Книга - The Billionaire Affair

The Billionaire Affair
Diana Hamilton


Ben Dexter had become a powerful and respected businessman, earning billions. But money could no longer satisfy him.For years, Ben had forgone a wife and family after becoming convinced Caroline Harvey, the woman he'd loved, had betrayed him. He'd never been able to find the kind of passion he'd shared with Caro - and it was time to get her out of his system.He'd find her, indulge in a short, intense affair and then he'd finally be able to get on with his life. But things didn't go quite as he planned.









“Mr. Dexter,” Caroline said coolly. “There is no point in my being here any longer.”


She continued. “My professional services weren’t needed in the first place, as far as I can see.”

“You’re right. But I have other needs, Caro, and you are going to satisfy every last one of them.” Ben gave her a slow, thoughtful look. “I suggest we stop pussyfooting around and start right now.”

“Now why would I agree to that?” Caroline queried, her heart thumping wildly.

“Because you owe me for twelve wasted years.”

“Judging by your impressive achievements, the last twelve years can hardly be called a waste.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it,” Ben said. “I’ve had twelve years of wanting what most men want—a wife, a family. Of wanting a good long-term relationship and not being able to commit to any other woman because no one came close to what I remembered of you.”







She’s his in the bedroom,

but he can’t buy her love…

The ultimate fantasy becomes a reality

In

Harlequin Presents

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Mistress to a Millionaire titles

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The Unexpected Mistress

by Sara Wood

Harlequin Presents (#2263)




The Billionaire Affair

Diana Hamilton










CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE




CHAPTER ONE


‘THE resemblance is quite remarkable, Caroline. You could have been the sitter—come here, take a look.’ Edward Weinberg’s slender, long-boned hands beckoned her and she put the guest list for the up-and-coming private viewing down on the beautiful, fastidiously uncluttered expanse of his desk and went to join him in front of the painting a uniformed porter had just brought up from the strongroom and placed on an easel.

Her employer’s remark regarding the likeness was irrelevant, but she was consumed with curiosity to at last see the masterpiece that Michael, Edward’s son, had acquired at a small, country-town auction a few months ago.

Carefully cleaned, painstakingly authenticated, the lost work by the pre-Raphaelite painter J. J. Lassoon had caused deep ripples of acquisitive excitement amongst the select band of collectors who could afford to pay serious money for the pleasure of owning a thing of covetable beauty.

Caroline had been in the north of England advising the new heir to one of the great houses on what he could dispose of, with the most profit and the least pain, to pay death duties, and had missed out on all the excitement.

‘Which will be the more important, the prestige or the profit?’ She glanced at Edward from black-fringed, deep violet eyes but his expression gave nothing away. He had the face of a mournful aesthete, his tall, elegant figure looked fragile enough to be bowled away by a puff of wind. But he was as tough as old boots. If she had been asked to put money on his true feelings she would have put prestige as his prime concern.

The London-based Weinberg Galleries had a fiercely guarded reputation for offering art and artifacts of the finest quality. The acquisition of the Lassoon painting could only add to his reputation.

‘I’ll leave you to ponder on that.’ Edward smiled as he turned away and Caroline gave her attention to the newly discovered masterpiece only to have her breath freeze in her lungs because he was right. The resemblance was remarkable. More than remarkable. It was uncanny.

Set against a riot of lush greenery, the artist’s model cupped a white lily in her curving hands and it was the very image of her, exactly as she had looked twelve years ago at the age of seventeen. The cloud of glossy black hair reaching almost to her waist, the youthful translucence of the milky skin, the thin patrician nose, the over-full rosy lips parted in a secret smile, the dreaming, drowning deep violet eyes. Dreaming of love, drowning in love.

Even the title was apt. First Love.

A shudder of bitter anger rippled down her spine. That was exactly how she had looked all those years ago when she had loved Ben Dexter with all her passionate being. So much love, she had thought she might die of it.

Yes, that was how she had looked before she had learned the truth, before he had turned his back on her and had walked away from their turbulent love affair, her father’s money in his pocket, more money than the boy from the wrong side of the tracks had ever seen in his life, his gypsy-black eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a bargain well struck, his whip-thin, virile body swaggering with heartless triumph.

She swung abruptly from the painting. She felt sick. She wished she had never set eyes on the wretched thing. It had brought back memories she’d buried deep in her psyche, memories she would have to struggle to inter again with even greater determination before the internal, unvented anger could do more real and lasting damage.

Edward’s immaculately barbered silver head was bent confidingly over the phone as she walked past him, avoiding her office, going to Michael’s to discuss the final gallery arrangements for the imminent private viewing, only breaking off when her secretary, Lynne, located her on the internal line just before lunch-time.

‘The letters are ready for your signature and the balance sheets from the accountants have just come through. Mr Edward will want to see them. Oh, and he wants you to stay on this evening. He left a message. He’s got a client for First Love. The usual drill.’

Champagne and canapés, followed—if the client showed serious interest and was willing to pay top dollar—by an elegant dinner at one of London’s more select eating houses. As Edward’s executive assistant it was her job to ensure that the evening went smoothly, his to extol the virtues and provenance of the piece the client was interested in.

‘So he’s not putting it in the private viewing,’ Caroline mused as she came off the phone. ‘Someone must be keen.’ She leant back in her chair and raised one finely drawn brow at Michael.

The private viewings were as near the vulgarity of a public auction as Edward Weinberg would allow. None of the items were ever priced but amounts were discreetly mentioned, offers just as discreetly made and just as quietly topped until, at the end of the day, the original sum mentioned would have rocketed sky high.

Though occasionally, a particular client would make it known that he was prepared to go to the limit, and above, to acquire a particular piece and a private evening meeting, as the one scheduled for tonight, would take place.

‘The old man plays his cards close to his chest,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He must have put feelers out—or waited to see what came up after the heavier broadsheets published that photograph of the painting. Who knows?’

He lounged back in his chair, his warm hazel eyes approving her elegant, softly styled suit, the gleam of her upswept black hair. Caroline Harvey was quite something. Beautiful, intelligent, articulate. And a challenge. Her beauty was cloaked in inviolability. He wondered if she had ever allowed any man past a chaste kiss at the end of a date. He doubted it. He picked up a pencil, rolling it between his fingers, and wondered what it would take.

She returned his warm approval, hers overlaid with affectionate amusement. Edward’s son was stockily built, almost good-looking. He affected a casual style of dress—bordering on the sloppy. Mainly because, she guessed, he knew he could never compete with his father in the sartorial stakes so went the other way.

She gathered together the papers she needed and Michael said, ‘Lunch? There’s a new place opened round the corner, just off Berkeley Square. I thought we might suss it out.’

He was already on his feet but Caroline shook her head. Since his divorce, over twelve months ago now, they often lunched together when they were both back at base. To begin with they’d talked shop, but recently their conversation had reached a more personal level. Without actually saying as much, he had hinted that he would like their friendship to deepen into something far more intimate.

She sighed slightly. Approaching thirty, she had choices to make: whether to remain single, a career woman with no family, just a small circle of friends; or whether to become part of a couple, have children, trust a man again…

‘Sorry,’ she declined softly. ‘I’ll have to work through. I’m going to have to squeeze in the arrangements for this evening and I’m already pushed for time.’



She worked quickly and efficiently, gaining enough time to leave an hour early. She needed to go home to her small apartment near Green Park, change and be back at the Weinberg Galleries in Mayfair by six-thirty at the very latest.

She would have rather spent the mild April evening at home with a good book, and that wasn’t like her. She lived and breathed her work. But she wasn’t looking forward to this evening and wasn’t stupid enough to pretend she didn’t know why. The sooner First Love was off their hands the better. The memories it had forced into the front of her mind tormented her. She had believed she had forgotten the pain of heartbreak and betrayal. But she hadn’t.

She dressed carefully because it was part of her job to look as good as she could: claret-coloured silk trousers topped by a matching tuxedo-style top, a slightly lighter toned camisole underneath, garnet eardrops her only decoration, high heels to add to her five-ten height. And she was back at the gallery to approve the caterer’s efforts before Edward and his client arrived.

‘Elegant, as usual, Ivan.’ Her heavily lidded eyes swept the small but exquisite buffet, concentrating on that because she couldn’t bear to look at the painting on its display easel, cunningly lit by discreetly placed spotlights. Just thinking about it, the shattering resemblance that reminded her of the passionate but clueless young thing she’d been, made her feel ill with anger.

‘There’s no need for you to stay on.’ She made herself smile at him. ‘As soon as you’ve opened the champagne you can fade away. One of the security guards will let you out.’

She squared her shoulders, forcing painful memories to the back of her mind. It was only a painting, for pity’s sake! Ben Dexter had meant nothing to her for twelve long years and the residue of anger she hadn’t realised she still felt had to be nothing more than a self-indulgent fancy.

It had to stop!

‘Everything’s in hand for the private viewing later this week, I take it?’

‘Saturday. Yes, of course.’ Ivan gave the bottle of champagne a final twist in its bucket of ice and stepped back, his hands on his slim hips. He had a dancer’s body and soulful brown eyes. Caroline wondered wryly how many hearts he’d broken in his young lifetime as the brown eyes flirted with her. ‘Everything will be perfect, especially for you—for you, anything else would be unthinkable.’

‘Such flattery,’ she mocked. Everything would be perfect because he and his small, hard-working team were the best money could hire, and inside that handsome Slavic head lurked an astute business brain.

The small moment broke the unease of not wanting to be here at all, and she was grateful for that until, from the open doorway, Edward said, ‘Caroline, my dear, let me introduce Ben Dexter. Ben, meet my invaluable right hand, Caroline Harvey.’

She closed her eyes. She couldn’t help it. The panelled walls were closing in on her, the luxurious Aubusson tilting beneath her feet, the tumultuous beats of her heart suffocating her.

Ben Dexter. The man who had taken all she had had to give—her body, heart and soul—then, Judas-like, had sneaked away with her father’s pay-off. She should, she thought savagely, be thankful that, unlike Maggie Pope from the village, he hadn’t left her, literally, holding the baby.

She forced her eyes open, scrabbling for the slim hope that two men could bear that name, made herself look at him and met the bitterness in his darkly eloquent eyes, saw the slight, contemptuous curl of his handsome mouth, the proud lift of his dark head, and wanted to hit him for what he had been, for what he had done.

He’d been a thorn in the sides of the parents of daughters, the bad boy of the village, disappearing for months on end to goodness only knew where, reappearing with his wild, gypsy looks, his whippy grace, his devil’s eyes, to quite literally charm the pants off the local girls!

Only she hadn’t known that then, all those years ago. He’d said he loved her, wanted her for always, until the stars turned to ashes. And she’d believed him. Then.

She felt herself sway with the force of her anger, scathing words of condemnation bubbling in her throat, choking her. But Ivan’s steadying hand on the small of her back brought her back to her senses, and she smiled for Edward, met Ben’s cynical eyes as Ivan moved discreetly away, and extended a hand towards the man she despised, dreading the touch, the clasp of those slim, strong fingers on hers, the warmth of his skin.

‘Mr Dexter.’ The almost painful clasp of his hand pushed whatever inanity she might have followed up with right back in her throat. His skin was cool, yet it burned her. She couldn’t pull her hand away quickly enough.

‘Miss Harvey.’ Formal. Yet beneath the veneer something about his voice, something sensuous, like dark chocolate covered in rough velvet, sent her nerve endings skittering to life. How well she remembered that voice, the things he had said…the wickedly seductive things…the lies, all lies…

He turned away, his mouth indented, as if he were mocking her, saying something to Edward now, casually accepting the flute of champagne Ivan handed him and strolling towards the painting on display. So he wasn’t about to acknowledge the fact that they knew each other, that they’d made wild, tempestuous love during that long-ago summer when the world, for her, had been touched by magic.

Well, why would he? She hadn’t explained that they knew each other when Edward had introduced them because, heaven knew, she was deeply, abidingly ashamed of her younger, stupidly gullible self. And he’d probably forgotten her entirely. Just one in a long line of silly, disposable females who’d been only too eager to lie on their backs for him!



The deal had been done over the canapés and champagne. Caroline didn’t know how the boy who’d been brought up by his widowed mother in a near-derelict cottage could have come by that amount of spare cash. Well, however he’d come by it, she figured the means would have been unsavoury. But she wasn’t going to waste mental energy trying to work it out.

Edward was giving them supper in the exclusive restaurant currently in favour. Caroline faced Ben over the elegantly appointed table, watching him covertly beneath the dark sweep of her lashes.

Twelve years had changed him; his shoulders were broader beneath the expensive tailoring, his honed body more powerful, his ruggedly handsome face less expressive than it had been at nineteen years of age, his tough jaw darkly shadowed and his sensual mouth touched with a recognisable line of determination.

She shivered slightly and forced her attention to the sole in white-wine sauce she’d ordered. She hadn’t wanted to come, had even, for a moment, thought of crying off, pleading the onset of a migraine as an excuse to cut and run.

But the moment had passed. She wouldn’t let Dexter turn her into a coward.

Edward had ordered champagne. He never drank anything else. Hers, untouched, had gone flat. The relaxed conversation between the two men ranged over subjects as diverse as politics and the theatre. She was barely listening, just wishing the evening would end.

‘And how did you become attached to the prestigious Weinberg Galleries, Miss Harvey. Or may I call you Caroline?’

The hateful drawl pricked her violently back into full awareness. The question could have been interpreted as an insult, implying amazement that any respected firm would employ her!

‘Through the usual route, Mr Dexter.’ Her eyes clashed with his. If there’d been a hidden slur behind his words then he’d better realise she was up to any challenge. ‘A postgraduate course in the history of art, alongside another in museum studies.’ She laid her cutlery down, not bothering to hide the fact that she’d barely touched her fish. ‘Fortuitously, Edward was looking for an assistant. I happened to fill the bill.’

‘A dedicated career woman? Never married, Caroline?’

She caught the dark glitter of his eyes. He had never called her Caroline, saying that he’d have needed a mouthful of plums before he could have pronounced it properly. He’d called her Caro. Softly, sweetly, oh, so seductively.

Her heart thudded painfully. Oh, to have the ability to erase memories at will! She made her voice cool, disdainful, ‘No, I’ve yet to meet the man who could satisfy my exacting standards. And you, Mr Dexter—are you married?’

She saw his mouth tighten. She’d touched a nerve. Just feet away, she felt rather than saw Edward frown. One was not supposed to descend to personal levels with clients!

Tough. Dexter had started it.

‘The married state has never appealed. I’m not into voluntary entrapment.’ Urbanely said. The prick of annoyance obviously forgotten, his slow smile was unsettling.

No, you prefer to change your women as often as you change your socks. The words were on the tip of her tongue but she swallowed them. Spit them out and she’d be fired on the spot.

Taking advantage of the waiter’s arrival to clear their plates, she excused herself and headed for the rest room. Of course he recognised her, she’d seen it in his eyes. She hadn’t changed much. She had fined down a little, had acquired a veneer of sophistication, had cut her hair to shoulder length and had coiled it into a smooth knot on top of her head.

So she must have had something memorable about her, she thought wryly. Or did he remember the faces of all the women he had bedded and had discarded over the years?

It wasn’t important, she told herself as she held her wrists under the cold tap to cool down. A few more minutes of his miserable company and she would never see him again. Then she took her mobile from her slim leather bag and called the cab firm she always used.

Moments later, she slid back into her seat. Edward handed her the dessert menu but she closed it and laid it down on the table. ‘I’ll pass,’ she told him. ‘And leave you two to enjoy the rest of your meal. I’ve a hectic day tomorrow.’ No problem there, Edward knew what her workload was like, especially when there was an invitation-only viewing on the horizon.

She got fluidly to her feet, putting on a polite, social smile. ‘So nice to have met you, Mr Dexter.’

Both men had risen. Ben Dexter said smoothly, bland self-assurance in his dark, honeyed voice, ‘Humour me, Miss Harvey. My driver’s due to pick me up in ten minutes. I’ll drop you off. We’ll have coffee while we wait.’

Once she would have tied knots in herself for him. Now she took great satisfaction in telling him sweetly, ‘How kind. But my usual minicab driver is probably already parked outside. Enjoy your coffee.’

And allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction before she swept out.

She had no idea why he’d offered to drive her home. She certainly couldn’t accuse him of having gentlemanly instincts! And he could hardly have wanted to reminisce over old times. Whatever, she had very politely pushed his offer back down his throat.

It was high time Ben Dexter learned he couldn’t always get what he wanted.




CHAPTER TWO


THE alarm clock was a welcome intrusion. Caroline rolled over, silenced it, and slid her feet out of bed. She’d had a lousy night.

Dreams or, more specifically, nightmares of Ben Dexter weren’t conducive to restful sleep. Especially when they featured such graphic images as his sweat-slicked olive skin against the white femininity of hers, his mouth exploring every inch of her body with hungry, all-male dominance. And his voice, that honeyed, sexy voice of his, telling her he loved her. Lies, every word of it…

She made a rough, self-denigrating sound at the back of her throat, headed for her small bathroom and took a shower. She wouldn’t think about him again. She would not. No need. He’d bought the painting that had brought him briefly back into her life and today it would be crated and dispatched. End of story.



The morning was just pleasantly hectic, leaving no room for brooding over those erotic dreams and she made time to accept Michael’s invitation to lunch. The new, much publicised restaurant lived up to expectations as far as the food went but the service was slow.

‘I don’t know about you, but I’d better be getting back,’ she declined when he suggested coffee to round off the meal. She was on the point of rising but he reached out and clasped her wrist.

‘We’re already late, a few more minutes won’t make much difference. Besides, there’s something I want to say to you.’

From the look in his eyes, the softening of his mouth, she knew what it was. And she didn’t want to hear it. She wasn’t ready.

His hand slid down to capture her fingers. ‘You must know I’m attracted to you,’ he said quickly. ‘We already have a good relationship and I want to take it further. I don’t know what you think about me, and I won’t put you on the spot by asking, but you’re all I admire in a woman. I’m pretty sure we could build something good and lasting together. You might not think so right now, but will you give it a try?’

Carefully, she slid her fingers away from his. What to say? Only yesterday she’d caught herself listening to the ticking of her biological clock again, knowing her pleasant working relationship with her employer’s son was on the point of developing into something deeper, balancing the prospect of a lonely old age against the warm, emotional security of having a husband and family.

Yesterday she would have been comfortable with what he’d just said, agreed to go with the flow, find out if they would make a compatible couple.

So why the hesitation? What had changed?

Something had.

‘You don’t fancy me at all?’ he muttered into the suddenly spiky silence.

She smiled at him. He looked like a sulky child.

‘I’ve never thought about it,’ she said soothingly, lying smoothly to cover the lack of enthusiasm that was obviously upsetting him.

‘But you will?’ He made it sound like an order. ‘Why not have dinner with me tonight? Since Justine left me I’ve learned to cook a mean steak. But, if you prefer, I could rise to beans on toast. Take your pick.’

His sudden, boyish grin gave her pause. She didn’t know why his marriage had broken down after only a couple of years. Edward had voiced the general opinion that it was a blessing there were no children but apart from that he’d said nothing about the cause.

Whatever, Michael didn’t deserve to be hurt again. She said with rare impulsiveness, ‘I’m allergic to beans! Make it Monday, shall we, after the viewing!’ She stood up, hitching the strap of her bag over her shoulder. ‘One condition, though,’ she warned. ‘Friends. Nothing more, not yet. Nothing personal, Mike. I’m simply not ready for commitment.’

Not ready? When for weeks she’d often caught herself brooding about her long-term future. Children. Happy, family life. Not that she knew much about that…

‘Condition accepted.’ He stood up too, leaving folded notes to cover the bill. ‘But don’t blame me if I try to change your mind. Eventually.’

She knew she’d made a mistake when she caught his satisfied smirk. Lunch was fine, but supper at his flat near the Barbican?

Misgivings shuddered through her. A week ago she would have seen the invitation as a natural progression of their deepening comradeship, would have pleasantly anticipated getting to know him on his home ground. Now she’d accepted his invitation because he was her friend, a nice guy, and she hadn’t wanted to upset him with an outright refusal.



Back at the gallery there was a message for her at the front desk. Edward wanted to see her. Now.

Enclosed in the silver capsule that whisked her directly into Edward’s office she filed the problem with Michael away at the back of her mind. She’d handle it as smoothly as she’d learned to handle everything else since she’d left the parental home at eighteen.

Handled everything except—

‘Ben Dexter,’ Edward said as the lift doors closed behind her. ‘He needs you to appraise the contents of a property his company—or one of them—acquired relatively recently. About eighteen months ago, if I remember correctly.’

He arranged a few papers into a neat pile and then tapped it with the ends of his long, thin fingers, tilting his silver-grey head he asked, ‘Are you unwell? You look a bit green around the gills—lunch upset you? Do please sit down.’

The shock of hearing that name slotted into her uncomfortable thoughts had driven what colour she did have out of her skin. It had nothing to do with what she’d eaten at lunch or her unfathomable change of attitude over her relationship with his son.

Besides, what company was Edward talking about? From what she knew of Dexter it was probably dodgy. Should she warn her boss, confess she knew Dexter to be a cheat and a liar? It was something to think about.

‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she claimed, gathering herself, slipping into the chair on the opposite side of his desk. ‘You were saying?’

She wouldn’t do it. If he wanted bits and pieces of antiques, paintings, whatever, appraised then someone else would have to do it. Her stomach churned over at the very thought of having to have anything at all to do with him.

Edward gave her a long look and then, as if satisfied, told her, ‘His company, Country Estates, bought up this run-down house and land in Shropshire. They’ve sorted out the business end—planning permission for a golf course, clubhouse and leisure centre and a small heritage farm, and now they’re turning their attention to the house itself.’

Caroline felt the shock of that like a physical blow. There could be few people who hadn’t heard of the ultra-successful Country Estates, admired by big business and the environmental lobby alike. She must have misjudged him, having believed him to have obtained his wealth by nefarious means. The thought wasn’t comforting. The idea of Ben Dexter as a liar, cheat and betrayer had been with her for so long that having to rethink it was like an amputation.

But what place were they talking about here? Suddenly she was sure she knew. Had Dexter’s company acquired more than one run-down estate in Shropshire around eighteen months ago? It was possible, of course, but not very likely.

‘Are we talking about Langley Hayes?’ The smile she manufactured was just right. Borderline interested. Only she knew how heavily her heart was pounding.

‘You know it?”

The slightest nod would do. She’d been born there, had lived there—apart from when she’d been away at boarding school—until she’d been driven out by misery and one dictate too many from her authoritarian father.

Of her mother she had no memory. Laura Harvey had died shortly after giving birth to Caroline. Only the occasional photograph in a barely opened album had shown her just how beautiful her mother had been.

She had never been back. She’d been warned not to show her face again. Attending her father’s funeral out of duty, Caroline had not gone back to the house. It and the land had been sold to Country Estates, the bulk of the purchase price repaying the mortgage her father must have taken out on the property, the small residue going to Dorothy Skeet, his housekeeper, the woman who had also been his long-time mistress.

Apparently her non-commital nod had sufficed. Edward said, ‘Dexter tells me the entire contents of the house were acquired at the time of the sale. Some of the things are fine, others definitely not. Though as he admitted, he’s no expert. Which is why he wants you to do an appraisal.’

Careful, she told herself. Be very careful. Otherwise you might find yourself throwing your head back and howling out torrents of rage.

‘This was discussed last night, after I left?’ she asked levelly, crossing her long, elegant legs at the ankles, clasping her hands loosely together in her lap. They looked very pale against the dark sage of her tailored skirt. She knew what Dexter was doing—exactly what he was doing. And despised him for it.

‘No, he phoned this morning. He left last night almost as soon as you did. It’s been arranged that his driver will pick you up from your apartment at ten on Monday morning. I don’t think you’ll need to be away for more than three or four days. However, spend as much time there as it takes. Dexter’s a client I’d like to hang onto.’

Just like that! ‘It’s my stint on the front desk next week, and with the extra work following a viewing I can’t afford to be away,’ she pointed out calmly.

All the qualified staff took it in turn to man the front. Hopeful people walked in off the street, carrying things in plastic bags or wrapped in newspapers, hoping to be told that granny’s old jug or the painting they’d put up in the attic decades ago was worth a small fortune.

‘Edna will cover for you at the front and, as for the rest, we’ll cope without you. Dexter asked specifically for you, most probably because he’d already met you last evening.’ He steepled his fingers, his eyes probing. ‘Do I sense a certain reluctance?’

Too right! A deep reluctance to do Dexter’s bidding, to let him pull her strings and put her in the position of sorting through the detritus of Reginald Harvey’s life. It wasn’t enough that the wild, penniless lad from the wrong side of the tracks who’d broken hearts with about as much compunction as he would break eggs, had bought up the lord of the manor’s property—he wanted to put her, Caroline, in the position of humble retainer.

He wanted to turn the tables.

‘Only in as much as it affects my work here.’ She couldn’t tell him the truth. She had shut her troubled past away years ago and refused to bring it out for anyone now.

‘It won’t. You’re my right-hand man, but no one’s indispensable.’

‘Of course not,’ she conceded, her smile too tight. She could refuse to go, and earn herself a big black mark. Edward was a wonderful employer but cross him and he’d never forgive or forget. She’d seen it happen. Resigned now, hoping Dexter wouldn’t be at Langley Hayes, but prepared for the worst, she half left her seat but resumed it again, asking, ‘I gather Dexter has personal financial clout? The price he paid for the Lassoon wouldn’t be counted as peanuts in anyone’s book.’

Know your enemy, she thought. And Dexter was hers. Leaving aside the way he’d treated her in the past, there was something going on here, some dark undercurrent. She felt it in her bones.

Edward could have refused to discuss his client but thankfully he seemed happy to do so. ‘His cheque won’t bounce,’ he said drily. ‘Rich as Croesus apparently. Came from nothing.’ His smile was tinged with admiration. ‘That’s according to the only article I’ve ever read about him—financial press a year or so ago. He built a computer-software empire and is reckoned to be some kind of genius in the field. That’s rock solid and growing, but he needed more challenges. That was when he diversified into property and now he’s reputed to be a billionaire.’

‘And he never even got close to being married?’ She could have kicked herself for the unguarded remark. It wasn’t like her. Her descent into what her boss would term idle tittle-tattle shamed her and Edward’s displeasure was contained in his dismissive, ‘I know nothing about the man’s personal life.’

Taking her cue, Caroline rose, smoothed down her skirt and collected her bag. Back to business, she asked, ‘Do you know whether or not he intends to dispose of anything of value?’ There had been some lovely things she remembered. Although if her father had been in financial difficulty he might have sold them.

‘From what I could gather he aims to keep the best in situ. It will be up to you to report on what could be kept as an investment.’ He began to shuffle the small pile of papers, a clear indication that her presence was no longer required.

Caroline left, wondering why the unknown details of Dexter’s private life were like a burning ache in the forefront of her mind.



That Langley Hayes was in the process of restoration was not in doubt, Caroline thought as the driver parked the Lexus on the sweep of gravel in front of the main door. Scaffolding festooned the early-Georgian façade. The parkland through which they’d approached the house—unkempt in her own recollection—had been smoothly manicured and, in the middle distance, she’d seen two men working with a theodolite.

Surveying the land for the golf course? The clubhouse? The—what was it—leisure centre? Whatever, it was no longer any concern of hers. Her life here, largely lonely, hadn’t been a bed of roses. She felt no pangs of nostalgia or loss. Only that nagging internal anxiety—would Dexter be here?

‘A lot of work in progress,’ she remarked, as she stood on the forecourt in the warm April sun as the driver opened the boot to collect her baggage, saying the first thing that came to mind to smother all those uncharacteristic internal flutterings.

‘Mostly finished on the main house,’ he answered, closing the boot. ‘Structurally, anyhow.’ His bushy eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘You should have seen the state it was in. But the boss got everything moving—once he makes his mind up to something he don’t hang about.’

He lifted her bags. ‘If you’ll follow me, miss, I’ll rouse the housekeeper for you—Ms Penny. She’ll look after you.’

The rows of pedimented windows gleamed as they had never done when she’d lived here and the main door had been newly painted. So Mrs Skeet hadn’t been kept on, she pondered as she entered the spacious hallway. Ben Dexter obviously believed in making a clean sweep. His restlessness would push him towards the principle of out with the old and in with the new. And that went for his women, too, she thought with a stab of bitterness that alarmed her.

There had been no other car parked on the forecourt. Just the builder’s lorry and a giant skip. Which didn’t mean to say that his vehicle wasn’t tucked away in the old stable block.

She asked, trying to ignore the tightness in her throat, the peculiar rolling sensation in her stomach, ‘Is Mr Dexter here?’ And held her breath.

‘Couldn’t say, miss. I generally take my orders from his PA. I’m just the driver. Now…’ he set the cases down ‘…if you’ll wait half a tick I’ll go find Ms Penny.’

Caroline closed her eyes as she expelled her breath and slowly opened them again to take stock. The central, sweeping staircase had been freshly waxed, as had the linen-fold wall panelling. And the black and white slabs beneath her feet gleamed with care. All vastly different from the dingy, increasingly neglected house she had been brought up in.

But echoes of the past remained. If she listened hard enough she could hear her father’s acid voice. ‘You will do as I say, Caroline, exactly as I say.’ And even worse, ‘I will not tolerate it. Village children are not suitable playmates. If you disobey me again you will be severely punished.’ And Mrs Skeet’s voice, pleading, ‘Don’t cross your dad, young Carrie. You know it isn’t worth it.’

Her full mouth tightened. She had crossed him in the end. Monumentally. Had been forbidden the house. And had been glad to go, the legacy her mother had bequeathed her enabling her to continue her studies.

Might things have been different if her mother had lived? If she’d been the son her father had wanted?

‘So you swallowed your Harvey pride. I more than half expected you to refuse to turn up.’

The soft dark voice punched through her like a body-blow. Her breath tensed and trembled in her lungs as she turned reluctantly to face him. He had entered by the main door behind her and although the hall was large by any standards he dominated it.

Gypsy-dark black eyes hinting at a wildness only superficially tamed, soft black hair fingered by the breeze, lithe body clothed in black, of course, to match his soul, snug-fitting jeans, topped by a fluid fine-cotton shirt.

Her heart stung deep in her breast. But she could hold her own. No longer in thrall to his seductive magic she was his equal, or more than, and not his willing toy.

The possibility that he might be here had had her dressing for effect, making a statement. Beautifully tailored, sleek deep blue suit, high-heeled pumps, her hair coiled into a knot at her nape, her stockings sheer and disgracefully expensive, her only jewellery a thin gold chain that shone softly against the milky-pearl skin of her throat. Where, to her deep annoyance, a pulse had started to beat much too rapidly.

‘Where my work’s concerned I have no prejudices. You hired a professional, Mr Dexter.’

‘So I see.’ A hint of amusement tugged at the corners of his long, sensual mouth as his dark eyes swept from the top of her glossy black hair to the tips of her shoes and back again to lock with hers. ‘Such elegant packaging—exquisitely understated of course—such control. Every inch the daughter of the landed gentry.’ His voice deepened to a honeyed drawl. ‘I recall times when—’

‘Mr Dexter.’ She cut in firmly, desperately trying to ignore the way his lazy, explicit appraisal had set her skin on fire, had made the blood fizz alarmingly in her veins. ‘Might I suggest we stick to why I’m here?’ She broke off, sheer relief making her feel light-headed as a woman in her early thirties walked briskly towards them from the back of the house.

Short blonde hair curved crisply around an open, cheerful face, her short, wiry body clothed in serviceable blue jeans and a navy sweatshirt. Ms Penny? A far cry from the billowy, faded prettiness of Dorothy Skeet.

‘Sorry to have kept you; Martin couldn’t find me. Unblocking a drain.’ Brisk voice but a warm smile. ‘Lunch in fifteen minutes, boss. Breakfast room.’ Bright grey eyes were turned on Caroline. ‘I’ll show you where you’ll sleep, Miss Harvey.’ She picked up the luggage and headed for the stairs.

Caroline followed, still light-headed enough to have to hold onto the banisters. It was bad enough that Dexter was around when he didn’t need to be. She could have done the job she’d been hired to do without having him under her feet.

But if he was going to try to dredge up the past, make pointed comments on the way she looked then the next two or three days would be intolerable.




CHAPTER THREE


‘HERE we go, then.’ The housekeeper pushed open a door at the far end of the corridor that ran the full and impressive length of the house. ‘No en suite, I’m afraid, but there’s a bathroom next door.’

Caroline sucked in a sharp breath as she stood on the threshold. Was it coincidence or had Dexter issued instructions that she should be given this particular room?

He knew it had been hers. How many times had he tossed pebbles at the window to wake her? Countless. But she’d never been sleeping; she’d been waiting for his signal, full of longing for the arms of her secret lover, racked with anxiety in case he didn’t come, ready to fly silently down the stairs to be with him, to melt with him into the magical beauty of the soft summer night.

A wave of ice washed through her, followed by unstoppable drenching heat. She shook her head, annoyed by her body’s reaction, then firmed her mouth, a flicker of scorn darkening the deep blue of her eyes. She was too strong now to let him get to her on any level. In any event, the atmosphere of the room felt entirely different.

The faded nursery paper had been replaced by soft primrose-yellow emulsion and there was a pale ferny-green carpet instead of the cracked linoleum that had shrivelled her bare feet in wintertime—

‘You’ll have lunch with the boss—the breakfast room’s the third door on the left, off the hall.’ The housekeeper put the bags down at the side of the bed. ‘He’ll give you instructions on what he wants you to do, of course. But if there’s anything else you need, you just let me know.’

‘Thank you. It’s Ms Penny, isn’t it?’

Really, she had to get a grip, not go to pieces simply because she’d be using her old room for a night or two. She made herself smile, walk through the door instead of hovering like someone being urged to enter a chamber of horrors! For pity’s sake, she didn’t have to remember if she didn’t want to!

‘Call me Linda. I only come over Ms-ish when I’m on my dignity!’ A disarming grin then a square, capable hand was extended and was taken.

‘And I’m Caroline. Tell me, is Mr Dexter staying too, or is this a flying visit?’ She hoped it was the latter, but she wouldn’t put money on it.

‘Staying, as far as I know. He comes and goes. Usually he just drops by from time to time to keep an eye on work in progress. But this time he arrived with a heap of luggage. Now…’ a quick glance at the man-sized watch she wore ‘…I’ll get lunch on the table. It’s cold; I’m not much of a hand when it comes to cooking. Admin’s my line and there won’t be a cook in residence for another month, so you’re going to have to take pot luck, I’m afraid.’

A live-in cook as well as a housekeeper to ensure the smooth day-to-day running of the house. Dexter must have decided to make Langley Hayes his permanent home she mused as Linda left the room. Showing that the wild, penniless youngster could lord it over the village just as her father had done? Only in better style, with far more money to throw around.

Sucking her lower lip between her teeth Caroline methodically began to unpack. In a way she couldn’t blame Dexter for what he was doing. Brought up by his mother—a rather fearsome woman, she remembered—paying a small rent for the dubious delights of living in a near derelict cottage on her father’s estate which no one else would dream of inhabiting, the unconventional pair had been looked down on by the majority of the villagers. It would take a strong-minded man to resist the temptation to come back and display his new-found affluence.

Not that his motives interested her, of course. They didn’t. Her only concern was getting the job done and getting back to London.

Aware of the passage of time, she squashed the childish impulse to refuse to go down to lunch at all. Refusing to face problems wasn’t her style.

And he was a problem, she admitted as she opened the breakfast-room door a few minutes later. He was waiting for her, his back to the tall window that framed a view of newly manicured parkland. Tall, tough, beautifully built, even more compellingly handsome than he had been twelve years ago.

But there was something missing. There was no sign of the former tenderness, or the sexily inviting smile that had captivated her, had bound her to him during that lost, lazy, loving summer. The man he had become was arrogant, his slight smile insolent, the dark glitter of his eyes speaking of derision overlaid with the bleak menace of an anger she couldn’t understand. If anyone had the right to be angry it was she.

‘So you decided not to ask for a tray in your room. Bravo!’

The nerve-pricking insolence deepened his smile. Caroline went very still. This had to stop, this needling. She opened her mouth to tell him as much but her lips remained parted and silent as he gestured with one finely boned, strong hand, ‘Shall we eat?’

The small circular table had been haphazardly set with earthenware plates of cold-cut roasts and uninspired salads. But there was wine, an excellent muscat, she noted as she reluctantly took her place, vowing not to touch a drop. She needed to keep a clear head when dealing with the man who carried such an aura of danger.

She shivered suddenly and if she’d hoped she could keep that betraying reaction to herself she was doomed to disappointment.

‘Cold?’ An upwards twitch of one straight black brow. ‘I thought it was unseasonably warm for mid-April.’ He lifted the wine from the ice bucket, but she quickly placed her hand over her glass.

‘No?’ He poured sparingly for himself, his movements deft, undeniably pleasing. ‘Then do help yourself—I think we’ve been given beef.’ A semi-humorous glance at her pale, set features. ‘And I apologise for the cheap plates and cutlery. But that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Your father must have sold all the family silver along with the Royal Worcester.’

They’d eaten from Minton, not Worcester, the pieces mismatched but beautiful, the silver flatware heavy, with richly decorated handles. She felt colour stain the skin that covered her cheekbones.

‘Cut it out!’ she ground out unthinkingly, her lips tightening at his undisguised taunt. She hadn’t meant to rise, had decided to ignore any sly jibes coming from him, but it hadn’t happened; she hadn’t been able to help herself.

Her hands knotted together in her lap, she added heatedly, ‘I know why you wanted me to come here, so let’s take it as read, shall we? Then perhaps I can get on with the work you hired me for.’

The urge to get to her feet and walk out of this room was strong. But she wouldn’t do it; it would be another display of regrettable temperament, letting him know just how easily he could get to her.

So she sat mutinously still, hoping her features displayed nothing but boredom now. Until he leant back, one arm looping over the back of his chair, lazy mockery in his dark velvet voice.

‘So you tell me—why did I want you here?’

Anger kicked inside her again and she said goodbye to all her remaining control for the first time in years, huge, thickly lashed violet eyes snapping as they clashed with the black enigma of his. ‘Because my father called you the scum of the earth.’ She recalled his exact words, spoken contemptuously so long ago. ‘You stole from him, you were a danger to the morals of the village girls—’

That didn’t hurt her, not now, not after so many years! How could it?

‘You lived in squalor. So when father died, in debt, and you were able to buy up his property, you decided to drag me here and rub my nose in it!’

Suddenly running out of steam she sagged back. Since his callous betrayal of her younger self she’d learned not to have strong emotions, certainly not blind, unthinking anger. Still, she supposed, it was better said than not. Bottled anger festered, left scars.

‘Wrong,’ he said lightly, his long mouth twitching unforgivably, her tirade and character assassination not causing him a moment’s discomfiture. ‘But interesting. My mother and I lived in squalor because when we arrived in the village we couldn’t afford anything else and it gave your father a very small income while the cottage was in the process of falling down.

‘And as for stealing from him…’ long fingers played with the stem of his wine glass, the dark, hypnotic depths of his eyes holding hers ‘…I was fourteen when we came here and was under the mistaken impression that the trout in the stream that ran behind our hovel were free for the taking. Your father put me right with the aid of a rather threatening shotgun.

‘That said…’ his mouth hardened ‘…I didn’t bring you here to rub your disdainful little nose in my financial success. Your presence here is a necessity.’

‘Now,’ he inserted coolly, handing her the platter of cold meat, ‘I suggest we eat, and then you can get down to work.’

Once, he’d told her she was necessary to his happiness; now, her expertise was the only thing he wanted from her. She swallowed convulsively, wishing her mind didn’t stray into the past, comparing it to the uncomfortable present. Another impulse came to cut and run. But Edward would not be pleased, and that was putting it mildly. Dexter was paying handsomely for her presence here. Walk out and the gallery would lose a potentially valuable client, acquire a black mark against its venerable name.

Grimly, she speared a slice of beef, added a tomato and wondered if she’d be able to force any of it down. He hadn’t countered the claim that he’d been a moral danger to the village girls simply because he couldn’t.

Did he know he’d left at least one fatherless child behind him when he’d disappeared from the village, richer by the several hundred pounds her father had paid him to leave, an amount that must have seemed like a fortune to him back then? Of course he did. Maggie Pope had told him her baby daughter was his. He hadn’t wanted to know.

‘As I’m here to sort out the dross from the remaining good pieces, perhaps you would tell me where you’d like me to start. Or do I have a free hand?’

She did her best to sound brisk and business-like, to put the regrettable disturbance of the personal behind her. But recalling the part of her life that had left her disillusioned, hurt and betrayed had sapped her energy, had made her feel drained.

She was hardly in a fit condition to endure the long appraisal he gave her expensively tailored, slim jacket, the fine fabric and sophisticated style discreetly announcing a coveted designer label before he stated, ‘Start at the top and work down. I don’t think the contents of the attics have been looked at in years. And, I’ll warn you, you’ll find a fair amount of builders’ rubble—part of the roof had to be retiled—among the dust and grime of decades. It can be properly cleaned out once you’ve decided if there’s anything up there worth keeping.’

He finished the wine in his glass and said with a flicker of impatience, ‘If you’ve finished mangling your food perhaps you would make a start.’



He was vile! Caroline thought as she stood in the open attic doorway. He had looked at the way she was dressed and had deliberately sent her up here.

It was even worse than she’d remembered, lumps of fallen, crumbling plaster littered the cobweb-shrouded disintegrating boxes, weighed down the laughably named ragged and torn dust-sheets that only partly covered old, unwanted bits of furniture.

She had removed her stockings and replaced the high heels with Gucci loafers but they, and her suit, would be ruined.

Had he guessed that the things she’d brought with her were all beautiful and expensive, that she’d been determined that if he should show up he would see a cool, elegantly sophisticated career woman—in direct contrast to the wild, uninhibited young thing she had been when he’d held her in his arms, had made love to her, whispering of his adoration.

How he had changed! But, there again, maybe he hadn’t. That streak of cruelty had been inherent in his nature. He couldn’t have used and betrayed her, lied to her, if it hadn’t. Or abandoned the woman who had given birth to his child.

She turned abruptly on her heels and backtracked down the twisty attic staircase. Linda was at the kitchen table, making notes in a ledger.

Taking in the new quarry-tiled floor, the huge state-of-the-art cooking range, immense dishwasher and commercial-sized fridge, Caroline wondered briefly if Dexter intended to settle down to marriage, raise an enormous family, then dismissed that from her mind as something of no consequence and asked, ‘Do you have an overall I could borrow? I’ve been asked to clear out the attics.’

‘Oh lord, they’re filthy, aren’t they?’ Linda laid down her pen and gave her a sympathetic smile as she got to her feet. ‘I said the whole lot should be put on a bonfire, but the boss said there might be something of sentimental value. Apparently, this house was owned by some monumental old snob—been in the family for generations. He’s dead now, but there was a daughter. The boss said to leave it as it was. She might come back some time and be gutted if she found family stuff had been destroyed.’

Had Dexter really been that thoughtful? Something twisted sharply inside her. Had he really believed she might return at some time in the future? Had he taken his opportunity to force her to return to the family home when they’d eventually met up again because he wanted her to have anything of sentimental value?

And where did that leave her theory that his prime motivation was to turn the tables on her?

But she was too shaken by what she’d heard to try to work out his motives. She said heavily, ‘Then, he can’t have sent me to work in the attics solely because he wanted to see me get my hands dirty. I am the daughter of that monumental old snob.’

A heartbeat of silence. Linda gave her a startled look. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea—’

‘Don’t worry about it. He was an incurable snob. He believed he had a position to uphold, but the problem was he didn’t have the wherewithal to sustain it.’

That had been common knowledge, he hadn’t known that the people from the village had laughed at him behind his back. She didn’t add that he’d been authoritarian, cold and unloving. He had been her father, after all. She owed his memory some loyalty.

‘I—well—’ Linda was clearly embarrassed by her faux pas. ‘I don’t go in for overalls, but I think the previous housekeeper left some behind. Hang on a tick, I’ll see what I can find in the box of stuff put out for the next jumble sale.’

Moments later she was back carrying a small pile of laundered, folded garments. Flimsy nylon, flower-patterned overalls. Very feminine, very Mrs Skeet.

‘Do you know where Mrs Skeet is now?’ Curiosity and a slight, lingering affection for the woman who had looked after her—in a fashion—prompted Caroline to ask as she tucked the overalls under her arm.

‘Rents the cottage next to the village stores,’ Linda supplied. ‘When the renovation work started here she came up two or three times to clear out your father’s clothes. Nice woman, a bit prone to flap. You could tell she was gutted by your old man’s death.’

The question, Why hadn’t his daughter undertaken that sombre task? lurked at the back of the other woman’s eyes but Caroline wasn’t answering it. ‘I’ll make time, one evening while I’m here, to visit her.’ Her accompanying smile was small and social as she turned and walked away. She knew why her father had forbidden her the house, had said he never wanted to see her again. But she would never know why he had been unable to feel any affection for her at all. Maybe Dorothy Skeet could supply the answer.



Caroline hung up her suit and buttoned one of the overalls over her black satin bra and briefs. The skimpy fabric was virtually transparent and the splashy blue and pink roses were a nightmare. Plus, the thing itself was oceans too large.

Not to worry that she looked completely ridiculous; no one would see her and her suit would be saved from certain ruination.

Back in the airless space beneath the roof she began to work methodically, clearing an area at one end where she could stack rubbish, hauling boxes of chipped china and battered saucepans, a collapsed Victorian whatnot, over the uneven, dusty boards, wondering why people hoarded useless objects, then remembering how in her childhood she had found magic up here, the perfect antidote to many a wet and lonely day.

There had been a dressing-up box, at least that was how she’d thought of it: A tin trunk full of old clothes, probably once belonging to her great-grandmother and her mother, most of the things beautiful and all of them fragile. Period dresses could fetch big money, especially if they were in good condition and, remembering back, most of them had been.

After some searching she found the trunk, lifted the lid and found it empty, apart from a bundle of letters tied up with faded ribbon. Her father must have sold the things when money got tight. At Dorothy Skeet’s prompting? She could remember the housekeeper’s voice as if it was yesterday, ‘I thought I’d find you up here. It’s time for bed. And mind what you’re doing with those things—they can be really valuable. Still, if dressing up keeps you quiet and out of the way—’

Caroline sank down on her heels. Her shiny black hair had come adrift from its moorings. She pushed it back off her face with a dusty hand, leaving a dark smudge on the side of her milky-pale face.

If only her father could have swallowed his pride and sold Langley Hayes instead of re-mortgaging it, moved to a much smaller place, then he could have spent his final years free from financial worry. But his sense of self-importance wouldn’t have let him do that.

Sighing, she reached for the letters. They were from her father, written to her mother before their marriage. She selected the one at the top of the bundle and began to read. A few lines were enough to tell her that they’d been deeply in love with each other, a few more told her that the young Reginald Harvey had adored and worshipped his beautiful bride-to-be.

She slipped the letter back in its envelope and bound it back with the others, her fingers shaking. This was personal and private and showed her a side of her father she had never known existed. He had been capable of a love so strong and enduring it practically sang from the faded pages.

Clutching the letters, she got to her feet, her eyes blurred with sudden tears. And saw him. She couldn’t breathe.

She hadn’t given Ben Dexter a single thought for the last couple of hours but now he was standing in the open attic doorway, watching her. And he filled her head, the whole drowsy, dusty space. The atmosphere was charged with his presence.

If she’d explained to her father—the thought came fleetingly—just how deeply she’d been in love with Ben Dexter instead of stubbornly remaining mute, her eyes defiant, then perhaps he would have understood. He had known the type of love that could enthral, that could bind one person to another with a special kind of magic.

Just as swiftly that thought was replaced by something much more cynical: it wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference. Even if her father could have been persuaded to approve of her relationship with the village wild boy instead of threatening fire and brimstone there wouldn’t have been a happy ending. The black-eyed, half tamed, young Dexter had never loved her. Had just lied about it because he’d wanted sex with her, happy enough to go find it elsewhere when he’d had a fistful of her father’s money as a pay-off.

Now the downward sweep of his eyes, the curl of his long, hard mouth told her that he’d noted her weird appearance and had fastened on what was obvious: the clear outline of her svelte body showing through the ghastly overall, modesty secured, but only just, by the tiny black bra and briefs.

Quelling the impulse to run right out of here, she lifted her chin a fraction higher and coolly asked, ‘You wanted something?’

‘You.’

Eyes like molten jet swept up and locked with hers and for a moment she thought he meant it. Meant just that. Her bones trembled, heat fizzing through her veins, her breath lodging in her throat. Until a deep cleft slashed between his dark brows, the lazy, taunting smile wiped away as he moved closer.

Of course he hadn’t meant he wanted her the way he once had. Wildly, passionately, possessively. He just wanted to check the hired help was actually working, not sitting somewhere with her feet up, painting her nails.

Which was just as well because she didn’t want him, most certainly she didn’t. Until he touched her, the merest brush of the backs of his fingers as he stroked the heavy fall of midnight hair away from her face and everything inside her melted in the shattering conflagration of present desire and remembered ecstasy.





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