ROSSELLINI'S REVENGE AFFAIR

He despised and loathed her with every breath in his body.

She was there, a woman apart. Alone. Widowed.

Widowed when she should have been divorced.

Tall, elegant, unnaturally composed. Had she even loved her dead husband? He doubted it. If she'd loved him, she would have let him go. Let him go to Maria instead of clinging to a marriage long dead.

Oblivious to the biting wind that drove unrelenting sheets of rain against his skin, Raffaele Rossellini stood some distance from the scattering graveside mourners.

He fed the anger that rose within him as if fuelling a log-filled fire with dry kindling. Would his treasured sister be lying in a hospital bed now, supported only by life-giving machinery, if the cool blonde in black had only given in to her husband's repeated requests to be set free? Set free before the birth of a child who would now never know its father or its mother.

Grief rent him anew, dragging an unwilling groan of loss from deep inside his chest.

He had done his duty and come today out of respect for the man his sister had loved. A man he himself had done business with and considered a friend. Soon he would be back at his sister's side. Whether she knew he was there or not.

Her life support would be terminated after the birth of the child. A birth doctors hoped to delay as long as possible to give the infant a better chance at a stronger start to life. While Raffaele warred with the barbaric reasoning that another life should not be unnecessarily lost, it contradicted every measure of decency and grace his vibrant younger sister had possessed to keep her in suspension until the safe delivery of her child.

He tried to tell himself it was what she would have wanted--she'd loved the baby so very much and looked forward to its birth like a child to Christmas--but knowing she would have given her life for her child did little to assuage the devastating loss of knowing she was already gone. There but not there. Living, yet not alive.

Raffaele narrowed his eyes against the rain as he focussed on the golden head of the woman he knew only from hearsay. The widow of the man whose cold lifeless form had been laid to rest in the yawning grave before her. She stood in frozen isolation at the graveside without so much as a tear gracing her smooth pale complexion. Not even now, long after the last of her fellow mourners had gone, did she even have the decency to show any sense of loss.

Bitterness warred with the rage that billowed inside him. He'd failed in his promise to his dying mother many years ago that he would protect his sister with everything in his power. Now it was too late to mend the irrevocable damage his indulgence in Maria's whims had wreaked.

When he'd discovered her affair with a married man he should have stepped in earlier, even though trying to stop his headstrong sister would have undoubtedly been impossible. Yet he should have done something to see her achieve her dream of marriage to the father of her child. He should have wrangled an introduction to Lana Whittaker and somehow, some way, used his considerable power to coerce her into agreeing to her husband's request for dissolution.

Too late. He was too late.

The vivid image of his sister's body, inert in her hospital bed yet swollen with the advent of new life, burned like a brand in his mind. Yes, he'd failed to protect Maria but he would not fail her unborn child.

Raffaele Rossellini never made the same mistake twice.

The child would grow up as his own; that was now his promise to Maria. Her son or daughter would be totally loved and, in time, would know all about his or her mother so she would not fade away as a distant memory.

His eyes burned with unshed tears as he stared at the back of the woman at the graveside.

He would not fail again.

He swallowed against the grief that fought to escape from deep within him. One way or the other, he vowed silently, Lana Whittaker would know the power of the Rossellini wrath. He would make her pay. Make her pay for Maria's suffering--the anguished phone calls he'd received at home, in Italy, when her pregnancy was confirmed and she realised that Kyle would not be able to marry her before their child's birth.

Lana Whittaker would know regret as he knew it.

She would know loss.

* * *

Lana shivered beneath her sodden black wool coat acutely aware of the tall dark stranger who had hovered on the periphery of the crowd during the brief service and who now remained rooted to the spot, his gaze burning a hole in the back of her head.

Who was he?

She daren't look up. If he was paparazzi the last thing she needed right now was her face plastered across the tabloids. The circumstances of her husband's death would filter out soon enough.

How could Kyle have done this to them? To her? How could she not have seen, not have known, he was having an affair? She tried desperately, as she'd done so frequently in the past forty-eight hours, to remember if there had been a sign or a clue, any instance, where he hadn't been happy. But there was nothing. He'd been his demonstrative and loving self even as she'd driven him to the airport for his business trip down to New Zealand's capital city, Wellington. A trip he'd taken for one week each fortnight for the past three years.

A trip he'd been taking to be with his lover!

For a moment Lana almost gave into the welling urge to scream and rant and wail. To pull at her hair, her chest, her clothing. To give in to the wild anger and fear that tore at her equilibrium. It wasn't supposed to be like this. They'd been the perfect couple--devoted--everyone had said so.

Tiny black spots spun wildly in front of her eyes. Breathe, she commanded, breathe. Don't give in. Don't give up to this. Keep the emptiness away.

Lana dragged moisture-laden air into tightly squeezed lungs, desperate for some measure of purity back in her life. But nothing could assuage the yawning black hole that remained in her heart.

"Mrs Whittaker? We should go now. The caterers have called to say the first of the mourners have arrived at the apartment." The undertaker's carefully modulated voice penetrated the chill that enveloped her mind. What was it about these people that they all talked in the same measured way? Didn't they feel emotion?

"Mrs Whittaker?"

Lana drew in another breath and closed her eyes briefly, the shape and shadow of Kyle's coffin as it lay in the ground embedded against her eyelids.

"Yes, I'm ready." But ready for what? Where was her future now? Her life--her dreams, her deepest love--lay in the ground with her husband's lifeless body.

The short journey home to her inner Auckland city apartment passed in a blur. People would be there, pressing their interminable, yet well meant, condolences upon her. She had to hold it together for their sakes. Let them think for a little longer that Kyle had been the kind of guy they could mourn and remember with respect, instead of the man he really was.

He'd lied to them all.

The mood in the apartment was sombre, a fitting tribute to the loss of a man who'd been revered by many as a financial genius. A man whose opinion had been sought on all levels.

Within a couple of hours the caterers had cleaned up and the last of her guests were gone. Lana wondered if she would see any of them again once the truth hit the papers. Whether their condolences would wither into pity or, worse, scorn.

Her lawyer had managed to get an injunction against the release to the media of details surrounding Kyle's death only two short days ago, but it would expire at midnight.

Then the onslaught would begin.

Unbidden, the memory of the stranger at the graveside service plucked at her memory. Who was he? If he wasn't paparazzi perhaps he'd been one of Kyle's clients? She knew she'd never met him before, that much was certain. While she'd only caught a glimpse of his face, she would never have forgotten the gently sloping forehead, the slightly aquiline nose between deep-set dark eyes and the strong determined chin. His wasn't the kind of face a woman forgot. Everything about him, even the cut and length of his coat, had shrieked European elegance.

Lana shook her head in disgust. Here she was, her husband barely dead two days and she was looking at another man. Even though Kyle had been unfaithful it still didn't give her the right to seek another. Not within her code of ethics.

She walked slowly across the spacious formal lounge of the apartment, trailing her hand across the back of the expansive white leather couch where she and Kyle had curled up together, and watched the sun disappear across the distant Waitakere Ranges bordering Auckland's western suburbs, before escaping to their room to make love. Sometimes they hadn't even made it that far.

Her fingers curled into a tight fist as the pain of his duplicity carved through the protective mantle of stoicism she'd hidden behind all day. How did women cope with the discovery that their husband had a mistress? How did they shoulder the weight of the lies they'd unknowingly been living and manage to go on?

She felt angry--cheated. How dare he die like that--leaving so many questions unanswered? She didn't even want to think about what she'd discovered on his laptop last night after the police had delivered his belongings from the wrecked vehicle to her. Miraculously it had survived the head-on impact of the crash, but a part of her wondered if she would have been better off not knowing its contents.

Not knowing how he'd abused the trust of so many of his clients by filtering their investment funds to support his mistress in a waterfront home on Oriental Parade in Wellington. Not knowing how he'd used money from their joint savings account for the same purpose.

Not knowing he was probably already under investigation for fraud. She would need to get the computer back to the police. They'd be very interested in its contents.

Pain dragged like a serrated knife through her body, sending her to her knees on the plush cream-carpeted floor. She braced her hands on the carpet in front of her and let her head drop between her shoulders, pulling one shuddering breath into her lungs after the other. It was more than she could bear.

On the coffee table at her side a picture frame caught her eye. She and Kyle had been out on a friend's yacht, laughing at a private joke, their love and intense connection to one another shining from their eyes when the snap had been taken.

A lie.

Her marriage--the envy of all her friends and the union the society pages had, on their anniversary last year, extolled as the perfect example of a happy marriage-had been over for three years and she hadn't even known it.

With a sudden surge of anger Lana reached out and hurled the portrait against the far wall. Oblivious to the shattering glass and buoyed by her fury, she lurched to her feet and like a woman possessed denuded the apartment of every last photo of the 'perfect couple'.

She ripped each celluloid image from its individually chosen frame, letting the frames jumble in an uneven stack on the table and tearing at the pictures frantically until they lay in a fractured mass of broken promises at her feet.

Lies, all of them, lies.

Only then did she give in to the grief that had plucked at her since the police had delivered the devastating news. Tears coursed down her cheeks and a shattered howl burst from her throat. She dropped onto the couch, oblivious to the sunset, oblivious to the passage of time. Aware only of the gaping empty hole that ached in her chest where her heart should be.

Buzz! The strident sound echoed through the now darkened room and jolted her from her numbed misery. Her heart shuddered in her chest so loud she could almost hear its erratic beat echoing in the silence of the apartment. The security intercom, she finally realised through the fog of despair that enveloped her. Oh no, she shivered, oh please no. Not the press already?

The intercom buzzed again. Who was on duty today? She couldn't remember. But she should know. It was the kind of detail she always made a point of knowing. Hot tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away furiously. She would not cry. She had to hold it together. It was what she'd been trained to do her entire life as a diplomat's daughter and what she perpetuated in her role as the head of fundraising for the underprivileged children's charity she worked with.

Suddenly the night security guard's name sprang into her mind. With a shaking hand Lana pressed the talk button.

"Yes, James."

"Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Whittaker, but there's a gentleman here to see you. I know it's late but he's most insistent."

"I'm not seeing any reporters, James."

"He's not a reporter, madam. He says this is a personal matter. His name is Raffaele Rossellini."

"I don't know a Mr Rossellini. Please ask him to leave."

"Mrs Whittaker?" A deep, accented voice penetrated the air. Even through the speaker, it vibrated with strength and raw masculinity. "We haven't met before, but I must see you. I was a friend of your husband's."

"I knew all of Kyle's friends, Mr Rossellini. I don't know you."

"All of them, Mrs Whittaker?"

The reality of his question hit her like a hard-fisted punch to the stomach. She hadn't known about Kyle's lover.

"Come up." She ground out through clenched teeth. "I can see you for ten minutes only."

"What I have to say will not take long."

Silence.

He was already on his way.

Lana quickly flicked on several down-lights, bathing the room in a warm glow that was in total contrast to the cold ball of lead settled deep in the pit of her stomach.

A sharp rap at her door saw her automatically smooth her dress over her hips and drag her fingers quickly through her hair. Too late to do any more than that. Whatever this guy wanted, it certainly wouldn't make any difference how she looked.

* * *

TYCOON'S VALENTINE VENDETTA

An icy blade streaked through every cell in Lily Fontaine's body. The fine hair on the back of her neck rose

with a chill of foreboding that had nothing to do with the afternoon sea breeze rolling in off the beach.

He was here.

It had always been that way between them—that immediate awareness, the instant connection. Five minutes into her first foray back to her hometown of Onemata, New Zealand, in nearly ten years and it appeared little had changed. The same electricity crackled between them. She knew she had to face him, this ghost from her past—a past she'd been running from for so long and so hard it had finally brought her full circle. She lifted her eyes, compelled to seek confirmation even though she knew without doubt he was within a couple of metres of her right now.

And there he was. Jack Dolan. Her first love. Her last. A waft of expensive cologne filtered past her, overriding the scent of petrol fumes on the service station forecourt as surely as he'd overwhelmed her with his passion and eventually his indifference, leaving her to cope with her father's scorn resting squarely and solely on her slender shoulders.

Unconsciously she stiffened those shoulders as she removed the nozzle from the rental car's tank and replaced it on the petrol bowser.

"So it is you."

The low pitch of his voice had matured; it was deeper, richer, than it had been ten years ago. The sound of it still had the power to send a shiver down her spine, a shiver quite different to the old days. But then, she had to expect that, didn't she? Neither of them were still the same.

He lifted a tanned hand to slide expensive sunglasses down the aristocratic bridge of his nose. She wished he hadn't done that. She would have preferred the barrier, however tiny, between her gaze and the stormy look that crossed his as their eyes met. Fine lines feathered from the corners of his eyes as they adjusted to the sudden glare of bright February summer sunlight reflected off the concrete forecourt. Eyes the colour of liquid amber. Eyes that held her, for a split second, trapped in the past, immobilised, rendered speechless.

Lily swallowed convulsively, desperate to relieve the arid dryness in her throat. She felt the precise second his attention swept from her face to the muscles working in her neck. Tiny flickers of heat grew where his gaze touched. Damn him for still having that effect on her.

"You're not what I expected." Jack didn't so much as blink.

"What were you expecting?" Lily lifted her chin and met his stare full-on.

Instantly she knew her mistake. You never beard a lion in its own den. She should have ignored him, gone in and paid for her petrol and left.

"Certainly not someone who could pump her own gas," he drawled, snapping her out of her temporary fugue.

Goaded, she couldn't hold back her reply. "It's amazing what can happen when someone grows up then, isn't it? I can't say you're what I was expecting, either." She flicked what she hoped was a scathing gaze over the fine tailored suit he wore right down to the hand-tooled Italian leather shoes that encased his feet. Yes, she noticed things like that. It was what had kept her afloat in the artificial world she'd dwelled in for far too long. "Not exactly a part-time fuel-pump boy anymore. Still remember how to do it?"

His eyes narrowed speculatively at her careless remark. Lily gave an inward groan. When would she learn to shut up and let silence be her voice?

"You know what I meant, Jack." She spun away from him, her Manolos clicking a staccato echo in her wake.

His eyes continued to bore a virtual hole into her back as she went inside the store and paid for her gas. She could feel it, like the searing concentration of power from a magnifying glass in the sun. It was a relief to get inside the petrol station store, to hear the tinted sliding doors whoosh shut behind her.

She didn't know what she had expected inside but it certainly wasn't the modernised countertop and the stands of groceries and household consumables that stood in colourful rows. Time hadn't stood still here. She wasn't the only one who had changed since her ignominious departure from a town she'd learned to loathe with every cell in her body.

The swish of the automatic opening doors behind her and that same tantalising waft of sandalwood and lime gave her advance warning of Jack's approach. With a swift smile she accepted her receipt from the attendant and turned to leave only to find her way barred by six-foot-plus of solid never-take-no-for-an-answer male.

"What brings you back, Lily?" His tone was couched in a way that wouldn't alert any eavesdropping ears to the history that hung between them, but there was no mistaking the seriousness in his eyes.

"Nothing in particular," she lied as smoothly as she could. She wasn't about to unload her financial woes on Jack's shoulders any time this millennium. "Just thought it was time for a trip back."

"So you won't be here long then?" His eyes became blank, making it harder to read what was behind his question.

"Long enough, Jack. I don't have any plans to leave in a hurry. Satisfied?"

"Leaving in a hurry was your speciality, wasn't it?And as to whether I'm satisfied…" He let his voice trail away.

Heat bloomed across Lily's chest and up her neck. She grabbed her sunglasses out of her handbag, shoved them onto her face and stalked out to her waiting car—her brief sanctuary. She was shaking as she opened her car door and settled into the seat. She had the engine running and the car in gear when a loud knock on her driver's window made her jump.

Jack. What now? She stifled her irritation and the scathing remark begging to be freed from her tongue and instead flipped the switch that lowered the car window.

"Yes?" She imbued the monosyllabic question with as much tedium as she could manage.

Her heart lurched as Jack's face softened into a smile. Even after all these years he could still see straight through her and quite clearly knew how much his comment had rattled her.

"It's been a long time," he drawled. "Let's not get off on the wrong foot. I apologise for baiting you back there. I didn't mean to upset you on your first trip home."

"Yeah, whatever, Jack. No offence taken. Water under the bridge and all that."

He didn't take his hand off the windowsill and Lily's foot itched to press down on the accelerator and just get away. She stared pointedly at his fingers—trying, and failing, to indicate he should remove them from her vehicle. His hands were broad, his fingers long and neatly manicured. Somewhat different and vastly more polished than those of the apprentice motor mechanic who had caressed her teenage body to giddy heights so long ago. A sudden pull of longing from deep inside her womb made her fight to suppress a gasp.

Coming home had been a terrible mistake.

"I'll see you around." The way he said it made it a certainty, not just an observation.

"Yeah. Later, then."

Her knuckles were white where she gripped the steering wheel and she forced herself to relax, breathing from deep in her diaphragm. He took his hand off the sill and gave her a small wave. Lily put her car into gear and eased away from the forecourt. She doubted she'd be seeing Jack Dolan anytime soon. Not if she had any choice in the matter. The water that had flowed under their particular bridge had been turbulent and full of debris, enough to undermine their supports and bring the bridge crashing down.

Well, there was one thing in favour of having met up with him so early on in her return to Onemata. It was over and done with. Now all she had to do was to face her father—oh, and get her life together. Her mouth twisted into a rueful smile, if only it was that simple.

As she drove through the town at the base of the peninsula she noticed the changes—some subtle, some not. It was both familiar and strange at the same time, and left her unsettled. No less so because of the direction she was taking toward her father's beachfront home near the distant tip of the finger of land that gave Onemata its name. She hadn't set foot inside the house since the night he'd ripped her teen romance with Jack into tiny pieces and ordered her away to Auckland. Since then, unwilling to return, she'd stayed in New Zealand's largest city for a couple of years, attending university and enjoying the anonymity of being one of many instead of being in the town where everyone knew each other's business.

A chance encounter with a modelling scout had seen her catapulted into Fashion Week and then overseas. Returning to Onemata had been the furthest thing from her mind. But there came a time in everyone's life when they had to take stock and assess their direction. A succession of poor investments, on top of a persistent bout of mono that made it impossible for her to accept new work, made that time now.

Jack watched through narrowed eyes as Lily drove away from him and through the main street of town. Did she even know that most of it was his? he wondered. Did she have any idea of what she was dealing with now she was home?

He doubted it.

His body still radiated the heat that had flamed through him at the first sight of her. He'd thought he'd have been immune after all these years, but no. His reaction had been as instantaneous and immediate as the first day she'd turned up at Onemata High. Hot, hard and hungry for a taste of her.

She was thinner than she used to be, almost fragile-looking, and there was a distance in her pale blue eyes he'd never encountered in her before. A distance that reminded him of her father and his business ethics.

Jack's vow, the one that had driven him to the peak of Australasia's business elite, echoed through his mind. The Fontaine family would never again wreak harm on those dear to him.

His mind ticked over, weighing his next move. Lily's arrival home was more portentous, and less of her own making, than she realised. Over the past few years he'd systematically bought out every asset previously owned by Charles Fontaine, and was now poised for the coup de grâce—the decimation of Fontaine Compuware, Charles Fontaine's own mother lode of wealth, within the next month. How rich would be the satisfaction to use Lily Fontaine as a tactical weapon in his final campaign? Oh yeah, Charles had it coming to him, all right. And so did his deceitful daughter.

Lily knew she should be back up in the house having something to eat and gearing up to face her father when he returned home from the office. Instead she hunched in the sand dunes, oblivious to the lights spilling behind her and across the manicured lawn from the two-storied Spanish-style house her father had built as a monument to his wealth, her eyes fixed on the glittering beauty of moonlight reflected on the heaving sea and foaming water. Tonight, each hungry, rolling wave appeared to relentlessly devour another piece of the shoreline as it advanced and retreated with military precision.

Onemata had that effect on you, she decided. Bit by bit, it consumed. Slowly. Inexorably.

There'd been a brief handwritten note from the housekeeper, Mrs. Manson, waiting for her when she'd let herself in with her old key. Her father had been detained at the office and she was to make herself at home and not to wait dinner for him.

A wave of guilt had swept through her at the relief she'd felt when she knew she had a brief respite from their reunion. Guilt followed by a pang of hurt that he couldn't be bothered to be home when she'd arrived.

The distance that the years away had given her was nothing. It had passed in a blink. She'd sworn she'd never come back, a tearful promise made into her sodden pillow after her father had sent her to Auckland. To anyone who'd asked, she'd gone up to start university there, but there'd been more to it. Her father had seen. He'd known. And the knowledge had shamed him. She had shamed him.

While her father had driven her to leave, Jack Dolan had made certain she'd never want to return. In those first few weeks after she'd gone she'd hoped with all her heart he'd return her phone call, that he'd find some way to come after her. But he hadn't so much as tried to contact her. Not once. He'd chosen to accept her father's money rather than her love. His rejection had been more painful than she'd ever believed possible, and she knew all about pain.

Now here she was. Home. For most people the four-letter word invoked warmth and comfort. The secure knowledge that whatever you'd done, wherever you'd been and whoever you'd become, you could always come back to a sense of family and belonging. But not for her, not now.

JEALOUSY & A JEWELLED PROPOSITION

He was alone.

Matt Hammond punched in the code that gave him access to the inner sanctum of House of Hammond and realised being alone was the one true constant in his life these days. Even Lionel Wong, the backbone of the business and usually the last to leave each evening, had gone home. Matt paused in the silence and drank in the satisfaction that came from being here.

It always felt like coming home. A feeling he'd come to look forward to during his all-too-frequent forays overseas in the past few months.

He dropped his briefcase on his desk and slumped into his high-backed leather chair. Weariness pulled at every cell in his body, but he refused to acknowledge it, or the hollow emptiness that dwelt in his chest. It'd been a helluva six months so far. Just when would life let up? He brushed the question aside. He had no time for the inanity of rhetoric right now. Each day brought its own challenge, and he would meet every one of them and win. Winning was just about all he had left.

He snatched up the collection of messages his secretary had left in the centre of his desk, a frown scoring two sharp lines between his eyebrows as the same name appeared again and again.

Jake Vance. Or, in his other persona, James Blackstone-the famous Blackstone missing heir finally returned to a glorious welcome home.

With a reflexive crunch of his fingers, Matt reduced the messages to trash and ignominiously launched them into the wastepaper basket.

He had no desire to speak with a Blackstone, whether he bore that name by choice or otherwise. The family was responsible for more misery than he cared to acknowledge. Traitors or thieves, every last one of them right down to Kimberley Blackstone. Perrini, now, he corrected himself. Hers had been the bitterest betrayal of all. He'd expected more of his cousin. She'd become his right hand in the business over the past ten years, but in the end she'd been just like her father. A Blackstone to the bone. And to think she'd believed the rivalry between the Hammonds and the Blackstones could be mended.

The slow rage that constantly burned deep within him fought to rise to the surface, but with his inimitable cool control he tamped it back down. There would be satisfaction. Everything the Blackstones had done- and the list was extensive-would come home to roost.

Matt leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers under his chin. It wouldn't be long now and he'd be the one pulling Blackstone strings. A Hammond in control, as it should have been before Howard Blackstone stripped the family of its Australian assets with his unscrupulous methods. Blackstone had made his fortune by taking what he wanted, particularly from the Hammonds, but he'd dealt one hand too many when he'd taken Marise. Matt had sworn on the man's grave that he would pay and he would. Despite the glitch in his plans when Vincent Blackstone had refused to sell out his share holding to Matt back in February, there was nothing the Blackstones could do to stop him now. Matt's people had painstakingly approached minor shareholders with enough incentive that he was now very close to success.

He gave his desk another cursory glance. Still no message from Quinn Everard. He'd expected by now that the gem broker would have a solid lead on the last of the Blackstone Rose diamonds. Perhaps Everard's contacts weren't as efficient as he'd believed. That was the trouble with stolen property. It was difficult to find. Especially property that should have been a part of Matt's family's heritage and not tainted by the Blackstone name.

With a sigh, Matt leaned forward and popped open his briefcase to remove a contract from inside. A faint hint of a smile played around his lips. Success. With the agreement of the New Zealand Pacific Pearl distributors now in his hands he could fine-tune the launch of the Matt Hammond Heirloom Range of jewellery.

His own signature range.

He'd been working hard for months on developing the line of reproduction antique jewellery, and finally it would come to fruition. A man had to grab his pleasures where he could, Matt reminded himself, especially in a life like his that had seen precious few of them in some time.

Speaking of pleasures, this little foray into the office on his way home from the airport had cost him the pleasure of putting his son, Blake, to bed. Matt flicked a look at the Patek Philippe watch his father had presented to him on his twenty-first birthday and grimaced. Yeah, it was definitely far too late to catch Blake. But there was always the morning.

No matter how empty his marriage had become before Marise's departure to Australia, at least it had left him with his son. The void around his heart squeezed a little tighter. Had his dead wife had the last laugh on him after all? No, he didn't want to go down that route. He didn't want to even consider that Blake was not his own. As an adopted child himself he knew it shouldn't matter. Love and care and upbringing created the bonds between father and son, not just blood. But the question continued to prickle, like a fine metal filing wedged under the skin.

Was Howard Blackstone Blake's real father?

The thought made his gut clench. Marise had always been fascinated with the Blackstone family. But her death five months ago, as a result of the plane crash that had also taken the life of the Blackstone patriarch, had raised more questions than answers. Questions like what the hell was she doing with Howard Blackstone in the first place? Matt knew Blackstone would have relished rubbing his nose in an affair.

He wrestled once more with the anger that threatened to boil over. Howard Blackstone. It always came down to him. But no more. By the end of the month Matt's plans would reach their ultimate conclusion and he would exact his ultimate revenge.

He got up from his chair to file the new contract, dictated a short note to his secretary and headed off for home. Tomorrow was another day. He still had the night to get through and it would be long and lonely enough.

Subtle garden lighting spread pools of gold over the rain-washed driveway as Matt turned in through the iron gates that led to his family home in Auckland's exclusive Devonport. At least the paparazzi were no longer camped at his front gate. Five months ago he'd barely been able to move without having a camera or a microphone shoved in his face. Now the furore over Marise's and Howard Blackstone's deaths had all but died away, but the bitterness still lingered.

The formality of the gardens that lined the drive had once been his mother's pride and joy. Matt still questioned his parents' decision to move to a nearby assisted-living complex after his father's stroke. Goodness knew the house was large enough for them all and modification of a suite of rooms for his parents would've been simple enough. But they'd been insistent it was time he took over the property for his family.

Some family. A wife who'd been homesick and unsettled almost from the day of their marriage and who'd abandoned their vows and their child without so much as a backward glance. Matt could never forgive her for walking out on them the way she had-and especially not when she'd gone straight into the arms of Howard Blackstone.

The garage door slid open at a touch of a button and Matt pulled his Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren into its bay, the rumble of its powerful engine fading as he turned the motor off. To one side still sat Marise's Porsche Cayenne. He really had to do something about getting rid of the Cayenne. Since she'd gone, he'd done little more than take it round the block once a month, preferring to use his other car-a Mercedes sedan- when taking Blake out. But like other less urgent things, dealing with the Porsche had to wait until he was ready. More important matters pressed on his time right now.

He'd told Rachel, Blake's temporary nanny, to use the thing. Marise had, after all, insisted on the vehicle for Blake's safety on the road, but Rachel had preferred to use her mother's smaller hatchback, arguing that in his child restraint Blake would be just as safe. She'd even gone onto the Land Transport Safety Authority Web site and printed the crash reports for her make and model of vehicle to prove her point. Eventually it'd been easier to give in to her demands.

But Matt knew from past experience, giving in to Rachel Kincaid's demands was a weakness that spelled trouble with a capital 'T'.

The interior of his home was softly lit, quietness all pervading. He made his way along the passage towards the stairs with the intention of checking on Blake. He could have negotiated every room in the dark; there was no need for Rachel or her mother-his housekeeper, Mrs Kincaid-to have left lights on for him.

A small noise as he passed by the living room attracted his attention. His eyes alighted on a sleeping form spread out on the large couch. Rachel. Her rich nut-brown hair was pulled back in a plait, but tendrils had escaped to kiss the rim of her heart-shaped face. Like this, she looked about ten years younger than the twenty-eight he knew her to be. In fact she looked little different from the determined tomboy who had followed him and his brother, Jarrod, around as often as her mother had allowed it while they were growing up. Nothing like the suddenly sophisticated young woman he'd escorted to her high school graduation dance on the night that had seen her graduate to new levels of maturity beneath his touch. He'd betrayed her innocence, he reminded himself, forcing his wakening libido into submission, and he'd betrayed her trust. It wouldn't happen again.

She stirred again, as if aware of his scrutiny, then settled back into the plump cushions of the sofa. Her sweatshirt slid above the waistband of her jeans and slightly twisted across her ribs, showcasing the lush curves of her body. Her lips were soft and full, slightly parted as if awaiting some fairy-tale prince to come and wake her from her slumber. Matt clenched his jaw uncomfortably. What was he thinking?

Rachel Kincaid was his son's nanny, no more, no less-and he was certainly no prince, fairy tale or otherwise. What happened in the past was a mistake best forgotten and filed back into the recesses of his memory. What he needed to do now was rouse her and send her home. Goodness knew what she was still doing here, anyway. Mrs Kincaid lived in her own quarters-a self-contained unit at the far end of the house-except for the times Matt travelled overseas. On those occasions she'd stay in one of the upstairs guest rooms so she could keep an ear out for Blake. It hadn't been necessary for Rachel to live in, and that was just the way he liked it. It was unsettling enough to have her in the house by day, but to have her live in? That would definitely stretch the bounds of sanity.

He reached forward to give her a little shake but hesitated with his hand in the air over her shoulder, the warmth of her body a tangible thing in the air between them. At her side Blake's even breathing could be faintly heard on the baby monitor. It suddenly occurred to Matt that Mrs Kincaid's quarters had been in total darkness when he'd pulled into the driveway. Strange.

Matt let his hand drop to Rachel's shoulder, his shadow crossing her face. She stirred and her eyelids flicked open. Her hazel eyes, initially unfocussed, sharpened suddenly as she realised he was there. Matt pulled his hand back, telling himself it was not regret that trickled through him because his touch had been so brief, but relief instead.

"You're home."

There was an accusatory note in her voice that set his hackles up instantly.

"So it would seem," he answered coolly.

"Blake was upset you weren't here at bedtime, like you promised," she persisted in the same tone of voice.

"My flight was later back than anticipated and I had to go into the office from the airport." Damn, he didn't answer to her, so why did he let her make him feel so darned guilty?

"Really? 'Had to,' Matt? On a Sunday night? You've been gone since the middle of last week." She pushed herself up from the couch and stood up to him, her five-and-a-half-foot frame no match for his six feet. "What was so much more important than spending time with your son? You forget, he's just a little boy-not even four years old. He needs his father."

"I forget nothing, Rachel." For a moment the air between them thickened, his words taking on a double entendre that related more to the spectre of the past that hovered broodingly between them than the present. Matt made a sweeping motion with his hand, as if to brush away the words he now wished unspoken. "Go on, head off. Start later tomorrow. I'll get your mum to see to Blake in the morning."

He reached for the baby monitor on the couch and switched it off. He had one in his master suite downstairs. Since Marise had departed for Australia at the beginning of December last year, he'd become attuned to the noises Blake made through the night. His fatherly instinct had sent him flying up the stairs to the boy's room at the slightest indication of distress before Blake could even wake properly.

"That's the problem. She can't."

Matt stilled. "What do you mean?"

"I left a message on your cell phone," she said with growing irritation, evidenced by the tension around her full lips. "Mum's been called away. Her sister, down in Wanganui, had a fall today. She's really shaken up. Mum flew down to help her."

The ramifications of Rachel's short speech hit home hard. No Mrs Kincaid? That meant…

"So I'll have to stay in house." She continued, oblivious to the silent clamour of denial in his head. "I can stay in Mum's apartment, or one of the rooms upstairs. I think upstairs would be best, given your erratic hours lately."

Matt fielded her pointed glare. "How long?"

"What?"

"How long is your mother going to be in Wanganui?"

"We don't know yet. Aunty Jane is quite a bit older than Mum, and rather frail. Hopefully we'll get a better idea in a few days."

"A few days." Matt repeated the words flatly. He could cope with a few days.

"Well, we'll know in a few days. It could be longer." She put up one hand to stifle a yawn. "Before I go, there's something else I need to talk to you about."

"Can't it wait?"

"Not this, no." She fidgeted slightly, pulling her bottle-green sweatshirt down over her hips and smoothing the fabric.

The movement drew his attention to the tiny span of her waist and the generous flare of her hips. She was dynamite in a tiny package, all right. A forbidden package, he reminded himself sternly. As forbidden now as she'd been the night of her high school graduation ball.

CLAIMING HIS RUNAWAY BRIDE

His wife?

How could she have forgotten something like that?

Someone like him?

Belinda eyed the silent stranger standing beside her father at the foot of her hospital bed. Tall, and looking as if his designer clothes were just a little too large on his frame, the stranger stood with his left hand in his trouser pocket, his right hand resting on the knob of a shiny black cane.

She didn't even know his name. How could she be married to him and have no knowledge of it? Fear choked her throat.

His glittering green eyes never left her face. An intangible thread of something—was it anger?—burned just below the surface. His expression remained inscrutable. The hard lines of his face spoke of an iron will—this was not a man who tolerated fools.

Her breath hitched. She didn't know him—how could they expect her to go home with a total stranger? Belinda cast a frightened look at her father. The smile he returned seemed strained; the lines on his face deeper than usual. Suddenly her desire to be released from her room here at Auckland City Hospital fled, and the place she'd itched to be free of assumed proportions more in line with a much-sought-after sanctuary.

A disturbing thought occurred to her.

"If you're my husband why haven't you been here at my side, like my parents have? It's two weeks since I came out of the coma." Her challenge rang hollowly across the room.

Belinda intercepted a glance between her father and the man who claimed to be her husband, saw the imperceptible nod her father gave.

"Well?" she demanded, her hands fisting in the bedclothes.

"The accident that took your memory also caused me injury. I am fit to return home now. With you."

There was a great deal he wasn't saying, and what he left unsaid caused her more anxiety than the realisation he too had been hospitalised. She'd been treated with kid gloves by the medical staff and her parents since she'd regained consciousness, everyone prepared to give her medical answers but nothing else. Not even the details of the accident that had left her in a coma for four weeks. Throughout the past two weeks of tests and examinations, her doctors had tried to find the cause of her amnesia and had come to the conclusion it was not a direct result of the blow to her head that she'd sustained in a car accident. She'd overheard the words "traumatic amnesia" and "hysterical amnesia" being discussed in low tones.

The last had made her shudder. Did that make her crazy, she wondered, that she chose to forget a part of her life that for anyone should have been full of excitement, fun and passion? Or did she have good reason to want to forget?

She looked again at the stranger. The slightly less-than-perfect fit of his clothing now made sense if he had been stuck in hospital. Had he been too incapacitated to see her? Did a lengthy stay in bed explain his gauntness? She had no doubt that he was the type of man who paid attention to every detail, and that under normal circumstances his clothing would conform to his body as if tailor-made.

Another thought skittered through her mind. Had they timed her release to coincide with his? Protest flared inside.

She'd been railroaded.

"No, I won't do it. I won't go home with you. I don't even know you!" Her voice sounded shrill, panicked.

The stranger's eyes narrowed, a muscle worked in the side of his jaw.

"I'm Luc Tanner, you are Belinda Tanner—my wife. Of course you'll come home with me." He nodded in her father's direction. "Do you think your father would allow you out of his sight if I was a threat to his precious child? Rest assured, you know me well."

There was an undercurrent in his tone she couldn't quite nail, but it was enough to send a shiver down her spine. She shook her head slightly to rid herself of the sensation. What the stranger—Luc, she corrected herself—said made sense but a cautionary niggle played at the back of her mind.

"Why can't I go home with Dad? At least until my memory returns." She was grasping at straws, and she knew it.

"And if your memory never returns? Are we to forever forget our marriage? Our vows to each other?"

There was a thread of steel in his tone that sent a chill through her. It was a good question. What if she didn't get her lost months back? And why, when she could remember so much else, could she remember nothing of their courtship, their marriage? The love they'd supposedly shared.

A spear of something else shot through her body. Had they been intimate? They must have been, even now her body warmed to his with a physical recognition her mind refused to accept. He was a very attractive man despite that air of aloofness he wore like a warrior's mantle. A flush of heat suffused her cheeks as she studied his features—the slightly shadowed line between cheekbone and jaw bisected by a thin pink scar, the straight blade of his nose, the sensual curve of his lips. Had they lain together, delighted in each other's scents, reactions, pleasure? Had she clutched that short-cropped sable-coloured hair as she'd held him to her body?

The stranger's voice was like the sensual stroke of velvet across her skin as he changed tactics in the face of her refusal to go with him. "Belinda, I know you're afraid, but I'm your husband. If you can't trust me who can you trust? We will work through this," he cajoled gently. "And if your memory never returns, we will make new memories."

New memories. Why did the very thought strike dread into her heart?

She shot an imploring look at her father. "Dad?"

"You'll be fine, my sweet. Besides, you know your mother and I had planned to travel for a bit. We postponed the trip because of the accident. Now that you and Luc are well again we can set our plans back on track. Go home with Luc, honey. Everything will be all right."

Was it her imagination or were her father's words just a little too emphatic?

"The doctor has seen fit to discharge you. It's time for you to come home." Luc held out his left hand to her, a hand that bore a glint of gold on his ring finger. A ring she'd supposedly put on him while declaring her love for him before witnesses.

Belinda was suddenly aware of her own naked hand. There wasn't even so much as a dent in her skin to show where a ring had encircled her finger.

"Ah, yes, of course. Your rings." Luc slid his hand inside the breast pocket of his jacket and extracted two rings. He limped forward to the side of her bed. "Let me."

His fingers were surprisingly warm to the touch. They curled about her hand in a gentle, yet undeniably possessive grip. Something perverse inside her encouraged her to pull from his touch. As if he anticipated her action his fingers tightened as he helped her to her feet—his grip holding her hand captive.

He slid the platinum band, inlaid with baguette-cut white diamonds, onto her ring finger. As the overhead light caught the sparkle and fire in the stones, Belinda fought to control the tremor that quaked through her body, the sensation of having been branded Luc Tanner's property. A shocking sense of déjà vu swamped her as the image of Luc placing the ring on her finger in another time and place filled her mind. A remembered thrill of excitement and anticipation surged through her.

She fought to hold on to the impression, the fleeting consciousness of her lost months, but it dissipated as quickly as it had come, leaving her feeling empty and alone.

Belinda became aware of Luc's long fingers sliding another ring on her finger, bringing it up over her knuckle to nestle against the wedding band. The radiant-cut blue-grey diamond burned with cold fire, the shoulders of its setting decorated with smaller baguette-cut white diamonds. She gasped aloud at the size and beauty of the stone.

"Did…did I choose this?"

Luc's dark brows pulled together, making him appear even more formidable than before. "You don't remember this, either? For a moment I thought you did."

Somehow he'd sensed her flash of memory when he'd put on her wedding band. The implication of how well he understood her was unnerving, more unnerving perhaps than even the knowledge that she couldn't remember a single thing about him.

"No," she replied on a whisper. "I remember nothing."

"I commissioned the ring for you the day I met you."

"The day we met? But how...?" Belinda looked up at him in surprise.

Luc's gaze held hers. "I knew from that day you would be my wife."

Her laugh sounded forced, even to her ears. "And did I have any say in the matter?"

"Belinda." He pronounced each syllable of her name with care, making it sound like a caress. "You loved me before. You will love me again."

He lifted her hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. His lips were surprisingly cool and an unexpected quiver of longing spread through her. What would it feel like if he kissed her? Would that unlock their past, the memories entrapped within her mind?

Luc drew her to his side, the imprint of his body heat seeped through her light clothing and deeper, to her skin. She pulled away, just enough to break the unnerving contact that had already sent her pulse into an erratic beat. His body felt unfamiliar, yet she was drawn to him at the same time. Surely if they had been married, been intimate together, she would have some physical memory imprinted in her psyche?

"The helicopter is waiting. We can't obstruct the hospital helipad for any longer than absolutely necessary."

"Helicopter? We aren't driving? Just how far are we going?"

"Tautara Estate is southeast of Lake Taupo. Perhaps being back there will assist in triggering a memory for you."

"Lake Taupo, but that's almost a four-hour drive from here. What if...?" Her voice trailed away helplessly. What if, indeed? There'd be no one there to help her if the fears that plagued the edge of her consciousness became more than she could bear.

"What if…?" Luc prompted, his lips a thin implacable line across his face.

"Nothing." Belinda dropped her head slightly, allowing the fullness of her hair to cover her face, to hide the sudden tears that stung her eyes. Everything inside her screamed that this was wrong, but she couldn't, for the life of her, remember why. The doctors had told her her memory should return in time, that she should stop trying to force things, but right now the black void in her mind threatened to overwhelm her.

"Then let's go."

Belinda walked two steps with Luc then halted, her sudden stop sending him slightly off balance. She noticed he used the cane to regain his stability. Was he fully recovered himself? She already sensed it was a question she couldn't ask, sensed he was too proud to admit to physical failure or weakness. Pulling from Luc's hold, she turned to her father, holding her arms out for a hug.

"I'll see you later, then, Dad. You'll give my love to Mum?" She searched his face once more for any inkling of why she felt as if she'd been shucked off like last year's haute couture, but he refused to fully meet her gaze. Instead he wrapped her in his arms and held her as if he'd never let her go.

"Yes, I will. She wasn't up to today's visit but we will see you soon," Baxter Wallace said, his voice thick.

"Baxter." Luc's voice cut through the air with the precision of fine steel, and her father's arms dropped to his side.

"Go on, darling, everything will be all right. Just wait and see," he urged.

"Of course everything will be all right. Why wouldn't it be?" Luc tucked Belinda's arm in the crook of his and guided her out the door.

Later, as the helicopter lifted from the pad, Belinda tried to remember why she'd been so excited when the doctor had told her she'd be discharged this afternoon. Now she felt anything but. She had nothing with her but the clothes on her back and the rings on her finger—rings that felt as foreign to her as the man who was her husband. She didn't even have so much as a pair of sunglasses to ward off the sharp late-summer-afternoon light.

She cast a glance forward to her husband who sat next to the pilot in the cockpit. Her husband. No matter what they said, he was a stranger, and deep in her heart she knew he'd remain that way for a long, long time.

You loved me before. You will love me again.

His words echoed in her mind and as they did it occurred to her he'd said nothing of his feelings for her. Not one word of love had passed his lips from the moment she'd set eyes on him. The realisation sat like a cold ball of lead in the pit of stomach.

CONVENIENT MARRIAGE, INCONVENIENT HUSBAND

"Marry me. I'll make it worth your while."

What the hell was she doing here? Amira Forsythe-more frequently known as the Forsythe Princess-was as out of place here in the Ashurst Collegiate Chapel men's room as she was in his life, period. He didn't know which he found more startling. Her demand or the fact she'd actually followed him in here. Brent Colby straightened from the basin and casually reached for a fresh towel. He painstakingly dried his hands and dropped the towel in the deep wicker basket before turning to face her.

His eyes raked over the expensively styled, natural honey-blond hair that tumbled over her shoulders, the immaculate makeup, the exquisitely tailored black suit that hugged her generous curves and threw her luscious creamy skin into sharp relief against its unrelenting somberness. Her fragrance-an intriguing combination of flowers and spice-reached across the sterile atmosphere of the tiled room to infiltrate his senses. Against his better judgment, he inhaled. Stupid mistake, he silently rebuked himself as his blood thickened and heated, pooling low in his groin.

At her throat, her pulse beat rapidly against the single strand of pearls that shimmered in their priceless perfection against the nacre of her skin. A dead giveaway. Beneath that well-groomed exterior, she was scared.

Scared of him? She ought to be. Since she'd left him at the altar eight years ago, he'd had a wealth of anger simmering silently inside. When she'd made it absolutely clear she wouldn't be providing any excuses for her behaviour, he'd rebuilt his world without her in it. For the better.

Brent allowed his gaze to meet and clash with hers, took satisfaction in the way her pupils dilated, almost consuming the icy-blue irises-the distinctively chilling Forsythe stare. Marry her? She had to be kidding.

"No," he replied.

He started to walk past her. Even going back into the chapel where the throng of mourners exchanged platitudes after Professor Woodley's wife's memorial service would be preferable to this. Her hand on his arm halted him in his tracks.

"Please. Brent, I need you to marry me."

He stopped and looked pointedly at her ringless fingers on his arm, not betraying for a second what her touch did to him. How his nerves tautened and his heart rate increased. How he'd like nothing better than to push his fingers through the thick silk of her hair and bend his mouth to the smooth column of her throat. Even after all this time, she still had this effect.

Rather than let go immediately, her grip tightened on his forearm before she eased her hold and contradictorily he wished she hadn't. He didn't know what she had in mind, but one thing, at least, was certain. He didn't want a bar of it.

"Amira, even if I was open to discussion on the matter, this is neither the time nor the place."

"Look, Brent, I know we have some bitterness between us-"

Some bitterness? The woman had left him standing at the front of the church swelled with a couple of hundred guests with little more than a text message to his best man. Yeah, there was "some bitterness" between them, all right. Brent had to fight to hold back the derisive bark of laughter that rose in his throat.

"Please. Won't you hear me out?"

Amira's voice had a tiny wobble in it. Another betrayal of the inimitable Forsythe calm. If her grandmother were alive today, no doubt she'd be deeply disappointed in her only granddaughter, and sole remaining direct descendant, for exhibiting such weakness.

"As I recall, you had your shot at marrying me. You blew it. We have nothing to say to one another." Brent bit the words out through a jaw clenched on all the things he'd like to say. In two long strides he was at the men's room door.

"You're the only man I can trust to do this."

He halted in his tracks, his hand resting on the metal push plate on the door. Trust? That was laughable coming from her.

"I think you'll find you're mistaken. If I were you, I wouldn't trust me not to take you for every last red cent. After all, money is the issue here, isn't it?"

"How… how did you know?"

Brent sighed inwardly before meeting her strained gaze. "Because with your kind it always is."

He should have kept on walking. Engaging in conversation with Amira was the last thing he needed.

"Wait. At least give me an opportunity to explain why. Honestly, I will make it worth your while. I promise."

"Like your word is worth anything?"

"I need you."

There was a time he'd have walked through a burning building to hear her say that again, but that time was long past. The Forsythes of this world didn't need anyone. Period. They used people. And when they were done using, they discarded. But there was something in the tone of her voice and the fine lines of strain around her eyes that piqued his interest. That she had a problem on her hands was evident. That she thought he could solve that problem, equally so.

"All right, but not now. I'm working from home tomorrow. Meet me there. Nine thirty."

"Nine thirty? I have-"

"Or not at all." He'd be damned if he'd cater to her social schedule. She'd see him on his turf, on his terms, or not at all.

"Yes, nine thirty's fine."

Amira turned to go. Typical, Brent thought. She got what she thought she wanted. Now he was summarily dismissed. But then she halted in her tracks and turned around.

"Brent?"

"What?"

"Thank you."

Don't thank me yet, Brent added silently. He followed her outside through the chapel and into the adjoining Jubilee Hall of Ashurst Collegiate where, as he watched, she disappeared into the throng. It occurred to him that she must have been the woman his assistant said had been persistently phoning his inner-city office each day and refusing to leave a message when told he was still overseas on business. How on earth had she tracked him down here? He'd only returned late last night in a mad dash attempt to make the service. Attending Mrs. Woodley's memorial was a deeply personal matter, one of respect. It rankled him that Amira had soured what was already a difficult day.

He scanned the hall. He didn't even need to close his eyes to still see the rows of impeccably uniformed boys lined up for assembly each morning, hear the sonorous tones of the headmaster-experience again that sensation of not truly belonging.

He hadn't wanted to come to Ashurst, one of New Zealand's most prestigious private boys' schools, but his uncle, his mother's brother, had insisted, saying even though he didn't bear the Palmer name, he still deserved the education that came with his familial lineage.

That was the trouble with old money. Everyone thought they called the shots, knew what was best for you, if only because it was the way things were "done."

Brent hadn't wanted any handouts. He'd seen what having the Palmers pay his fees had done to his father's pride. Zack Colby might never have had the wealth of his wife' s family but he'd taught Brent the benefit of working for his place in the world. As a result Brent had worked his backside off to be awarded one of the rarely bestowed Ashurst Scholarships for Academic Excellence-and he'd repaid every cent to his uncle before he'd left school.

But he hadn't been so perfect a student that there weren't some rough patches. He and his two best friends had excelled at their share of mischief as well. He glanced across the milling crowd of past and present students and faculty members, searching for the faces of his cohorts-his cousin, Adam Palmer, and their friend, Draco San-drelli. He wasn't disappointed; they were making their way over to him already. Adam was first at his side.

"Hey, cuz. Was that who I thought it was coming out of the men's room a minute ago?"

"What? You need glasses now?" Brent responded with a smile that didn't quite make it to his eyes. He lifted a glass of mineral water from the tray being circulated by one of the waitstaff and took a long quenching gulp.

"Very funny. So what did her highness want?" Adam persisted.

Brent weighed up telling them the truth. There had never been any secrets between them before. Now wasn't the time to start holding back.

"She asked me to marry her."

"You're kidding us, right?" Draco laughed, his faint Italian accent betraying his origins despite the number of years he'd spent living and working around the world.

"I wish I was. Anyway, I'll find out more tomorrow."

"What? You're considering seeing her again? After what she did?" Adam shook his head.

"Yeah. I am. But don't worry. I don't plan on saying yes anytime soon."

Brent looked around the room, scanning for a golden-blond head, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Do you know why she asked you?" Draco asked, his voice threaded with disbelief and a healthy dose of mistrust.

"Last time I heard from her was that bloody text she sent when we were at the church waiting for her to turn up," Adam added.

Brent clenched his jaw at the memory. They'd been at the altar, the three of them lined up and good-naturedly joking about the lateness of his bride and Brent's soon-to-be married status when Adam's cell phone, nestled in his breast pocket, had discreetly vibrated several times in succession. They'd ignored it. Time had continued to tick past with no sign of Amira. Eventually Adam had checked his phone, his face turning gray at the message.

Tell Brent I can't go through with it. Amira.

Initially Brent had wondered whether it would have made any difference if they'd gotten the message sooner-if he'd been able to get to her house before she'd disappeared with her grandmother-but he'd long discounted that as a waste of energy. And once the shock had diminished into cold, hard anger, he'd cursed himself for a fool for having believed her when she'd said she was different from the mold her grandmother had cast her in.

Back then she'd told him money didn't matter to her, and he'd believed her.

SECRET BABY, PUBLIC AFFAIR

"You were comfort sex. Nothing more."

At least that was all she'd ever let him be. Blair maintained eye contact with Draco Sandrelli and prayed he'd leave before she did something stupid-like faint or throw up all over his highly polished handmade boots. Her stomach, which had been unsettled since breakfast, clenched in a completely different way as he flashed a smile at her, the one he'd used just before they'd tumbled into bed together for the first time. "Cara mia, you know I am so much more than that." His voice dripped sensuality, its sound sending a shimmer of heat through her. She still woke in the night remembering the sound of him, as rich as the rolling timbre of distant thunder on an electrically charged, storm-tossed evening. And worse, remembering the feel of him, the sensation of his body against hers-inside hers. She fought back the small sound that rose in her throat-a sound driven by the heat that suffused her body and insinuated itself along her nerve endings in curling tendrils of desire.

The gold flecks in Draco's green eyes glinted as he watched her reaction. For someone she'd barely met, he seemed able to read her like a book. A tiny smile played around the sensual curve of his lips. He hadn't even forgone his usual designer stubble for today's memorial service, although he'd slicked back his glossy dark hair off his almost too perfect face, its length finishing in a ducktail at his nape. On any other man the style would look ridiculous, but on Draco…Blair swallowed against the sudden dryness in her mouth.

Really, for a man he was too beautiful to be classed as handsome, but despite her reasoning her pulse still raced to a tribal beat.

"Have dinner with me tonight," he coaxed.

"No. No way. I mean it, Draco. Call what we had a holiday fling, whatever. It's not happening again. I'm home now and back at work. Which reminds me, I have things to attend to and I'm sure you do too."

No matter what, she wasn't going to ask him what he was doing here. After all, what were the odds that her uncharacteristic holiday indulgence would turn up at Ashurst Collegiate today? Especially at the memorial reception she'd agreed to do as a favor for one of her dad's oldest friends. As tempting as it was to indulge in another forbidden delight with the sole heir to the Sandrelli empire, Blair had more important things on her mind.

She summoned every ounce of self-control in her arsenal and, tipping her nose ever so slightly in the air, spun on her heel and stalked away.

She sensed, rather than heard, the moment he decided to follow her-the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickling to attention. Blair increased her pace, turned a corner in the corridor and slipped through the doorway leading into the voluminous kitchen off Jubilee Hall, where the reception was being held. She flattened herself against the wall and fought to control her hammering heartbeat, hoping like mad he hadn't seen her duck in here.

Even her hands were trembling, she realized. She hadn't been this upset since she'd caught her fiancé, Rhys, and her best friend, Alicia, in the wine cellar of the converted villa that housed Carson's, her restaurant. The pain of losing the man she'd planned her future with to the friend who was supposed to have stood beside her in the church only a few days later had been unspeakable. Their joint betrayal still stung with the sharpness of a stingray's barb.

It was what had led her to her flight to Italy and tour of Tuscany, and ultimately to Draco Sandrelli, where she'd promptly fallen under his seductive spell.

Yes, he was comfort sex all right. Totally addictive, mind-blowingly generous comfort sex. And just what she'd needed to rebuild her flagging self-esteem. Nothing more.

She shoved herself off the wall and carried on through the kitchen, mentally checking off what she needed to do before returning to Carson's and preparing for her night's clientele. She was relieved to see her personal tools of the trade had been neatly packed back into the case she'd brought them in-a quick check ensured everything was where it should be. There was nothing further for her to do. The casual crew she'd hired to work the reception would complete the cleanup and return the crockery to the restaurant in a couple of hours' time.

Blair smoothed her hands over her uniform, the tailored, crisp short-sleeved white blouse and black skirt which neatly hugged her slim hips, drawing strength from the familiarity of its texture.

She hitched the box against her hip and carried it through the kitchen to the back door and walked around on the graveled drive to where she'd parked her station wagon. She eyed the paint work on her old workhorse with a critical eye. If she hadn't taken the trip to Tuscany she could have replaced old Gertie here with a new vehicle. But if she'd done that she would have remained a victim to Rhys and Alicia's perfidy, instead of learning more about the woman she could be. About the woman she had been.

And it had been that very discovery that had taught Blair she couldn't have it all. She wasn't the kind of person who could develop an award-winning business and be a devoted life partner to anyone. No. She was happy with her decision. Work would be her life for now. And as for Draco, well, everyone was entitled to a "Draco" in their life at one time or another, she rationalized. The intensity of their affair had burned so bright and fierce, it would have totally consumed her had she stayed any longer with him. That one certain truth had made her put everything into perspective. She'd seen it happen to her father over and over, each time destroying his inner self a little more, and she'd sworn she would never succumb to such obsession.

Her wake-up call had come one morning as she'd stirred in Draco's arms, their sheets in a tangle about their naked, sated bodies, and she realized that she hadn't so much as thought about Carson's in three whole days. The realization was sobering. She'd embraced her affair with Draco with the level of passion she usually reserved solely for her work.

No, there definitely wasn't room for both a grand love and a career in her life. Her work was everything. Its success was what defined her, not something as ephemeral as physical attraction between consenting adults.

Blair had risen from their bed and packed immediately, turning a deaf ear to Draco's enticement to stay longer. As sinfully delightful as her time with Draco had been, it wasn't the kind of temptation one could build a future on. There was no security in incendiary attraction. She knew that from both her father's painful past and her own.

There was only one thing she wanted right now, and that was to see Carson's make the five-star review page of Fine Dining magazine. It had been her father's dream, until ill health had forced him to hand the reins of the restaurant over to Blair as he reluctantly settled into early retirement. Now it was her dream. One she thought she'd achieve with Rhys and Alicia by her side. But she could do it on her own. Carson's would become Auckland's leading restaurant. And she'd forget all about Draco Sandrelli.

Draco hesitated outside the door to the kitchen. He'd prowled the corridor in frustration, after finding no sign of Blair. She had to be in here. Unconsciously, he straightened his shoulders. They needed to talk and he wasn't taking no for an answer. When Blair had left his bed that morning he had been prepared to move mountains to get her to stay. It had only been the urgent call to his parents' home, situated a few kilometers away within the Sandrelli estate, that had stopped him. Of course, by the time he'd returned from his father's sickbed, Blair had left the palazzo, leaving no forwarding address.

Seeing her here today had taken him by surprise, but he wasn't the kind of man who looked a gift horse in the mouth. This was a second chance. The magnetism between them had been instant, and he knew better than most that that kind of draw did not happen between couples every lifetime. Too many people settled for what was expected of them-for second best. He'd done that very thing once, out of honor and respect for his family and his dead brother, but the result had been catastrophic. He would not do that again.

The attraction was too fierce.

He settled his hand on the swing door into the kitchen and entered just in time to see Blair exiting at the far end of the room. Draco's strides ate up the distance between them and he burst through the back entrance just as Blair loaded a case into the back of the barely roadwor-thy vehicle in front of her.

"Blair."

"I've said all I have to say, Draco," she sighed, as she unlocked the driver's door and slid in behind the wheel.

Draco stopped her as she tried to swing her door shut.

"Ah yes, but you haven't listened yet to what I have to say."

"To be frank, I'm really not interested in what you have to say."

She tried to wrestle the door closed, and gave up with an angry huff of air when that proved impossible. She crossed her arms defensively over her stomach and stared fixedly out the windshield.

"What's the matter, Draco, can't you tolerate someone turning you down? Granted, I'm sure it probably hasn't happened often in your lifetime, but surely you can get used to it just this once," she snapped.

He smiled in response to her rancor. She sounded like a spitting kitten all in a temper.

"I just want to talk. You left so suddenly. We never had a chance to say good-bye properly."

Draco noticed that that elicited a response. Through the thin cotton of her blouse he saw the instant her nipples peaked against the sheer fabric of her bra. A bra he knew she wore more as a concession to her position at work than out of necessity. He loved her small, high breasts. Loved the way he could elicit a screaming response from her just by nipping ever so gently at their rose-pink tips. He'd never known a woman so sensitive in that area. Never enjoyed one as much as he had Blair. And he wanted to do it all again. And again.

PRETEND MISTRESS, BONA-FIDE BOSS

Adam Palmer stood back from the milling players spread out before him like a pack of colorful cards— oblivious, as usual, to the assessing glances sent his way by women of all ages and marital persuasions.

His business guests were happily ensnared by Lady Luck at one of the gaming tables here in Auckland's Sky City Casino, their eyes glued to the movements of the croupier as if their lives depended on the turn of the deck. The evening was going extremely well. He should be satisfied.

He wasn't.

It still rankled that his personal assistant, Lainey Delacorte, had been otherwise occupied tonight—and since when had she put her life ahead of work? Certainly not once in the two and a half years she'd worked at his side, and, dammit, he had come to rely on that very availability.

At last he'd found an assistant whose work ethic equaled his own. Surpassed it on occasion, he reminded himself as he remembered the number of mornings he arrived at the office and Lainey was already there ahead of him—ready with a cup of his special blend of coffee and the international newspapers he scoured at the start of each day.

He'd really needed her here to help ensure that his clients' and, more importantly, their wives' needs were all covered. Experience had taught him the value of keeping clients happy—when Adam Palmer wooed a company, he made it his business to woo the individuals who held the power first and Lainey had become his secret weapon.

In her unobtrusive way, she served to make everyone more comfortable—from the most dogmatic of CEOs all the way through to their video game obsessed grandkids. And it was her complete unflappability and quiet calm that invariably invited confidences from their clients. Information he might otherwise not be privy to. Information that consistently ensured a strong win-win situation for both sides of the table when it came to negotiation.

Damn, but he missed her tonight.

A movement across the room caught his eye. A flash of red, the glow of smooth, toned bare skin, the sheen of copper-highlighted rich brown hair caught by the subtle overhead lights.

Adam's internal radar honed in on the woman. Tall and elegant, she moved away from him with a grace that seemed vaguely familiar. He willed her to turn around, to see whether the front of her was equally as enticing as the back. To see if he recognized her.

Despite the way his body had attuned to her presence, he was absolutely certain he'd never known her intimately. Adam preferred tiny brunettes—the kind of women who looked as if they needed the protection of a man like him, a man who was strong, tall and totally in command of his domain. The woman in red was definitely not that kind of woman. He gauged the heels she was wearing and guessed that in them, she would meet his gaze face on. Strangely, the idea was suddenly very appealing.

This woman certainly didn't have the demeanor of someone who needed protection. She carried herself as if she had it all and could pick and choose what came next in her life.

Adam savored the sensation that warmed to life through his body, the anticipation of a hunt and of a mutually satisfying finish. The way the luxurious fabric of her gown caressed her lush curves left little to the imagination and it would certainly be no hardship to expose more of that delicious creamy skin, inch by painstaking inch, in the privacy of the apartment he kept here in the city for nights such as this.

He clenched his hand around the base of his whiskey tumbler. He loved women—each nuance, each difference. Each new discovery. Unfortunately, each ending didn't necessarily work out quite as planned. Not everyone wanted the no-strings relationship he'd perfected over the years. But the end was a long way from sight right now. For the moment all he was interested in was a new beginning. It had been months since he'd indulged in more than a polite flirtation, and he was ready for more.

Last month's memorial service at his old school, for his favorite schoolteacher's wife, had driven home to him again just how isolated he'd become. Professor Woodley had looked as if he'd lost the very best part of him. Oh, sure, he wasn't a wailing wreck, but Adam sensed there was a depth of grief beneath his old teacher's demeanor that no one would ever be able to ease. And for all that, Adam had envied Professor Woodley that he'd had that kind of love and sharing in his life. The devotion that made two people a whole couple. He doubted he'd ever share that sense of belonging with another.

Across the room, his woman in red circulated amongst the crowd. Adam's eyes followed her movements as if mesmerized. What would she be like in bed? he wondered. Adventurous? Fun? Or perhaps, more in keeping with the sensuously elegant style in which she moved, slow and languorous.

Adam took a sip of the whiskey and let the heat of the smooth malted liquid swirl around his tongue before

he swallowed. Whatever she was like, he had no doubt he'd be discovering it, and her, very soon. He put his drink down on the bar behind him and started forward. It was time for an introduction.

Halfway across the room, he hesitated and his mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust as a short, heavy-set man came up to her and linked her arm through his. Lee Ling. The man prowled the waters here like a great white. Nothing overt, of course, or he'd be summarily blacklisted from the premises, but anyone who ventured into the world of gambling knew that if they were short of a few thousand during the course of a night, he was your man.

Adam quelled his disappointment. There was only one kind of woman who willingly associated with Lee Ling, and she wasn't the kind that he was prepared to indulge in a dalliance with. Not even for a night. Disappointed, he began to turn away until the woman in red tilted her face down toward her companion. Her profile, before being partially obscured by the magnificent fall of her hair, was instantly recognizable.

Adam's blood ran cold in his veins. Lainey? What the hell was she doing here? And, more importantly, what the hell was she doing with Ling?

The heat of simmering desire morphed into the fire of anger in a heartbeat. If Lee Ling was linked to Palmer Enterprises in any way, shape or form, Adam could kiss goodbye the potentially lucrative negotiations tonight was the precursor for. The man was not above trading industry information in return for negating a debt, and Lainey knew that full well. What the hell was she playing at, hanging on his arm as if he was her heart's desire? Especially looking the way she did tonight.

The couple turned and Adam felt the air rush out of his lungs. Lainey's gown was indeed as enticing from the front as it had been from the rear. Slender shoulder straps, as fragile as threads of a spider's web and defying all the laws of physics, supported an elegantly shaped beaded bodice which cupped her full breasts invitingly.

Who knew she had a figure like that? He couldn't stop himself as his eyes roamed over her shapely form. Man, if she'd ever dressed like this in the office he'd guarantee there'd be no work done. No wonder she kept herself under wraps at work in clothing that did absolutely nothing to accentuate her tantalizing femininity. And that hair. Adam realized he'd clenched his hands into fists as if by doing so he could deny the urge to lift his hands to the rich burnished silk of her hair. Hair which was usually bound tight into a knot at the back of her head.

She was two different people. This siren who, even now he'd identified her played havoc with his libido, and his hardworking assistant, happy to stay in the background at work.

Work. The reminder was like a cold jet from a high-pressure hose. She was supposed to be working here tonight. For him. Not adorning the arm of a shyster like Ling.

She and Ling were walking toward him, stopping every now and then as Ling spoke to someone before moving on. Working the room, Adam noted with a bitter taste in his mouth. While he was no stranger to gambling himself, he took calculated risks. Not for him the highs and lows of the serious gambler, or the addicted one— the type that men like Ling made their fortune from.

Adam ran his eyes over Lainey again, from her silver-and-diamanté clad feet to the top of her sexily tousled head. Who exactly was this version of Lainey Delacorte? He'd find out soon enough, he decided as the distance between them closed step by slow step.

He noted the instant she realized he was there in her path. Her green eyes widened in shock, her pupils dilating until they almost consumed the pale emerald color. Emerald? Her eyes were usually brown. Nondescript, unassuming brown. Had everything about her been a lie, right down to the color of her eyes?

He gritted his teeth together until his jaw ached, the discomfort reminding him to relax—not to give anything away as to the depth of his anger at this very moment.

What else had Lainey Delacorte lied to him about? She was his right hand and suddenly he had to worry whether that hand held a knife. If she was capable of this level of duplicity, was she also capable of selling Palmer Enterprises's secrets? Was her loyalty a front?

They were closer now and he could see the fear that tightened her features as the inevitable confrontation loomed—saw the way her hand tightened on the expensive fabric of Ling's jacket sleeve. Adam allowed a slight smile to curve his lips. Let her think what she wanted, but Lee Ling wouldn't be able to stop him when he demanded his answers.

He stepped forward, blocking their path, and nodded to the other man, "Ling."

"Ah, Mr. Palmer, I believe. How are you this evening?" The money lender's eyes gleamed as he estimated whether Adam was in need of his particular services or not.

"I'm intrigued, Ling. Why don't you introduce me to your…" Adam deliberately let his voice trail away and was rewarded with a flash of green lightning in Lainey's eyes as anger flared there at his carefully measured insult.

"Of course, Miss Lainey Delacorte, meet Adam Palmer." Ling's attention was taken by a man who appeared at his side and after a softly spoken exchange he turned back to Adam. "If you'll excuse me a moment, I'll leave Miss Delacorte in your hands. Business, you understand."

Adam barely trusted himself to speak and merely nodded his acquiescence.

Lainey shifted uncomfortably on her high-heeled sandals. Of all the people she hadn't wanted to bump into, her boss was definitely at the top of that list. She averted her gaze from his piercing blue stare, wracking her mind for some explanation that would appease the fury she could see there.

"So Ling was your long-standing prior engagement?"

He didn't waste any time in cutting to the chase. Lainey drew in a sharp breath at Adam's tone and summoned all the composure she could manage.

"As a matter of fact, yes."

The fact that the engagement had been a matter of blackmail was something she could never disclose.

"You're supposed to work for me. Not him."

"Who said I'm working for him."

Adam snorted, an inelegant sound she'd never heard from him before.

"Please, don't insult me by trying to convince me you two are an item. I know exactly who Ling is and what he does. What I want to know is how that involves you."

"I work for you between the hours of nine and six, Monday to Friday, and I believe I do my job well, yes? So really, with all due respect, what I do outside of those hours has nothing to do with you. It's my business and my business alone."

Lainey forced herself to hold her ground as Adam stepped closer. The combined wood and citrus scent of his cologne teased her nostrils, inviting her to inhale the warm fragrance deep into her body. She fought the urge. He was her boss. They'd never overstepped that mark before and she wasn't about to now. Not when she needed her salary more than ever.

"What if I want to make it my business?" he said, his voice a low vibration on the air between them.

She summoned all the courage she had left. "Then you'll be disappointed, won't you."

She took a step back from him, her eyes searching for Lee. Who'd have thought she'd actually be pleased to see him coming back toward her? To rescue her from a man she'd always admired. Strange how she and Adam worked side-by-side every day. Sometimes accidentally touching, sometimes sharing the same space more closely than they had just now. Yet then she'd felt nothing for him. Nothing beyond the respect that was his due as her employer and as one of New Zealand's sharpest business minds.

But tonight. Here. Now. Oh, God, that was another story altogether.

She'd felt naked when their eyes had met only moments ago. Had felt the heat of his gaze as he'd taken in every inch of what she was wearing, how she looked. Her physical response had shocked her—the way her skin had suddenly felt too tight for her body, the way a shimmer of basic need had magnified from her centre. She'd always found Adam attractive, who wouldn't? But she'd always sublimated that attraction, until now.

Had she gone too far, telling him to mind his own business? She hoped not. He looked none too pleased at her words, but seriously, what could he do? She'd been right when she'd said that what she did in her own time was her business, and she worked hard to make sure he had nothing to complain about as far as her role as his personal assistant was concerned. Her job couldn't be in jeopardy because he'd seen her tonight with Lee, could it?

Adam, too, had noticed Lee's return and a dark frown slanted his eyebrows in a forbidding line.

"Don't think this is over, Lainey. You owe me an explanation, and I will have it. Tomorrow, first thing."

A fine tremor ran through her as he spun away and made his way over to the gaming table where she recognized the European business guests who had arrived in the country today. She should have known she would see him here tonight and pleaded off from her arrangement with Lee. But she also knew that short of being seriously ill, Lee would not have cut her the slack she'd have needed. Not when so much money was involved and certainly not when she'd vowed to see he was paid back.