poor guys came here thinking they could steal a march on you, Antonio…’

Always a fatal mistake, thought the shorter man, studying the hard lines of his friend’s classically featured lean face. It occurred to him, and not for the first time, that it was infinitely preferable to be this man’s friend than his enemy.

Antonio, who was sitting staring broodingly into the distance, shrugged and brushed away an invisible fleck from his impeccable jacket. ‘They did not do their homework,’ he observed dismissively.

‘But you did…?’

The network of fine lines fanning Antonio’s electric-blue eyes deepened as his long dark lashes lifted from the slashing angle of his high cheekbones. ‘I always do my homework, Huw.’

Just as he had more recently done his homework on Charles Finch.

But then when a man walked into your office and calmly announced you were the biological father of his thirteen-year-old daughter you had a lot of questions that needed answering.

He now had the answers to some of those questions, including the results of a DNA test.

According to the information that had landed on his desk, the only thing Charles Finch and his late wife had had in common was a mutual loathing and the fact they had spent more time in other people’s beds than their own.

Miranda’s reason for staying in the sham marriage had been obvious. As Antonio was only too well aware, she had had expensive tastes and social aspirations to match.

Charles Finch’s reasons had been less immediately obvious. But then why, he mused, did people stay in bad marriages? Marriages that looked perfect on the surface, but underneath had more in common with open warfare than mutual support or love?

Presumably the other man had got something he’d needed from the twisted relationship, though what it was Antonio could not even begin to imagine.

Huw moved from the window and observed, ‘And this time your homework just made you a conservative twenty million. Of course, being as ruthless as hell with no scruples to speak of helps.’

Amusement flickered in Antonio’s blue eyes, eyes made more arresting by the contrasting Mediterranean colouring of his skin. ‘You think I represent the ugly face of capitalism?’

‘Not ugly,’ the other man objected wryly.

Though if Huw’s own wife was to be believed, it wasn’t just his perfect features and lean, athletic body that made women unable to take their eyes—and hands—off Antonio. It was the aura of earthy sensuality that he apparently exuded from every pore.

Not, his wife had hastily assured him, that she was affected by it.

‘But you really should carry a government health warning. I mean, when was the last time someone got the better of you financially speaking? Oh, I know you’re not interested in money for the sake of it,’ he admitted. ‘But you can’t deny that you enjoy winning.’

Antonio’s brows lifted. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

‘Well, you don’t look like you do,’ his friend observed frankly.

‘Let’s just say I have other things on my mind…’ Abruptly Antonio stopped sorting files and sought the other man’s eyes, then shook his head and said, ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Clearly it does,’ Huw said, his curiosity whetted by this uncharacteristic behaviour. ‘You’ve been odd all week.’

Antonio leaned back in his seat and stretched his long, long legs in front of him. He rested his chin on his steepled fingers. ‘You know Finch…?’

‘The law firm Finch? Finch, Abbott and Ingham…Finch?’

Antonio nodded.

‘Cold guy. Got a really classy-looking wife, as I recall.’

‘The classy-looking wife is dead,’ Antonio said. Cancer, her husband had said.

Miranda was dead. Antonio still struggled with the impossible concept.

In his head she was so alive, her image frozen in his memory as she had been the summer he had met and fallen in love with her. He could see her laughing, her head thrown back to reveal her lovely throat. She had laughed a lot, especially when he had announced he loved her and wanted to take care of her.

‘What a sweet boy you are,’ she had said when she had finally realised he was deadly serious. ‘Look, what we had was fun, that’s all. Don’t spoil it by being silly about this.’

When he persisted she was more brutal.

‘Be serious—what would a woman like me want with a penniless waiter? When I get married it won’t be because he’s good in bed, and, darling, you really are. I can get sex anywhere. When I get married it will be to a man who can give me the life I deserve.’

Unable to interpret the edge in his friend’s voice, Huw frowned. ‘Bad luck. I only met him around, as you do. What’s he got to do with anything?’

‘He came to see me last month. It appears that his daughter isn’t…’

‘Isn’t what?’ asked Huw, looking confused.

‘His. She’s mine.’

Chapter Two

ANTONIO almost smiled as Huw’s face fell, increasing his resemblance to a startled spaniel. A resemblance that belied the criminal lawyer’s sharp intellect and had lulled many an adversary into a false sense of security.

‘Yours…?’

Antonio ran a long brown finger down the spine of a book on his desk. ‘It would seem so. I have a daughter who is thirteen and she thinks I’m a monster. She tells anyone who will listen that I’m kidnapping her.’

‘Kidnapping…?’

‘Finch told her he’s fighting a strenuous legal battle to get her back.’

‘Get her back!’ Huw exclaimed. ‘What legal battle? You mean the girl is staying with you? Is that a good idea?’

A nerve in Antonio’s jaw clenched as he observed grimly, ‘There wasn’t much time to consider the options.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘After he broke the news to me Finch explained he had Tamara waiting in the car complete with overnight bag. The rest of her things were delivered the next day. He made it pretty clear to me in private that he wants nothing more to do with her.’

‘Nothing…?’ Huw struggled with the concept.

A nerve clenched along Antonio’s firm jaw. His lashes swept downwards concealing the glow of rage that lit his blue eyes. ‘He never wants to see her again.’

‘What a total bastard!’

Antonio could not disagree with this shocked assessment.

‘A bastard who can act.’ Antonio got to his feet and pushed aside his chair.

His friend watched him walk across to the window and wondered, with a touch of envy, what it would be like to effortlessly dominate any room you were in with mere physical presence.

‘It was quite a performance,’ Antonio admitted, looking out at the cityscape. ‘Finch made a very convincing heartbroken father. The law is apparently on my side—’

‘That’s debatable.’

‘And it seems I woke up one morning and decided to snatch the child, who apparently I rejected as a baby, away from her loving home.’

And Antonio had been forced to stand there and listen, unable to deny the barrage of lies without revealing the man his daughter had called Father for the past thirteen years was discarding her like a worn-out toy.

He was no psychologist, but Antonio couldn’t think this would make any kid, let alone one who had recently lost her mother, feel particularly secure!

‘That’s what the girl thinks? No wonder she’s telling people you’ve kidnapped her! The man’s a—’

‘Suffice it to say that Finch does not have a warm loving personality. I think he must have been one of those children who got their kicks pulling the wings off flies.’

‘Sociopathic tendencies,’ Huw inserted knowledgeably.

‘If you say so.’ Antonio was not really interested in labels. ‘He does like to see people squirm.’

Huw frowned, unable to believe his friend was as calm as he appeared. Just imagining how such a shocking revelation would rock his own comfortable world brought him out in a cold sweat.

‘Antonio, if this guy is out for revenge and he doesn’t care about hurting the girl, isn’t his next port of call going to be the tabloids? I know you don’t give a damn what they write about you, though I still think that if you were more litigious they’d think twice, but—’

‘Now there,’ mocked Antonio, ‘speaks a lawyer. Don’t worry, there will be no story.’

Huw studied his friend’s face with a frown. ‘You’re sure about that?’

Antonio nodded. The smile that lifted the corners of his expressive mouth did not touch his eyes. They were arctic-cold. ‘Absolutely sure. Charles Finch is in no position to throw stones.’

Huw’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned. ‘You’ve got some dirt on him, haven’t you?’ He should have known that Antonio would already have that base covered. The other man did not leave things to chance.

‘Let’s just say that our Mr Finch has sailed a little close to the wind, legally speaking, on several occasions. I have often observed it is often the way with greedy men,’ he remarked contemptuously.

‘And he—Finch—knows you know about these indiscretions?’ Huw suggested.

‘I might have mentioned it,’ he admitted casually.

Huw gave a sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s something. Antonio, I hope you’re not taking this guy’s word…just because you knew his wife…?’ Huw touched on the subject cautiously. Antonio was notoriously tightlipped when it came to his personal life.

Sometimes he thought that was why the tabloids’ pursuit of the wealthy Spaniard was so relentless. They simply couldn’t deal with his total and, as far as Huw could tell, genuine indifference to them.

‘It was before she was his wife.’ Antonio, his expression unreadable, dextrously twirled a pen between his long fingers. ‘Apparently she kept a diary for years, a detailed diary, which is how Finch came to discover Tamara wasn’t his.’

‘Being in a diary doesn’t make something the truth. I kept a diary when I was a kid, it was a work of total fiction. And if you were going to invent a fictional father for your kid the rich and powerful Antonio Rochas would be a pretty good choice, don’t you think?’

‘This was nearly fourteen years ago. The rich and powerful Antonio Rochas did not exist. I was a college student pleasing my father by learning the business from the bottom up. I was working as a waiter in one of our hotels.’

‘She didn’t know you were the boss’s son?’

‘Nobody but the manager knew who I was. Besides, I just knew the moment I saw the girl that she was mine.’

Huw was appalled by the harsh admission. ‘God, you can’t rely on gut instincts, Antonio!’

‘Don’t worry, this isn’t a total leap of faith. Finch was considerate enough to supply Tamara’s DNA. I had the required tests done.’

‘So there’s no doubt…?’

Antonio shook his head.

‘Hell I don’t know what I’d do if it happened to me. What are you going to do?’

‘Go back to the Grange.’

‘She’s there?’

Antonio nodded. ‘It seemed less traumatic than dragging her back to Spain with me.’ The home where his English mother had been brought up and where he had spent happy vacations as a child had passed to him on his grandfather’s death. Going there had seemed a good alternative to returning home.

‘Your mother’s there?’

‘My mother is on her world cruise,’ Antonio reminded him. ‘She offered to come home, but I thought it might be better if we had some time alone.’ That had been eight days ago. If asked again today, Antonio was not sure his response to the maternal offer would be the same!

‘Is there anything I can do…?’ Huw tried not to look too obviously relieved when Antonio assured him there wasn’t.

The door slammed. Antonio was beginning to suspect that his immediate future held a lot of door slamming.

There had to be a solution to this problem, he told himself. Experience had taught him there was always a solution.

He just didn’t know what it was yet.

‘You don’t want me any more than I want you,’ his new daughter had yelled before her dramatic exit from the room. ‘You wish I don’t even exist! Do you wish I hadn’t been born? Stupid question—of course you do. You’re not even English. And,’ she added, glaring up into his lean dark face, ‘it’s your fault I’m so horribly tall! I got your genes!’

‘I am your father.’

The gentle reminder precipitated her flight.

Hand on the door handle, she turned back, tears sparkling in her eyes.

‘Biological father!’ she sneered, making it sound like the worst insult in the world. ‘And why are your eyes so blue? They’re spooky…like a wolf or something with those dark rings around the iris. This place isn’t my home and if anyone here calls me Miss Rochas again I’ll scream. My name is Finch. I can’t even pronounce Rochas. I hate it and I hate you! I wish you were dead!’

At intervals he heard the slamming of several more doors.

Well, that went well.

As he looked out through the full-length Georgian windows to the green sweep of manicured lawn beyond, Tamara, her hair flying out behind her, was running as though the devil himself were on her heels.

Antonio knew that this role had been assigned to him in her eyes.

It would be dark in another hour and, though the evening was one of his favourite times to walk the woods, he was pretty sure a town-bred girl would not enjoy the experience.

On his way out, he shrugged on a jacket and shoved a torch in his pocket.

He was in luck—well, it had to happen some time—the gardener had seen her heading in the direction of the west wood. By the time he had vaulted over a stile and entered the wood the shadows were deepening and so was his concern.

Alternately calling her name and pausing to listen, he made his way deeper until finally his efforts were rewarded by suspicious rustling sounds a few hundred yards to his right, where he knew there was a clearing.

‘Tamara! This is pointless. It is—’ Before he had time to complete his appeal a dog, possibly the most unattractive animal he had ever seen in his life, shot out of the undergrowth blocking his path. It bared its teeth and emitted a ferocious growl.

Antonio regarded the animal with irritation rather than fear. It was small, and animals liked him—they always had.

‘Clear off!’ he said, using a firm, calm tone.

Animals responded well to a firm, calm tone.

Nobody had told this dog about the firm, calm tone. It carried on growling, if anything more ferociously. Ignoring the warning signs, Antonio went to move past him, at which point the animal went for his ankle. He looked down in total astonishment at it, then rolled his eyes and cursed.

Could this day get any worse?

He soon discovered that it could.

Chapter Three

‘HERE boy…Sandy…?’ Fleur rattled the lead in her hand hopefully. Actually she didn’t feel very hopeful—the light was fading fast and her hopes of finding the dog any time soon along with it.

She muttered, ‘Damn,’ under her breath as her jeans snagged on a bramble. A worried frown creasing the smoothness of her brow, she carefully detached her arm from the barbs of yet another aggressive bramble and rubbed the blood welling from the long scratches on her forearm. Finally abandoning her cajoling tone, she yelled.

‘You stupid animal, where are you?’ She had definitely had better birthdays.

One last yell and she was going home…she really was. Fleur didn’t even convince herself.

Her shoulders sagged in relief when her exasperated screech was rewarded with the sound of an indistinct but definite bark. The excited canine cry seemed to come from the wooded area on a rise to her left. Stumbling a little on the uneven ground, she set off in its direction hoping that Sandy stayed put.

She turned a blind eye to another Keep Out Private Property sign—she had passed several—and entered the wooded area. Once inside she realised it was a lot denser than it had looked. Very little light managed to pierce the leafy canopy overhead and there was a lot of leafy rustling Fleur didn’t like going on.

She hesitated for a moment, suddenly wondering whether if left to himself Sandy might not find his own way home, when an outbreak of agitated barking made her mutter, ‘Wimp,’ under her breath and, with her firmly rounded chin set, plunged into the woods proper.

About fifty yards inside the dense growth began to thin. At the same time she became aware of the human voice the dog’s barking had until now masked. A male human voice. A loud, angry male voice.

Oh, my God, that’s all I need.

Breathless, she burst noisily into the clearing. The figure with his back to her was dressed in jeans and a dark jacket. He was very tall, broad of shoulder and long of leg with a lean, athletic build. On his feet he wore mud-splashed leather boots; the toe of one was very close to poor Sandy.

Fleur, her protective instincts on full alert, planted her hands on her hips and said in a loud, clear voice, ‘Get away from that dog this instant!’

‘Me get away from him?’ Despite the irritation he was feeling, Antonio’s lips spasmed into an ironic grin as his gaze slewed from the snarling dog to the young woman who had flung the stern command.

As he turned his head towards her the breath caught sharply in Fleur’s throat.

Oh, my good gosh! Generic his clothing might be, but there was nothing standard about that face. No wonder the paparazzi loved it. Her first thought when the shock of recognition wore off was—Jane will be pleased I found a man.

The corners of her mouth twitched into a rueful half smile. This wasn’t the sort of man Jane had had in mind, because, above all things, her best friend was a realist with an understandable—given her history—prejudice against Mediterranean males.

And men like this were extremely thin on the ground, even if you went looking for them.

Not that Fleur was looking. She didn’t want a man. She blinked, felt the heat bloom in her face as his piercing, astonishingly blue gaze zeroed in on her face and thought, Especially not this man!

Not that she was going to find herself in the position of breaking the news to him that he didn’t meet her requirements. Men like this were only ever seen with perfectly groomed trophy girlfriends. And she was no trophy! No trophy for a shallow, superficial billionaire playboy perhaps, but Fleur did like to think that she was the epitome of an in-control sort of person these days.

So what were the sweaty palms and pounding pulse about? As if you don’t know, said the scornful voice in her head. She was mortified to feel desire clutch low in her belly as, staying a stumble away from rising panic, she forced herself to exhale the breath trapped in her throat.

If she’d known when she had woken that morning that she would meet someone who would reduce her to a mass of raging hormones she’d have stayed in bed!

I am such a coward, she decided in disgust.

In her own defence, Fleur had to admit she wasn’t dealing with anything as simple as a pretty face here. She was dealing with a bucketful of raw sex appeal, and that sex appeal happened to belong to six feet five inches of lean male radiating undiluted testosterone from every gorgeous pore.

My God, he really was spectacular: golden skin, electric-blue deep set eyes, magnificent cheekbones you could cut yourself on and a mouth that was…Fleur licked her lips nervously as her reluctant but fascinated stare lingered on the mobile curve…wow! Even compressed into a line of impatient disapproval, his lips were indecently sensuous.

Everyone in the village had a story about him. How delightful he’d been as a young man. How since he’d inherited the manor from his grandfather he didn’t stand on ceremony but just mucked in like everyone else.

Fleur had listened politely, and thought, Sure, that’s really likely. The person they described bore little resemblance to the reputedly charismatic and ruthless entrepreneur who got almost as many column inches in the gossip pages as he did in the business pages.

And, anyhow, if he was so involved, how come she’d been living here for almost twelve months and she’d never set eyes on this beloved member of the community?

Until now.

‘This…animal belongs to you…?’

If, while they were singing his praises, someone had touched on the subject of his extraordinary eyes and mentioned the fact that they were so blue that looking into them made a person light-headed, Fleur might have avoided the humiliating experience of being temporarily struck dumb.

Unlike the animal, Antonio noticed that its owner was not unattractive. Young, she looked barely out of her teens, long dark blond hair shaggily cut—not, he suspected, by an expert hand—surrounded an oval face. Her face was in shadow, but he could see that her mouth was soft and her eyes exotically slanted beneath the delicate curve of darkish brows.

She was dressed in jeans and what appeared to be several layers of clothing. The layers made him wonder about what was underneath. As he stared she lifted a hand to brush aside a thick strand of hair from her eyes, the knitted thing she wore hung open and the action pulled her shirt tight against the curve of her breasts. The unexpected lick of lust that travelled through his body reminded Antonio that it had been over two months since he had come out of a relationship.

‘Yes, he is.’ Fleur was relieved that, in contrast to the shameful sexual heat that made her skin prickle, her voice, when she regained the power of speech, was cool and composed. ‘Come here, Sandy,’ she said, clicking her fingers. ‘Good boy,’ she added coaxingly.

The dog looked at her, wagged his tail on the ground, and then went back to acting like some sort of savage beast interspersing his malevolent growls with the occasional loud, excited yap.

‘Good boy…?’ Antonio rolled his eyes skyward and wondered irritably, ‘Why do people have animals they cannot control?’

One thing was certain—when he was back in a relationship again it wouldn’t be with anyone who bore any resemblance to this petite blonde. No, not his type at all, and as for that wide-eyed innocent quality—did grown men really fall for that?

Fleur’s chin went up. ‘Was that question directed at me?’ she asked him frostily.

‘He is your animal, I take it?’

‘Don’t raise your voice—you’ll only scare him more.’

His dark brows lifted at the sharp note of censure in her voice. Actually, it was quite an attractive voice, even when its owner was being shrewish—soft, rather deep and with an unusual sexy huskiness. It wasn’t a voice that belonged to a teenager, and neither did her manner, so possibly he had misjudged her age, but then it was a long time since he had seen a woman without make-up. It probably didn’t hurt that she had been blessed with flawless skin and naturally dark lashes. He caught himself wondering if her hair colour was real.

You’re not going to find out, Antonio, he reminded himself.

‘He does not look very scared to me,’ he observed in a sardonic drawl.

Fleur, who had crouched down to entice Sandy back, slung him a tight-lipped look through the spiky fringe of dark lashes. His lashes, she noticed, were not straight but jet-black, thick and curled and ridiculously long. She found herself wondering resentfully why long lashes in a male face were so utterly irresistible?

‘You obviously know nothing about animals.’

Did she know that he had a direct view of her cleavage? That he could see the lacy edging on her bra?

‘And you obviously cannot read,’ he snapped, thinking irritably that all work might well make for a dull boy, but in his case it made for an easily distracted one. The time he was spending looking down this woman’s blouse was time that would be better spent looking for his errant daughter.

She lifted her head and he saw for the first time that her eyes were amber. He saw her realise where he was staring and flush to the roots of her hair. He hadn’t been around a woman who blushed that way in a long time, if ever.

‘You do know you’re trespassing, I suppose?’

‘Maybe your dogs can read…’ Her eyes flashed angrily as she fastened another button on her shirt and gave an angry sniff.

‘My dogs can respond to a command.’ Pity the same couldn’t be said for his libido, which, in the space of thirty seconds, had spiralled out of control.

Does that go for his women too? she wondered scornfully. He looked the type, she decided, studying his arrogant profile with a contemptuous little smile.

‘Why on earth did you let him off his lead?’

Good question, and one she had been asking herself ever since he had taken off after a rabbit.

Fleur got to her feet, rubbing a weary hand across her face. ‘Look, let’s start again, shall we?’

‘Again? You enjoyed it that much, querida?’

She was already scowling in response to his mocking tone; when he threw in the casual endearment her expression did a freeze-frame on tight-lipped disapproval. She could feel something unraveling—she just hoped it was her temper!

‘I am sorry about the trespassing. It wasn’t intentional and it won’t happen again.’

‘We’ve had a lot of trouble with poachers.’

Fleur looked at him in exasperation. ‘Do I look like a poacher?’ she demanded, stabbing her chest with a finger.

She actually looked soft, warm.

‘I try not to stereotype; poachers come in all shapes and sizes.’ So, he realised, did temptation, but then variety added a little spice to life.

Antonio was not into indiscriminate sex and he hadn’t been in a position where he was forced to fight against an urge to kiss a total stranger for some time. Especially as her fleabitten excuse for a dog had decided yet again to grab his jeans by the teeth. His resentment at finding himself in this position directed itself at the cause of his discomfort.

‘I suppose you think that’s funny? Well, I…’ she stopped mid-rant and forced herself to smile. ‘If you’d just hand Sandy back we’ll be off your land…’

And not a moment too soon. With all that in-your-face, rampant maleness, he really was not a comfortable man to be around. For some women she could see how that could become a real problem, but fortunately one thing she had never had a problem with was her sexual appetite. Romance was her weakness, and she had realised a long time ago that she wasn’t particularly highly sexed. And she obviously didn’t give off the sort of vibes that sent men wild with lust.

‘Nothing would give me more pleasure,’ he revealed truthfully. He looked at the hand extended to him, it was small, the nails unvarnished and cut short. From nowhere the idea of lifting it to his lips planted itself in his head. ‘But I don’t have any particular wish to lose any part of my anatomy.’

Actually it was his sanity that Antonio was more concerned about at that moment. Every time he looked at this woman’s mouth he felt his much-vaunted self-control slip another notch.

Reminding himself that she wasn’t his type worked about as well as it had the first time.

‘So I’ll let you remove…’ The tremor that rippled through her body as he took her hand in his was visible.

Antonio stopped speaking and watched her eyes slowly lift to his. There was a shocked trance-like quality to her stare. Then as the colour ran up under her fair skin she made a tiny choking sound in her throat and snatched her hand away. She held it tight against her heaving bosom while her wide eyes stayed on his face.

He was accustomed to women looking at him, but not as though he were the embodiment of their nightmares

Fleur took a deep breath and lowered her eyes. She was utterly mortified. It would have been nice to believe that he hadn’t picked up on the fact she had been virtually nailed to the spot by lustful longing. It would have been even nicer to pretend it hadn’t happened at all!

Nicer, but difficult when the heat his touch had ignited still lay curled deep down in the pit of her stomach just waiting for the least excuse to burst into embarrassing flames.

Dear God, I only just stopped short of drooling! She was shaken from her reverie of self-loathing by his grunt of pain.

Antonio had momentarily forgotten about the dog, but the dog had not forgotten about him.

In reflex to the pain that shot up his leg as canine teeth broke skin Antonio straightened his knee. The jerky motion caused the dog to lose his grip. If the animal’s attack had been intended to protect its mistress’s virtue it had worked. The compelling urge to mesh his fingers in the blonde’s hair, pull her face up to his and kiss her senseless had passed.

Fleur let out a cry of shocked outrage as the dog picked himself up from the ground.

‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, you pathetic bully?’ she cried, rushing to the cringing animal. ‘You’re such a big man, aren’t you?’ she sneered.

Antonio Rochas, his dark head tilted to one side, appeared to be listening, but not to her. To add insult to injury he raised an impatient hand and snapped tersely, ‘Silence!’

Fleur’s jaw dropped. Unbelievable!

She had come to the conclusion he was going to ignore her totally when his gaze narrowed, which had been focused on some point beyond her, suddenly zeroed in on her face.

His long jet lashes touched the crest of his cheekbones as his glance dropped, making Fleur belatedly aware of the gaping neckline of her shirt. The blatant sexual insolence sent a shard of anger through her and something that felt like a mild electric shock.

‘Who did you have in mind for me to pick on?’ His expressive lips quirked as his glance slid over her outraged figure. ‘You…?’

He had never seen the attraction of women with attitude. But then he had never considered fighting foreplay—not until now, at least.

Fleur watched his lips curl into a patronising smile and gritted her teeth. She had never come across anyone whose body language screamed male arrogance this loudly.

‘You shouldn’t judge by appearances,’ she advised darkly. ‘Couldn’t you see he was afraid?’

‘Afraid…?’ he echoed, looking at her as though she were off her head.

Straightening up with the animal in her arms, she nodded. ‘Yes, afraid.’ Clasping the warm, trembling body against her chest, with her free hand she brushed her hair from her face. Adam had liked it cut in a short neat bob.

She hadn’t had it cut since they had split up.

Antonio arched a dark brow and reminded himself that he wasn’t here to look at anyone’s freshly exposed neck, even if it was just asking to be tasted. He was here to find his wayward daughter.

‘I was the one being savaged by a vicious animal.’

‘Savaged?’ she echoed contemptuously.

‘I doubt the authorities would share your attitude.’

The angry scorn on Fleur’s face faded; she looked at him in horror. Under his ironic gaze a slow flush of colour rose up her neck until her face was bathed in heat. ‘You can’t report him,’ she said in a small voice.

But he could. And he would, she thought, hating him.

‘I think I would be failing in my duty not to. It might be a child the animal attacks next time.’ He watched the colour seep from her face and felt like a total bastard for baiting her.

Fleur shook her head. ‘No, he wouldn’t do that; he loves children. It’s only men he doesn’t like.’

From the way she was looking at him Antonio assumed that this was a trait shared by his owner.

‘He’s a rescue dog. When they found him he was in a terrible state. I don’t even like to think about what his owner did to make him so afraid of men. He’s really a very placid animal normally. If you want to blame anyone blame me—it’s my fault for letting him off the lead.’

A scream like broken glass cut across Fleur’s faltering explanation. Then another and another. The sound of terror lifted the hairs on the nape of her neck.

For a moment she froze. Her companion did not; he hit the ground running. Running with a fluid animal grace and athletic co-ordination that Fleur might have admired on a more appropriate occasion.

With the sound of those screams still ringing in her ears, Fleur didn’t think about not following him. Pausing only to attach the lead to Sandy, she plunged after him, weaving her way with far less grace than he had between the trees. My God, she thought, panting as she ran towards where the screams had come from—worryingly they had stopped—for a big man he could certainly move.

She reached the reed-fringed pond just in time to see him dive in fully clothed. His entry caused a few geese to rise squawking into the air. Eyes wide and scared, Fleur watched as he cut through the grey water with smooth, powerful strokes. It wasn’t until he reached the small upturned boat that she registered its presence.

My God, she thought in horror, someone is down there.

Antonio trod water and scanned the surface. He called out, ‘Tamara!’ twice, then, taking a lungful of air, dived beneath the surface. At the spot the boat had overturned the pond was deep and it was hard to see anything in the murky, weed-choked depths.

The first two dives he came up empty-handed. Antonio closed his eyes and prepared to go down again. The lines of his face were set in a mask of steely determination. A calm settled over him, he knew that this time failure was simply not an option.

As the dark head vanished once more beneath the water Fleur, standing on the shore, pressed a hand to her mouth to muffle the moan of fear that escaped the confines of her dry throat.

He was fully dressed and his clothes had to weigh a ton. My God, she thought he’s going to drown. I’m watching a man drown. I’m one of those awful people who stand by and do nothing!

‘The stupid, stupid man!’ At her feet the dog whined. Come up…come up…she mouthed silently as she stared at the still surface of the pond willing him to appear.

But he didn’t.

Fleur jumped up and down in silent agitation. Nobody could hold their breath for that long. Damn it, she couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. Slipping off her cardigan and shoes, she waded into the cold water. She was thigh-deep when his dark head broke the surface.

The ferocious tension slid from Fleur’s body as her head fell back…Thank God!

Chapter Four

THERE was a raging fire where his lungs were meant to be. Antonio almost welcomed the pain that reminded him he was alive. For a moment there he had really thought that he was going to black out before he reached the surface.

It had only been the knowledge that if he didn’t make it neither did Tamara that had enabled him to hold the blackness back.

He gasped greedily for air to replenish his oxygen-deprived lungs while simultaneously treading water and blinking the water from his eyes. His hand shook as he touched Tamara’s cold face. Her eyelashes lay like dark curtains against the waxy grey pallor of her smooth young cheeks.

Praying harder than he had ever done in his life, he tilted her head back and breathed into her mouth…once, twice, and then again, pausing each time to feel for a pulse. His efforts were rewarded with a soft flutter under his fingers.

Rolling onto his back and supporting Tamara’s body with his own, he cupped her chin, drawing her face clear of the water and, digging deep into his reserves, he kicked for shore. He had gone maybe twenty feet when he became aware of someone beside him. It was the young woman minus her dog.

‘Is she breathing?’

He nodded. With her mane of hair floating in the water around her face she reminded him of an anxious mermaid. Didn’t mermaids lure a man to his doom? This one seemed to be trying to help.

She swam up beside him. ‘Let me…?’

Not wasting his breath on a reply, Antonio allowed her to support part of Tamara’s weight. Together they swam towards the shallows towing the girl between them.

As they reached the muddy bank Antonio hefted Tamara’s limp body into his arms. His eyes left his daughter’s face for a second in order to say, breathlessly but imperatively, ‘An ambulance.’

Following him, Fleur panted. ‘I already called before…’

‘Before you jumped in the lake.’

She was conscious of a tiny glow of pleasure as he flashed her a look of warm approval. Later on she was going to have to remind herself that she shouldn’t want his approval, but right now there were more important things to think about.

Choosing a clear patch of grass Antonio laid down his burden.

‘Tamara, can you hear me?’

In response the girl rolled onto her side and retched over and over until her stomach was empty. Antonio watched, feeling totally helpless as she then began to cry.

‘I expect that was a good thing,’ Fleur, her teeth chattering, observed as she retrieved the cardigan she’d pulled off before she’d gone into the water.

She dropped down onto her knees beside Antonio and, easing the shaking girl’s head onto her lap, tucked the dry cardigan tight around her trembling body. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing.

‘You’ll be fine,’ she said, hoping it was the truth. Actually the girl looked pretty awful, but the scary blue tinge around her lips had lessened.

‘Tamara,’ the tall Spaniard supplied huskily. ‘My daughter.’

‘That’s a nice name,’ Fleur said, rubbing the girl’s cold hands in between her own. Either he was a lot older than he looked or he had started a family when he was very young. She had never heard a wife mentioned so she assumed that this girl was a child from a previous relationship.

He shook his head, sending silver water droplets spraying everywhere. ‘And I am Antonio Rochas…’ He ran a hand over his wet face and managed to look more vital than any man who had just had a near-death experience had a right to.

Did he really think she didn’t know who he was?

‘Fleur Stewart.’

She looked at him through the mesh of her wet lashes. Like hers his body was shaken by intermittent tremors, which became more obvious as he shrugged his way out of his drenched jacket.

His shirt and jeans clung like a second skin to his chest and belly, delineating his superb physique. If he had been carrying even an ounce of surplus flesh on his long, lean frame it would have shown, but it didn’t and he wasn’t. He was grey-hound-lean six feet five of hard male muscle. A flash of heat washed over the surface of her chilled body.

Dragging her eyes clear of the spectacle of male beauty, Fleur turned back to the distressed girl, appalled and deeply ashamed that she could notice something like lean, muscle-packed contours at a moment like this, let alone react to it. The dog beside her whined and as she absently patted him. Fleur experienced a flash of inspiration.

‘Come here, Sandy,’ she encouraged, holding out her hand.

‘What are you doing?’

‘That’s it, good boy,’ she crooned approvingly to the dog as he curled up beside the girl. ‘Sandy’s warm and she’s cold. I’d offer her my body heat but I don’t think I have any.’

‘Good dog,’ he said.

‘Be careful!’ Fleur stopped as to her amazement her man-hating pet licked the male fingers that tickled his ears. ‘Fickle animal.’

The complaint made his lips twitch, but a moment later his forehead was creased with worry as he looked down at Tamara. ‘Perhaps I should take her back to the house. When you rang you told the emergency services our location…?’

‘Yes, of course.’

His eyes narrowed as he visualised the route they would take. ‘They’ll come along the track from the house,’ he predicted, looking with a frown around the tree-fringed clearing. ‘We should get out of here and meet them there.’

Fleur nodded. ‘That makes sense,’ she admitted. The change in his manner now that he had a purpose was noticeable.

It was obvious to Fleur that Antonio Rochas was not the type of person who enjoyed sitting back waiting for things to happen. He was the sort of man who made things happen and relished being in charge of a situation…definitely not a relaxing person to be around.

But then maybe not relaxing worked. She had never read a financial page in her life and even Fleur knew that people who knew about such things spoke his name with awe and envy.

The Rochas family name had already been synonymous with the international hotel group of the same name, but after this man had taken over the firm after his father’s death it had broadened its scope, acquiring amongst other things an airline and a newspaper.

All were now incredibly successful.

‘I don’t want…’ the girl began fretfully as her father scooped her up into his arms.

‘Right now I don’t much care what you want, Tamara. Madre mía, what were you doing going out in that boat anyway when you can’t swim?’

‘I c…can swim. I lost the oar and I was trying to reach it when I fell in. There were reeds and stuff in the bottom—my leg got stuck.’

‘She’s upset; there’s no need to be so brutal,’ Fleur admonished. ‘After an experience like that—’

‘After an experience like that,’ he cut in grimly. ‘it’s to be hoped she has learnt her lesson. But based on past experience I don’t think I’ll hold my breath.’

‘You poor thing…it’s all right now,’ Fleur soothed as the girl started weeping. Noticing for the first time the lines of strain bracketing her father’s overtly sensual mouth, Fleur realised that the girl wasn’t the only one who had had a bad experience.

It didn’t take long for them to exit the wooded area. The only problem with being in the open was that it was more exposed to the elements. The wind was light but it cut through Fleur’s wet clothes with the viciousness of a sharp blade.

The minutes ticked by and Antonio began to pace up and down pausing intermittently in order to stare impatiently up the track. He reminded Fleur irresistibly of a sleek caged jungle cat, so graceful to watch that it almost hurt.

‘Where are they…?’ He angled an accusing glare at Fleur.

‘Don’t worry, they’ll be here soon,’ she soothed, tolerant of being spoken to as if it were her fault only because she recognised his aggression for what it was. He was worried sick about his daughter.

‘Don’t worry!’ he echoed. ‘This is my daughter lying here! Do you have any idea—’ He broke off and, jamming both hands into his saturated hair, let his head fall forward.

Fleur listened to the harsh sound of his laboured breathing and her throat ached with sympathy.

Frowning, Antonio lifted his head and scanned her face. The indentation above his masterful nose deepened. ‘Do you have a child?’

The unexpected question made Fleur stiffen. She made a mental note that his perception was uncomfortably acute and shook her head. ‘No, I don’t.’

Before Antonio had an opportunity to wonder about the stricken expression he had glimpsed in her wide-spaced eyes he heard the sound of an engine. Relief swept over him. A moment later the ambulance came into view.

‘I’m c-cold.’

Fleur, who could readily identify with the girl’s complaint, watched as her father dropped gracefully down on his knees beside her. ‘Don’t worry,’ he soothed, taking her hands between his. ‘The ambulance is here. You’ll be fine now.’ He laid a hand on her shoulder and felt her flinch.

The ambulance team were smooth and efficient. Fleur stood back to let them get on with their job. Antonio joined her, his expression grave as he watched the men strap his daughter to a stretcher.

After they had loaded their patient the paramedic stood to one side to let Antonio enter the ambulance.

‘No! I don’t want him in here.’ The youthful voice rose as she added in obvious agitation, ‘Make him go away! I won’t have him near me. He’s not my father.’

‘I am her father.’

Nobody argued with him.

‘No, he’s kidnapped me! I want to go home, I want my real dad!’

A tense silence followed this startling and vitriolic outburst.

Fleur watched the medic direct a cautious look at Antonio, who stood there looking as flexible as a rock face. The man then exchanged a look with his partner. A look that seemed to say, If he wants to get in, there’s not a lot we can do to stop him.

He cleared his throat and offered a tactful smile. ‘It might be better not to…she’s—’ he began.

‘I understand,’ Antonio cut in. ‘I will follow.’ His expression was blank as he stepped away from the door.

The other man looked relieved.

Antonio’s expression remained inscrutable as they closed the doors and drew away, lights flashing, but Fleur was assuming that he’d had better days.

Drawing the blanket the ambulance driver had given her when she had promised him she didn’t need medical attention around her shoulders, Fleur shivered.

Her tall companion, who continued to stared fixedly into the distance, remained oblivious to the fact she was one step away from hypothermia. She had a strong suspicion he had forgotten she was there. Which, given what had just passed, was hardly surprising.

She told herself it was none of her business. But of course she was curious—who wouldn’t be…?

Finally she couldn’t keep quiet any longer. She was losing feeling in her fingers. She cleared her throat. ‘That was quite a rescue.’

At the sound of her voice he spun around.

For a brief moment his expression was unveiled. The awful bleakness she glimpsed in his eyes was so shocking that Fleur actually found herself feeling sorry for him, which, considering the fact just looking at him made her skin crawl with antipathy—and other things, but she didn’t want to go there—was nothing short of amazing.

‘If you lose all your money you’d make a very good life-guard.’

His incredible electric-blue eyes narrowed. ‘You’re still here,’ he said flatly.

It was always good, she thought wryly, to make an impression.

‘Where did you think I’d gone?’ The spasmodic clenching of the muscles along his strong jaw line was the only clue that he wasn’t quite as together as he looked. He really did have an incredible face, she thought with an inward sigh of appreciation as she admired bone structure that was simply sublime.

‘I suppose it’s difficult being a part-time father.’

‘I am not a part-time father.’

No but you are a total pain. Still, he was having a bad day. ‘When I was a kid, and I was mad with my parents, I used to fantasise that I was adopted.’

He turned his head; his blue eyes were flat and unfriendly as they fixed on her. ‘Is that meant to offer me comfort?’ The sardonic contempt in his cold smile made her feel totally stupid for caring.

She was totally stupid for caring.

‘Don’t worry, it won’t happen again,’ she promised grimly. ‘It’s none of my business that your daughter hates you.’

Perhaps he should smile at the girl more, Fleur thought, recalling that fleeting moment when she had been on the receiving end of his approval. A smile like that was a definite unfair advantage, a weapon. Which begged the question: why didn’t he use it instead of resorting to caustic comments and dark scowls?

‘I do not like people who interfere in my affairs.’

‘Then I’ll just have to learn to live without your love…a blow,’ she admitted, determined to establish herself as hard and uncaring. ‘But those, as they say, are the breaks.’

He ignored her sarcasm and studied her face for a moment. Then to her surprise some of the hauteur died from his expression. ‘Just keep out of my head, little girl.’

‘Believe me, it’s one of the last places I would want to go.’

One side of his mouth quirked into an almost-smile. ‘You look cold.’

And you look almost human. ‘I thought you’d never notice.’ Fleur clenched her chattering teeth and wished she shared his indifference to the cold. ‘The blue tinge is the clue.’ Just how cold did you have to get before hypothermia set in?

‘I must get to the hospital to be with Tamara.’ He slid her an assessing look. ‘If you can keep up with me someone will get you dry things and give you a ride home. Or if you prefer I will have the Range Rover sent back for you.’

‘I can keep up. And so can he,’ she said, nodding to the dog who sat curled up at his feet.

Antonio looked openly sceptical of her claim. ‘Well, if you can’t don’t expect me to wait for you,’ he warned.

Fleur smiled as though a hike in wet clothes was just the sort of challenge she enjoyed on her birthday. ‘And I won’t wait for you,’ she promised.

She soon discovered that he had really meant it when he had said he wasn’t making any concessions. Fleur had to quite literally jog to keep up with him. Five minutes later when the lights of the Grange came into view she was panting.

As the house was hidden from the public road down a mile-long private drive this was the first time she had seen it. It was not what she had expected.

‘I thought it would be older.’ The sprawling building she was looking at was large and impressive, but it didn’t seem especially ancient.

‘The original house dated back to the fifteenth century; it burnt down at the turn of the century. All that’s left of the old house are the cellars. The present house was commissioned by my mother’s grandfather,’ Antonio explained as he waited with obvious impatience for her to negotiate a rocky outcrop.

Fleur fell behind as he covered the last hundred metres and by the time she walked through the impressive front door Antonio was already running up the curved staircase that dominated the entrance hall.

It was all a bit of a blur. There were lights everywhere, he was yelling in two languages and people were scurrying.

A middle-aged woman urged Fleur towards the sweeping staircase and said with a smile, ‘I’ll be right with you.’

A very short time later Fleur was still standing there in the echoey yet thankfully warm hallway when Antonio reappeared, rubbing his wet sable hair with a towel. He had obviously dressed in a hurry—the leather belt of his jeans was unfastened and his shirt hung open.

She swallowed, her eyes drawn irresistibly to the exposed golden flesh. Averting her eyes quickly—but not quickly enough to prevent her stomach muscles from going crazy—she cleared her throat.

He noticed her, frowned, and then looked annoyed. ‘Why has no one attended to you?’

‘I expect they were busy.’ Busy responding to the steady stream of instructions he had issued as he had athletically bounded up the stairs.

‘Busy…?’ he repeated with a displeased frown. ‘This is totally unacceptable…’ He looked around the deserted hallway and raised his voice.

‘Mrs Saunders!’

Great projection. Great voice too, if you like husky velvet with that sexy foreign inflection and, let’s face it, who wouldn’t? Her restless gaze returned of its own volition to his taut belly ridged by muscle and textured with a light sprinkling of dark hair. She swallowed as a lustful lick of heat warmed the centre of her chilled body—actually great everything!

‘Mrs Saunders!’

‘My God, I’m glad I don’t work for you.’ Especially if he made a habit of walking around semi-clothed, she thought, studying the painting above his head.

He turned his head and gave a sardonic smile. ‘On this subject we are in total agreement.’

‘Look, you go,’ she encouraged. Or at least put on some more clothes. ‘There’s absolutely no point hanging around. All I need is a dry set of clothes and my dog back, if that is possible,’ she added, directing a wry glance towards the animal at his feet. ‘Traitor,’ she inserted reproachfully as she shook her head.

She was going to have to have a quiet word with that faithless hound and explain the facts of life to him. Antonio Rochas wouldn’t look twice at a dog without a pedigree any more than he would look twice at a woman who lacked catwalk good looks. For people like him appearances were everything. The sudden realisation that she was displaying the exact characteristics she was condemning him for drew a husky laugh from her throat.

Covering her mouth with her hand, she looked up and found he was watching her.

‘It’s nothing,’ she provided. ‘I was just thinking…’

‘Happy thoughts, it would seem.’

‘Not exactly. Look, why don’t you just get along to the hospital? I’ll be fine. I hope your daughter makes a full recovery.’ Hopefully her nervous system would do the same once he was safely out of the way.

Antonio inclined his head in response and was actually turning away when he froze. Inexplicably he appeared to be studying the floor.

Under his tan he had gone pale.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, looking at her incredulously. ‘You’re standing in a pool of blood.’

Chapter Five

‘NOT a pool,’ Fleur protested the exaggeration. ‘And it’s mostly water,’ she promised with a rueful glance downwards. ‘The carpet should come clean; professional cleaners can work miracles these days.’

‘The carpet! Why would I care about the carpet?’

‘Well, I’m no expert,’ she admitted, using both hands to lift the heavy weight of her wet hair from her neck as she studied the weave beneath her feet. ‘But it looks like an Aubusson to me and…’

Antonio ground his teeth and laid his hands on her shoulders. Through the wet fabric of her shirt he was aware of the shape of her bones and the shocking chill of her skin.

‘If you say another word I will strangle you.’ Kissing her, inserting his tongue between her soft lips and sampling the sweet softness within would be an equally efficient method of silencing her. But, he suspected, much more dangerous.

A man could start kissing that mouth and find himself unable to stop. A man whose daughter lay in a hospital bed should not even be thinking such thoughts.

Fleur found that his unblinking blue stare had a strangely hypnotic quality. He sounded as if he meant the strangling part. A sensible person should at this point feel scared, or angry, or both. Instead she was thinking about his eyes and the way he smelt of warm, clean male.

Maybe I hit my head as well as my leg…? It would be an explanation for the strange thoughts that kept popping unbidden into her head.

Satisfied he had her attention, Antonio continued, the rasp in his deep voice external evidence of his inner struggle not to lose it big time.

‘You are injured.’ Not to mention unhinged. He looked at the lush softness of her mouth and thought, Which makes two of us.

‘Just a little scratch.’ I hope. ‘You know a little bit of blood can look like a lot, especially when it’s mixed with half a gallon of water. It really isn’t a big thing.’

His fingers tightened on the skin that covered her delicate collar-bones. ‘You knew!’

Fleur winced and he lifted his hands, holding them palm upright towards her. ‘Sorry, did I hurt you?’ His glance drifted down her body. There was an uncharacteristic vagueness in his shadowed blue eyes as they returned to her face. ‘You look so delicate.’

The observation emerged sounding very like an accusation.

‘I’m tougher than I look,’ she promised him.

‘Not so tough you did not notice until now you’d injured yourself.’ He thought of the direct route he had taken back to the house, a route that even the most committed hill-walker would have found tough, and she hadn’t asked for help once.

This woman took stubborn into uncharted territory, along with his temper.

‘Well, I felt something when I was in the water,’ she admitted, wrinkling her nose as she recalled the sharp pain in her leg when she had been swimming out to him. ‘But I forgot about it.’ There had after all been a lot else to think about.

Antonio’s exasperation and temper climbed to breaking point. ‘Why in God’s name did you not say something? Are you a martyr or an idiot?’

‘Neither,’ she protested indignantly. ‘The water was cold, I suppose I was numb, and, like I said, I forgot about it.’ She wished she were still numb. Since they had come indoors the throbbing pain in her leg had become painfully intrusive.

‘Forgot! Give me strength,’ he gritted, rolling his eyes heavenwards. ‘We’re wasting time here.’

‘I’m not—’

‘I don’t want to hear it!’ he blasted. ‘Just tell me where you are injured and we will take it from there.’

‘You need to get to the hospital.’

‘Yes, I do. So just answer my question and stop wasting my time.’

Fleur sighed and reluctantly gestured towards her right thigh, careful not to touch the painful area.

‘Right, take off those jeans and let me have a look.’

Fleur saw an image in her head of his hands dark against the skin of her inner thigh and a jolt of sexual longing slammed through her body. Even as she stood there trying to banish the images she saw his mouth replace his fingers—in fact she could practically feel it!

‘I’m not taking off my jeans.’ She caught herself trying to remember which pants she had put on that morning and, flushing, shook her head. ‘I’m definitely not taking off my jeans.’ Modest white cotton with rosebuds…pink rosebuds.

‘If you don’t, I will. Yes,’ he said, smiling wolfishly into her shocked face, ‘you’re right; I would. And spare me the false modesty,’ he begged.

‘It’s really not necessary.’ Even as she spoke she knew the protest was useless. One thing Antonio Rochas did not come across as was a man to be diverted once he’d made up his mind about something.

‘Let me decide what is necessary, because if you bleed to death on my premises it will be me who will be held responsible.’

‘So you’re covering yourself and here was me thinking you cared,’ she trilled sarcastically. ‘Relax, Mr Rochas, you’re not responsible for me…and there’s no need to swear,’ she added with a disapproving sniff.

He looked at her mouth and thought about other ways he could release his feelings. Inhaling through flared nostrils, he pressed the heel of one hand to his forehead and told her, ‘You are enough to make a saint swear.’

‘Something nobody is about to accuse you of if the stuff I’ve read is even half true.’

‘How exciting for you,’ he drawled sarcastically. ‘After reading the thrilling instalments of my life in the pages in your intellectually stimulating magazines you’re actually experiencing a day in my life firsthand.’ He angled an enquiring brow. ‘Are you enjoying it?’

‘Strangely enough, no. And please don’t insult me by lumping me together with your adoring fans.’ Poor misguided women all. ‘I admit I have seen your photo and even read a few lines about your charmed existence in the dentist or hairdresser’s…but I found it neither thrilling nor particularly interesting,’ she fired back.

‘I’m surprised,’ he admitted.

‘Because I can read?’

‘I’m surprised that you know what the inside of a hairdressing salon looks like.’

‘Very funny…I suppose the women you know never have a hair out of place.’ Except when he made love to them. Appalled by the maverick thought, Fleur, her hands curled into tight fists, allowed her eyelashes to flicker downward in a protective screen.

Antonio thought of the women in his life, each one poised, elegant, guaranteed to handle themselves in any company and all groomed to within an inch of their lives.

‘No, they don’t.’ His flickering glance touched to the tousled head of the woman who tilted her head to glare contemptuously up at him. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘But then neither would they leap into a lake to rescue someone they didn’t even know. I don’t think I’ve thanked you—that was a very brave thing to do.’

The totally unexpected compliment threw Fleur totally. She took refuge in flippancy. ‘I was after the reward.’

‘The pleasure of my company?’ he suggested. ‘No, don’t answer that,’ he pleaded quickly. ‘I’m not sure my ego will take any more bashing.’

‘Oh, I think it would survive a force-five hurricane. You know,’ she said injecting a note of discovery into her saccharine-laced voice, ‘if you took away your vanity, egoism and overly high opinion of yourself you wouldn’t have any personality at all.’

For a second she saw shock register in his eyes, but it was swiftly subsumed by amusement and, rather to her alarm, interest. ‘I have a confession…I have never had so much trouble getting a woman to take off her clothes for me.’

The husky rasp of his voice had an effect on every single nerve ending in her body. The horror on her face was very real as she begged hoarsely, ‘Spare me the details!’ Her over-stimulated imagination was already providing plenty of those.

The things going on in her head made it hard for Fleur to look him in the face. If he guessed she would die of shame…

‘Let’s just hope your reputation doesn’t suffer lasting damage,’ she said, lacing her words with as much insincerity as she could.

Frustratingly the acid jibe just made him grin some more and ask, ‘What’s your problem anyway?’ He studied her stubborn expression and produced a possible explanation. ‘Are you not wearing underclothes or something?’

Fleur, her mind still dealing with a number of erotic mental images involving women stripping for his pleasure, felt mortified colour fly to her face.

‘Of course I’m wearing knickers!’ A discussion of her underwear or possible lack of with Antonio Rochas…could this day get any more surreal?

‘Then the sooner you stop behaving like a petulant child and take off those jeans, the sooner I can get to the hospital to see my daughter.’

At that moment the middle-aged woman from earlier appeared. ‘I am so sorry, miss, I was so long, but—’ She stopped dead when she saw Antonio.

He turned his head. ‘You have dry clothes, Mrs Saunders?’

‘Some towels and a robe.’

Fleur smiled and said, ‘That’s very kind. I’ll be fine now with Mrs Saunders…’

‘Mrs Saunders has more important things to attend to,’ he cut in smoothly. ‘If you could get me some surgical tape and a dry dressing?’ He opened the door to Fleur’s right and took the bundle from the older woman before turning back to Fleur. ‘Come on, I haven’t got all day.’

‘Which charm school did you graduate from?’ she asked him sweetly as, left with little choice, she followed him into the room. Hovering in the doorway, she slid a curious glance around the bedroom. It was decorated in a feminine style in shades of lilac with sprigged wallpaper and a four-poster bed.

‘My sister’s,’ he said, watching her. ‘It was,’ he revealed with an expressive grimace, ‘her lilac period. Nowadays she and her husband, along with their litter of kids, take a suite in the west wing, but whenever decorating this room is suggested she comes down with a bad case of nostalgia.’

Fleur continued to hover as he dragged a chair that stood against the wall towards her. His attitude was impatient as he instructed her to, ‘Take off the jeans and take a seat.’ He stood there, his arms folded across his bare chest, shoulders braced against the wall.

She nibbled on her lower lip. Logically she knew that prolonging this and making a big thing of it was only going to make her look more of a fool than she already did. The knowledge did not affect her reluctance. Exhaling a gusty sigh, she lifted her chin and shrugged as if the problem were his, not hers.

Her hands were shaking as she unfastened the button on her jeans and fumbled with the zip. Sliding the fabric down her hips, she stood there feeling horribly exposed and totally ridiculous. She sat on the chair he had provided and eased the jeans lower until they reached her ankles.

‘I thought the secret of success was the ability to delegate…?’ she grumbled as he dropped down to his knees beside her.

His head lifted. He was so close she could see the gold tip to each individual eyelash. It made sense that if she could smell the soap he’d just showered with he could smell her fear. Fear…? Dear God, I’m going crazy. There’s no reason in the world for me to be afraid of Antonio Rochas.

And then it hit her, the truth—she wasn’t afraid of Antonio Rochas. She was afraid of the way he made her feel…She inhaled deeply. She was afraid of feeling!

It was one revelation she could have done without.

She turned her head as he scanned the injured area. His attitude was clinical and his light touch objective…an objectivity she wistfully envied.

‘Tell me if I hurt you.’

Fleur gave a noncommittal grunt.

His dark brows knit into a frown as he concentrated. ‘Relax!’ he ordered tersely.

If only it were that easy, she thought, looking at the top of his dark head. Almost immediately she found herself fighting a compelling need to sink her fingers into the glossy wet strands.

She closed her eyes and took a deep sustaining breath. The sooner she put as much space between herself and this man, the sooner she could get back to normality!

After a moment—it seemed a lot longer to Fleur—he gave his verdict. ‘It’s deep.’ It was still oozing blood and the area around the jagged tear in her smooth flesh was red, inflamed and angry-looking. It had to be hurting like hell.

‘But not life-threatening.’ She gave a nervous laugh, then winced as his fingers lightly brushed the sensitive skin of her thigh.

‘That depends on whether you intend to get it treated.’ Balanced on the balls of his feet, Antonio rested his hands on his thighs and angled a critical look at her face.

If I tried that, she thought, I’d fall flat on my face.

‘You look feverish,’ he observed critically.

‘I’m not feverish. Anyone,’ she accused, ‘would think you wanted me to be ill.’ This time her laugh just stopped short of hysterical. ‘Well, if you’ve seen enough,’ she added, lifting her bottom from the seat and yanking the jeans upwards. The fabric caught against the injured area and she winced, tears of pain filling her eyes.

‘You’ll start it bleeding again, you little idiot,’ he said, catching hold of her hand.

The protest shrivelled on her tongue as Fleur stared at the long brown fingers curled around her own. She touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips. Her heart was banging so hard against her ribs that he should have been able to hear it.

‘Besides, you need to get into dry clothes,’ he added, easing her jeans carefully back down to her ankles.

She looked at the top of his sleekly wet head, felt her pulses quicken and thought, What I need is for you not to be here.

‘Are you covered for tetanus?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

The admission earned her a scornful look, but Fleur barely noticed. She shifted restlessly in the chair, and pondered some more the worrying discovery that the lightest and most clinical touch of his brown fingers could make her ache deep inside. She looked at the dark shadow of his jaw and caught herself wondering how it would feel to be kissed by a man with stubble.

These were very dangerous thoughts for a girl who had sworn off men, but then Antonio Rochas, she reminded herself—it might sink in at some point—was a very dangerous man.

‘I should think you’ll need a few stitches and probably antibiotics.’

Great! Her day was complete. Stitches equated doctors and the hateful smell of hospitals. ‘No way.’

Impatience coloured his voice as he suggested laconically, ‘Shall we let the doctors decide that?’

His tone set her teeth on edge. ‘The women in your life may enjoy being patronized, but I don’t,’ she informed him tartly. ‘I mean it—I’m not going to the hospital.’ The last time she had lost her baby.

‘You would prefer to bleed to death, or be permanently scarred…?’ he suggested.

Fleur drew a shaky breath as she dragged herself back to the present. ‘I don’t care about scars.’ To a man to whom appearances probably meant everything this probably sounded strange. ‘I’ll stick a plaster on it.’

‘What about infection? Do you embrace that so joyously too?’ he wondered sarcastically. ‘That water was hardly a sterile environment.’

She peered down at the cut on her leg and was quite shocked by what she saw. ‘It looks worse than it is,’ she protested weakly.

‘You can wheel out as many clichés as you like, it’ll still need more than a sticking plaster.’

‘You really think it’ll need stitching…?’

‘I’m not a doctor, but, yes, I think so.’

‘Right.’

‘Is that a right you’ll stop being obstructive? Or a reference to my lack of medical credentials?’

Mutely Fleur nodded. ‘I’ll go…I’m not very…’ her eyes slid from his ‘…not terribly…I don’t like hospitals much.’

He looked at her keenly but only shrugged and said, ‘Who does?’

At that moment the housekeeper returned carrying a box, which Fleur presumed held the items he had requested.

She grimaced as she saw the gaping wound and said sympathetically, ‘Oh, my, that does look painful.’

‘Not really.’

‘Very stiff upper lip,’ Antonio interrupted. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Saunders, I’ll do it. Could you ask John to bring the Mercedes around to the front? We’ll go straight off to the hospital.’

With a smile in Fleur’s direction the woman excused herself.

‘I’d prefer you let your housekeeper do this,’ Fleur said as she watched him extract a dressing pad and some tape from the box.

‘Don’t worry, I can cope with a dry dressing. I’ll be gentle,’ he promised when she remained silent.

It wasn’t his level of competence she was concerned about, and what really worried her most was the suspicion he knew that.

Antonio was actually as proficient as he had claimed. In a matter of moments he had covered the area with a clean dry dressing and secured it with tape.

‘Fine, that’s done,’ he said, leaning back on his heels and surveying his handwork.

It was actually a bit of an anticlimax. She barely even needed to call on the breathing technique she had been taught in her yoga class.

‘Thanks,’ she said, getting to her feet. As she pulled up her wet jeans he walked over to the wardrobe.

‘Try this,’ he suggested, pulling something off a hanger and tossing it to her.

Fleur automatically caught it. It was a cotton tee shirt. A pair of trousers landed at her feet a moment later.

‘My sister’s. You can’t stay in those wet things.’

Only too aware of the wet fabric chafing her skin, Fleur could not disagree.

However, she made no attempt to pick them up—just stood there.

‘I can’t find any underclothes, I’m afraid.’ His narrowed eyes moved in a casual assessing sweep over her slim body. ‘And I doubt if Sophia’s would fit you anyway.’

Fleur’s response to his scrutiny was anything but casual. She felt a compulsion to cover herself with her hands, but instead she lifted her chin and stared at him with what she hoped passed for cool defiance.

It was Antonio who finally broke the nerve-shredding silence.

‘I suppose you expect me to turn my back…?’ he observed, sounding amused.

‘No, I expect you to leave the room,’ she retorted, trying to inject as much dignity into her words as a person who looked like a drowned rat could.

She didn’t expect him to comply with her edict. When he did she felt weak with relief.

The moment he was out of the room she began to tear off what remained of her sodden clothes. The possibility of him walking in when she was practically naked made her perform the task with feverish speed.

Fleur had just pulled the loose-fitting trousers, which were several inches too long, over her hips when she happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the full-length cheval-mirror. She stopped dead, one hand still holding her hair back from her face, the other anchoring the waistband of the trousers, and let out an anguished groan of horror.

The fine silky tee shirt had been intended for a woman with a lot less up top than she had. It clung in a positively indecent way to her unfettered breasts.

‘Oh, my, I look like a…’ Fleur never got to voice the un-complimentary comment.

‘I was wondering what was underneath the layers…now I know.’

Antonio had used his time outside the room to ring the hospital. The doctor he had spoken to had been reassuring—to quote him, ‘She was a very lucky girl; she’ll be fine.’ It was Antonio who felt he was lucky; he had been given a second chance.

Filled with a new sense of purpose and buoyed by the news that Tamara was in no danger, he’d actually been able to feel the tension leave his spine as he had walked back into the room.

But one look at Fleur and he no longer felt relaxed or anything even closely related.

Fleur spun around so fast the unconsidered action sent a stab of pain shooting up her injured leg.

Wincing, she bent forward, her hand pressed to her mouth.

‘You little idiot!’

‘Thanks for the sympathy vote,’ she snapped as she straightened up.

‘Are you all right?’

She pushed the damp strands of hair from her eyes and found he wasn’t looking at her leg, but her breasts. Her lips tightened and she brought up her crossed hands in a protective gesture, hating the fact she had no more control over the hot colour that flooded her cheeks than she did her quivering stomach muscles.

‘Do you mind?’

His heavy-lidded eyes lifted, the predatory glitter in his cerulean eyes cancelling out his amused smile. For a moment they stood, their eyes meshed.

Then without a word he walked across to a chest. After opening several drawers he pulled out a cream cashmere cardigan. ‘Try this,’ he suggested.

Fleur, her eyes lowered, took it, and hoped the fact she had taken the utmost care not to let her fingertips graze his was not too obvious. By the time she had fought her way awkwardly into it her heart rate, if not normal, at least allowed her to breathe fairly normally.

If she had been given the option of jumping into an icy lake for the second time that day or getting into a car—an enclosed space—with this man there was no contest. She would opt for the lake every single time!

Only she wasn’t being offered that option, so the best she could hope for was that she didn’t make it too obvious that her hormones were totally out of control around him.