An Imported Wife

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

“Hypocrisy?” Gabriella echoed faintly

“I dislike females who are scarcely out of the nursery, yet feel compelled to pass judgment on other people’s failings,” Rick went on remorselessly. “And at the same time suppress their own needs and desires….”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about….”

“I’m tempted to kiss you, ma petite, to prove the point.”

“Just try it!”

“That’s a dare that is too tempting to ignore!” Rick murmured, his voice thickening.

Having abandoned her first intended career for marriage, ROSALIE ASH spent several years as a bilingual personal assistant to the managing director of a leisure group. She now lives in Warwickshire, England, with her husband, and daughters Kate and Abby, and her lifelong enjoyment of writing has led to her career as a novelist. Her interests include: languages, travel and research for her books, reading and visits to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in nearby Stratford-upon-Avon. Other pleasures include: swimming, yoga and country walks.

An Imported Wife
Rosalie Ash

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE tall, dark, powerful-looking man, in sunglasses, khaki shirt and dusty cream trousers, seemed to be attracting attention, like bees to a honeypot. A willing porter scurried after him with his luggage, and another was practically breaking his neck to hail him a taxi as quickly as possible.

Lesser mortals, reflected Gabriella wryly, from her hot and dusty vantage point as she waited in the sun for a taxi for herself, could only look on, in envy and admiration.

She shifted position, waiting beside her suitcase, perspiration trickling uncomfortably down between her breasts, and dampening her jade T-shirt beneath the light white cotton jacket she wore. January in Mauritius, a tiny dot of an island far south in the vast expanse of Indian Ocean between Africa and Australia, was an abrupt contrast to January in London. Back home, she’d locked up her small one-bedroomed flat in Wimbledon and left behind icy sleet showers, and temperatures of minus two. Here, outside Plaisance Airport, the sun scorched down from a limpid blue sky, edged with fluffy tropical clouds, and it had to be at least ninety-five in the shade.

She lifted the heavy rope of honey-blonde hair at her nape, and blew upwards to cool her hot forehead. The tall man had been ushered respectfully into a taxi now, his cases stowed in the boot. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see the porters bow and salute, as the taxi revved up to pull away.

It was hard to tell, behind his dark glasses, but she thought he was looking at her. She dropped her eyes quickly, hoping he hadn’t had the satisfaction of seeing her gazing at him. In spite of her current aversion to the opposite sex, she had to concede that he looked disturbingly attractive. In fact, even from a safe distance, he was the most attractive man she’d ever set eyes on in her life, she acknowledged, a small twist of apprehension stirring her stomach. He looked lean, athletic, smooth-muscled. The dark brown hair, straight and thick, looked vibrantly clean and glossy, the wide, hard mouth, and the suggestion of five o’clock shadow on the firm jaw eyecatchingly male.

Strange, then, that he should remind her of Piers…Piers was blond, while this man was dark. Facially they weren’t remotely similar. Piers was much younger, only twenty-five, whereas this man had an air of experience and sophistication that suggested early thirties. She identified the similarity, a subtle one. It must be that aura of inborn privilege and careless arrogance which was so reminiscent of Piers. The cool way he took all the fuss and attention as his due…

She unconsciously lifted her shoulders, shrugging off the memories. It didn’t matter any more. About her disillusionment over Piers. Men were definitely going to take a back seat in her life from now on. Her career was showing signs of progression. That was all that mattered. She was new to this job, and she wanted to do well, and on top of that she was here alone in advance of the others. She should have been accompanying the fashion editor, who’d gone down with the flu which had been decimating the entire fashion department, literally at the eleventh hour…

Now was her chance to prove herself, show First Flair magazine that she was more than just a lowly assistant. Until suitably experienced reinforcements could be dispatched, the responsibility for advance checking of locations for the forthcoming fashion shoot lay on her novice shoulders. It was exciting, and rather terrifying…

‘Welcome to the Hotel Sable Royale,’ smiled a receptionist, when Gabriella finally presented herself and her luggage. ‘Did you have a good journey, Madame Taylor?’

‘Fine, thanks…’ Apart from paying what appeared to be a small fortune in rupees to the taxi driver who’d just roared away from the hotel entrance…

‘But I’m not Madame Taylor…’ Gabriella added, smiling apologetically. ‘The rooms are booked in Ursula Taylor’s name. But I’m Gabriella Howard, Mrs Taylor’s assistant. Mrs Taylor was too ill to fly out with me…’

The pretty Creole girl shrugged and smiled again.

‘OK. I hope you have a wonderful stay.’

She would, Gabriella reflected, following the porter carrying her suitcase to her room, if she could manage to fulfil her obligations to First Flair without any hitches, and, more immediately, if she could just cool off…

When the door was closed, she wasted no time, ripping off her jacket, sweat-damp jade T-shirt and smart jade culotte-skirt, tossing her coffee silk bra and pants on to the haphazard heap on the floor, twisting and pinning her blonde plait into a tight topknot, then running a cool shower in the elegant en-suite bathroom, and diving under it with relish.

The room which Ursula Taylor, First Flair’s stylish, thirty-something fashion editor, had apparently booked for her, was delightful, furnished in colonial style, with lots of wood and brass. A large balcony overlooked a crystal-white coral beach, fringed with soft, frondy pine trees. Beyond, a mill-pond-calm ocean glittered in the sun, turquoise and kingfisher-blue in its sheltering bracelet of coral reef.

Feeling slightly guilty, enjoying all this unbelievable luxury alone, while her boss languished in London with a high fever, Gabriella emerged from her shower, dried herself and found a baggy white over-sized ‘Minnie Mouse’ T-shirt to pull on while she searched for her hairdrier.

She was in the act of rummaging through her flight-bag, for the travel-plug, when without warning there was a hard hammering on the bedroom door, and it was pushed forcefully open. She leapt to her feet, her heart doing a shocked, frightened somersault as the man who barged furiously inside began with, ‘Ursula, just what the devil did you think you were playing at—?’ The gravel baritone clipped off abruptly in mid-sentence. The confrontational anger slowly died from his eyes, replaced by a wary gleam of humour as he realised his mistake.

Hugging her arms around herself indignantly, Gabriella found herself gazing up at the tall, dark man in the khaki shirt and cream trousers whom she’d been surreptitiously watching outside the airport.

‘I think I should be asking you that question,’ she heard herself saying, in a voice which trembled uncontrollably. Something in the darkness of his eyes was giving her unwelcome shivers of awareness, all over her body.

Seeing him at closer quarters, she had a niggling feeling she had seen this man somewhere before…apart from outside the airport on her arrival. His face was strangely familiar. Obviously he was someone Ursula knew…

Something she’d overheard in the office a couple of weeks ago darted back into her mind. Some gossip over problems in Ursula Taylor’s marriage. Could this be Mr Taylor, pursuing his wife for a dramatic, romantic reconciliation? He was in his early thirties, about the same age as the woman she worked for…

‘Do you make a habit of barging unannounced into other people’s hotel rooms?’ she added, her throat annoyingly dry.

The hard mouth twitched. But he was regarding her shocked expression and wide green eyes with grave apology.

‘Mille pardons, if I have frightened you, mademoiselle. The door was not locked. I believed Madame Taylor to be in this room. So who are you?’

He was subjecting her to a cool, unhurried scrutiny, the gleam of male assessment making her inwardly wince.

‘I am Ursula Taylor’s assistant,’ she said stiffly; ‘Madame—er—Mrs Taylor has the flu. But you’re…I mean, you’re not Mrs Taylor’s husband?’

‘No.’ The gravel-deep voice was wry as understanding dawned. ‘I am not Mrs Taylor’s husband.’

‘Oh, I see…!’ She tried her best, but it was quite impossible for her to keep the note of shocked dismay, even distaste, from her voice. This man wasn’t too thick-skinned to be aware of it, even if he was insensitive enough just to loll there against the door-jamb, watching the emotions flitting across her face, instead of making a hasty, ashamed exit…

She bit her lip. She could only thank the gods she’d had time to put on the T-shirt. If he’d chosen to fling open the door a few seconds earlier, she’d have been stepping stark naked out of the shower. This man must have an intimate relationship with Ursula Taylor if he felt entitled to barge, unannounced, into her bedroom…Gabriella felt slightly sick, as the implications began to sink in. She might be naive, but to her marriage was sacred. It didn’t feel very pleasant to be caught up in the middle of what presumably could be an adulterous liaison…

He really seemed to have marked similarities to Piers, another of that cool, amoral breed who calmly disregarded convention, saw all women as fair game. But it took two to tango, as the saying went. What her married boss got up to in her private life was no business of hers, Gabriella reminded herself warily.

‘I detect disapproval.’ He shook his head sadly, mockery evident in every line of his face. ‘You see me as a reckless philanderer, mademoiselle?’ Amusement had deepened the voice still more. ‘How refreshing to find someone still young enough to be shocked by the notion of extramarital affairs. Truth comes from the mouths of babes and innocents, as they say.’

Colouring slightly, she gripped her arms more closely across her breasts, and fixed him with a level green gaze.

‘Philanderer was your word, not mine. But if the cap fits…’ she countered, with as much force as she could muster. ‘And I assure you I’m neither a babe nor an innocent!’

‘Ah. Une vrai femme du monde!’ he teased gently. Deep-set eyes, unnervingly intense, moved probingly over her appearance, assessing her wet blonde hair, her slender figure, the long slim expanse of thigh, the mouse logo on the T-shirt. His eyes were an extraordinary colour. Not brown, not hazel, more a sort of molten, antique gold, Gabriella decided uneasily. Fringed with sable-dark lashes, and emphasised by the harshly cynical olive-skinned face, they were the most disconcerting eyes she’d ever encountered. ‘A real woman of the world. How old are you, mademoiselle?’

‘Twenty-one,’ she supplied huskily. ‘Old enough to know the score, Mr…?’

There was a brief pause, before he answered.

‘Josephs. Rick Josephs.’ The dark hand extended in greeting was large, lean, spatulatefingered. She stared at it in panic for a splitsecond, before briefly, reluctantly shaking it. Rick Josephs didn’t sound a very French name for a Frenchman. She assumed he was French, at any rate. He certainly spoke French, although when he spoke in English his French accent was negligible. A mystery hybrid, she decided dubiously. One of those global travellers with the panache and confidence to fit in anywhere…

‘Gabriella Howard.’ She whipped her hand away from his with unseemly speed. The warm strength of the hand-clasp was unbelievably disturbing. Glaring at him in a sudden, unexpected spurt of defensive fury, she added, ‘Now that we’re formally introduced, would you please go? As you see, Mrs Taylor is not hiding under the bed, or lurking behind the door. If you want to see her so urgently, you’ll have to hop on the plane back to London and minister to her on her sick bed! Although Mr Taylor might be a bit surprised.’

A faint grin lit the dark face, as he absorbed her sudden outburst. ‘It can wait,’ he said briefly, straightening up from the doorway with infuriating lack of haste. ‘Is Ursula still intending to fly out here when she’s well?’

‘Oh, yes. Along with half a dozen others! Meanwhile, by default, I’m the advance location scout for this fashion shoot…’

He paused at the door, his gaze narrowing. ‘Are you indeed? I might be able to help you there.’

‘I’m sure I can manage quite well without your help, thanks!’ The sharp retort was out before she had time to analyse it.

The grin grew broader. ‘I have to hand it to you, Mademoiselle Howard, you have spirit. High principles. A more timid employee might think twice about being rude to a friend of her boss. Might, perhaps, fear for her job?’

She stared at him, her heart suddenly beginning to pound at twice its normal speed. She was so angry that she could hardly find her voice, but his words had jolted her back to reality. He might be arrogant and patronising, and he might have barged into her room and narrowly missed catching her in an embarrassing state, but he evidently knew Ursula Taylor very well indeed. Even if he appeared to be enjoying taunting her over the mix-up, it wasn’t her place to appear to be passing judgement on the situation.

She chewed her lip, in a turmoil of uncertainty. With a sudden surge of emotion, she found herself detesting the man, with an intensity which took her by surprise.

‘What sort of a person are you?’ she demanded shakily.

‘The lowest and most despicable, bien sûr. But don’t worry,’ he teased, opening the door and observing her pink-cheeked fury with a short laugh, ‘we philanderers are very discreet. A bientôt, mademoiselle.’

He’d gone. She found herself glaring helplessly at the closed door, unable to recall ever feeling such a violent loathing for someone she barely knew. A bientôt? She’d think herself lucky if she never had to see him again!

Her luck was out. Fierce hopes of avoiding bumping into him again evaporated as she walked out to the palm-tree-dotted poolside restaurant an hour later. He was drinking red wine, lazily relaxed on a bar stool, darkly attractive in a white dinner-jacket and an amber bow-tie which seemed to emphasise his golden eyes. Around him, in an animated group, milled several glamorouslooking people who appeared to be hanging on his every word. Two girls in particular held Gabriella’s attention. Chic, dark, svelte as models, they fawned over him, vying for his attention. In clinging evening dresses, they looked dauntingly poised and beautiful. For a few seconds, Gabriella felt rooted to the spot, glancing round uncertainly at the other guests, standing near the bar or seated at the candlelit tables all around the circular floodlit pool.

Her heart plummeted. Everyone seemed to have dressed for dinner! Everywhere she looked she saw silks and crepe de Chines, sequins and satins. And here she was, face bare of make-up, hair dragged into a high French plait, in a favourite but totally unsuitable short apple-green cotton T-shirt dress, and flip-flops…

Rick Josephs had seen her. Half turning from his seat on the bar stool, he raised a hand in brief salute, his eyes lingering on her for a while, his expression unreadable. The girls nearest him turned too, eyeing Gabriella with swift, derisive glances before swinging away, resuming their vivacious conversation.

Too late to duck back upstairs, and riffle through her skimpy wardrobe for her smartest dress. She’d look an immature idiot, if she ran out now. She’d just have to brazen it out.

Head high, she aimed for the bar and smiled confidently at the friendly Asian barman.

‘I’d like a…a glass of pineapple juice, please…’

Near by, she could hear one of the girls and Rick Josephs talking in rapid French, his husky, amused baritone growl a contrast to her cool feminine voice. With relief, she realised that the head waiter had spotted her, and was bearing down on her, smiling in welcome.

‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Howard. Would you like me to show you to your table?’

‘Oh, yes. Thank you…’ She followed him, averting her gaze as she passed Rick Josephs. As she drew level with his party, one of the girls in the group surrounding him burst into a peal of laughter, swirled blindly round, glass in hand, and collided head-on with Gabriella. With a gasp of dismay, Gabriella felt the contents of the glass of red wine splash down the front of her dress.

‘Oh, pardon! I am so sorry…’ The girl was definitely slightly tipsy. From the laughingly unrepentant expression on her face, as she eyed Gabriella’s casual outfit, she didn’t view the accident with too much gravity.

Pink-faced, Gabriella stared down at the spreading stains on her dress, suddenly the centre of everyone’s attention, wishing she could vanish into thin air.

‘It doesn’t matter…’ Embarrassment engulfed her. Not only was she not dressed in an evening gown, as everyone else appeared to be, she was also sporting a T-shirt dress with red wine all over it…

‘Mademoiselle, how unfortunate…’ the head waiter was saying anxiously. ‘Perhaps you would like to change your clothes before you sit down to dinner…?’

‘Yes…I think I’d better…’

They were interrupted by Rick Josephs, who took charge of the situation with cool aplomb.

‘Leave it to me, René,’ he told the head waiter with a grin. ‘Come with me, Gabriella…’

When he took her arm, she was so stunned by his audacity that she barely had time to argue before she was escorted away from the restaurant, and into the cicada-filled darkness of the hotel gardens.

‘Let go of my arm,’ she said, icily polite, swinging to confront him as he dropped his hand. ‘You’d be far better off chatting up your drunken female admirers at the bar than hauling me out here…!’

He gave a weary sigh, eyeing her taut face with wry annoyance.

‘Gabriella…you don’t mind if I call you Gabriella?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do…’

‘You must try not to judge people so harshly,’ he went on softly, ignoring her. ‘I apologise for the accident, and for the clumsiness of my companion. And I will buy you a new dress.’

‘I happened to like this one!’ she countered obstinately, with what she knew to be a lamentable lack of social grace. ‘And just because I have certain…standards…doesn’t mean that I judge people harshly…’

‘Dieu!’ he growled, half laughing and half angry, catching her by the shoulders and giving her a slight shake. ‘What an unbearable little prig you are, Gabriella!’

His words seemed to hit her square in the face. Opening her mouth to retort, she felt her throat tighten without warning. Abruptly, her fragile poise began to crumble, and anger came to her rescue.

‘I couldn’t really care less about your opinion of me,’ she retorted shakily, trying to free herself from his firmly guiding hand as he steered her through the undergrowth. ‘I assure you my opinion of you is every bit as low! Where are we going…?’

‘My mother taught me that to remove red wine the stain must be soaked in white wine,’ he re- torted calmly, ‘as quickly as possible.’ They’d reached a detached white villa, palms swaying beside the arched, carved wooden doorway, the air heavy with the lush musky scent of tropical flowers. ‘Come inside, and take off your dress. I can supply the white wine, if you wish to put my mother’s remedy to the test?’

The sardonic grin as he ushered her inside what seemed to be a private villa in the hotel grounds sent her temper soaring even higher.

‘Take my dress off…? Are you serious?’

‘Why, yes—’ he spread his hands ironically ‘—unless you wish me to pour white wine over it while you are wearing it?’

‘Look, if this is some kind of…of cheap seduction technique…’

‘Far from it, Gabriella.’ He was guiding her into a luxurious wood-panelled bathroom, handing her a grey Paisley silk robe before leaving her. ‘You are not my type. I prefer older, married women. Or drunken pick-ups at hotel bars. Remember?’

Hot colour burned her cheeks as she stared at his mocking dark face. Catching an angry breath in her chest, she demanded unsteadily, ‘And what am I supposed to wear to dinner, your silk dressing-gown?’

‘Relax. I promise I will not let you starve.’

He withdrew, leaving her seething with mixed emotions, not least of which was acute apprehension.

After a long, indecisive wrestle with her temper, she rammed the bolt home on the door, and then slowly slid the apple-green dress off. She examined her white lacy bra. There was a red stain on that, too, but she’d rather die than present her underwear for Rick Josephs’s stain-removing treatment.

With the Paisley robe belted tightly enough to endanger her circulation, she emerged with the dress.

Rick Josephs had discarded his white dinner-jacket, and loosened his bow-tie. He was stretched out quite happily on a white LloydLoom-style cane chair on a paved balcony with a spectacular view of the moonlit ocean, as she came reluctantly in search of him.

When he saw her he stood up, took the dress from her stiff fingers, and waved an opened bottle of white wine with a lop-sided smile.

‘OK. Now we marinate the dress in the white wine,’ he quipped lightly, bearing it off into what looked to be an expensively equipped kitchen. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘I…no, thank you.’

He returned, minus the dress, but carrying a silver tray with a freshly opened bottle of wine, and two glasses.

‘I said “no, thank you”. Do you ply all your female acquaintances with alcohol?’ she queried, sweetly sarcastic.

He paused in the act of pouring, one dark eyebrow raised quizzically.

‘No. It is not always necessary,’ he mocked obliquely. ‘Usually my female acquaintances are quite happy to relax with me, without the aid of alcohol.’

Embarrassment heated her face again.

‘How gratifying for you,’ she smiled through gritted teeth. ‘So what went wrong with your female friend at the bar?’

The golden gaze gleamed ominously. ‘Sit down, Gabriella,’ he suggested softly, pulling out one of the white cane chairs, and waiting with an air of patient confidence. ‘Let’s see if we can hold a civilised conversation while we are waiting for our dinner to arrive.’

‘While…what?’ The flustered feeling was intensifying. ‘Our dinner?’

‘We can eat here. Give us the perfect chance to get to know each other a little better. So that when Ursula gets here she can see what excellent friends we have become? D’accord?’

Mutinously, she glared at him. Why did she get the feeling that this was some subtle, teasing kind of blackmail?

She shivered a little, her hands clenched in the pockets of the silk robe. There was something about his sophisticated, world-weary manner which made her feel about twelve years old. And yet the dark glitter in his gaze made her feel quite the opposite. Gabriella doubted if she’d ever felt so bewildered by her own reactions…

In silence she sat down in the chair opposite his, and crossed her legs. Equally silent, he finished pouring the wine, and handed her a glass. As she reached to take it, the silky grey material of the robe slithered stubbornly off her thighs, and she hastily uncrossed her legs and tugged the fabric back in place, clamping her knees together. When she met Rick Josephs’ enigmatic gaze across the table, she saw that he was laughing at her.

‘Perhaps you have a low opinion of men in general. But I assure you, I am not a sex-crazed beast…’ he mocked gently.

‘Your private life is of no interest to me.’ She sounded stiffly pompous, she knew she did. Her stomach was tight with tension as she warily sipped her wine.

‘So tell me, what is?’ The lazy question caught her by surprise. He was regarding her levelly over his glass, his narrowed gaze unreadable. She stared at him in blank silence for a while, then slowly shook her head.

‘I’m sorry…?’

‘What interests you, Gabriella?’

‘That’s a rather sweeping question, isn’t it?’ She frowned at him, doubting his sincerity. This was another mocking wind-up, she was sure. ‘I suppose my job, at the moment.’

‘So you are ambitious? At the moment, you are an assistant to a fashion editor. What are your ambitions within First Flair magazine?’

She shrugged, then laughed uncertainly. ‘Whatever promotion comes along, I suppose. Although there have been rumours recently that there’s a change of ownership on the cards for the magazine. So things may not be all that…stable. In the long term…’

She’d heard rumours, in fact, that Piers and his father had made a bid for the magazine. Which could no doubt spell an abrupt end to her career prospects in that particular environment. But it was no use worrying about it. She’d become philosophical lately. One day at a time…

‘Are you well qualified?’ He’d been watching her silent reverie with an amused expression.

‘Reasonably well. I took a fashion design course at St Martin’s, while I was working for a PR company. I’ve worked with fashion stylists, and that’s really what I want to do—fashion styling…’

For the life of her, she couldn’t fathom why he should be so interested in her career plans in the fashion world. Unless he was involved in it personally? That possibility had only just occurred to her. The glamorous girls at the bar had been tall and willowy and elegant enough to be models…

‘Styling?’ Rick had nodded, his expression deadpan. ‘Are you any good at it?’

‘I think so.’

‘So that explains why they’ve trusted you to organise locations for this fashion shoot. You’re in charge of the look, are you? The location, models, hair, make-up?’

‘Well, only by default, as I told you. The others due to come out with me have been flattened by this flu virus. Do you work for First Flair?’ she demanded suddenly, feeling even more confused. He seemed altogether far too knowledgeable about the whole business.

He shook his head, with a faint grin. ‘No. Not exactly.’

‘What kind of an answer is that? Not exactly? You’re on intimate terms with Ursula Taylor, and you seem to know an awful lot about magazine fashion work…’

‘I would describe myself as self-employed.’

‘So what are you doing in Mauritius?’

‘Relaxing, after some arduous power-play. I spend a lot of time here. I was born here.’

‘You’re Mauritian?’

He smiled. ‘Franco-Mauritian. My ancestors settled here in the eighteenth century. A motley crew of pirates and corsairs, I regret to confess. Enticed here by the French East India Company to colonise the island…’

‘Enticed?’

‘They were enticed by offers of money, and land. And women. Girls were rounded up on the quaysides in France, and shipped out here to provide them with the means to procreate. The prospect of an “imported wife” must have been the deciding factor, don’t you think?’

She blinked at the relentless gleam of mockery in his eyes.

‘So…you don’t actually live here?’

He shook his head. ‘I live in New York. Or in Paris. Sometimes in London. But whenever I can, I come back here. I’m planning on having a house built here, at the moment.’

‘I see.’ She stared at him, frustrated by his subtle, deliberate evasiveness, her thoughts whirring uncontrollably. When a long silence had stretched out, he lifted a curious eyebrow.

‘You look lost in thought, Gabriella.’

‘I was thinking how your ancestry throws a lot of light on your character!’ she heard herself saying coolly. ‘When you’re descended from a bunch of pirates, I expect a small matter of…adultery is of no importance at all…’

Instantly rather ashamed of her snide insult, she watched his face tauten slightly, darken with anger. Her heart jolted in her chest. Quickly standing up, she put her glass on the table, and turned away. ‘Thanks for the drink. If you’ll excuse me, I’d rather eat alone tonight…’

She got no further than the door. She found herself captured, trapped against it by at least six feet of lean masculinity. Her throat choked with anger and emotion, she glared up at him in alarm.

‘Let me go…’ she began shakily.

‘In a moment.’ She couldn’t say he was exerting force, she reflected hazily, because he was hardly touching her. His hands were on the door, on either side of her, effectively imprisoning her without body contact. Likewise, his torso, smoothly muscled beneath the fine white lawn of his shirt, threatened to move closer but didn’t, hovering alarmingly just an inch away from the agonised tips of her breasts. The moment was intimate but restrained.

‘I’m a tolerant man,’ he continued, huskily amused, ‘but I am getting rather tired of being insulted, Miss Gabriella Howard.’

‘Let me go…’

There was an elusive trace of expensive cologne, the clean, warm, musky smell of his body. Her senses whirled. She was close enough to see dilated black pupils in the centre of the golden irises, to notice the faint blue-black smudge of evening beard-growth along his chin. She should be feeling threatened, she reflected dazedly, but instead she felt overwhelmed with physical awareness. It was like someone pressing a switch, triggering a new set of emotions previously dormant…