Книга - An Heir To Make A Marriage

An Heir To Make A Marriage
ABBY GREEN


A legacy maid in ManhattanIn desperation to save her father, housekeeper Rose O’Malley thinks she can trap a man. But the second she faces Zac Valenti and the force of his palpable sensuality, she knows she can’t go through with it!Before she can call off her deception, Manhattan’s most eligible bachelor sweeps Rose off her feet – and into his bed! Stealing away like a guilty Cinderella, Rose vows never to see Zac again…until she discovers she’s pregnant and Zac demands his passionate betrayer and his baby remain under his control!







As Zac’s car purred silently and powerfully through the streets of Manhattan for the first time in her life Rose felt a very rogue urge to rebel and do somethingshewanted. Which was to eke out another few illicit moments in his company.

She’d never felt so intoxicated. Heady. The way he’d looked at her, with such thrillingly explicit intent … No one had ever looked at her like that. Her heart still beat a frantic tattoo.

Was it so bad to want a little more of this man’s attention? Yes, because you know very well that if he knew who you were and why you were here he’d have you out of this car so fast your head would be spinning for a year …

That almost caused Rose to turn in her seat and ask for Zac to stop the car, but they were pulling up outside the club now.

Zac looked at her as the car came to a stop. She was transfixed by his mouth, and she imagined what it might be like on hers. On her skin.

‘I’m glad you came with me.’

And just like that all of Rose’s good intentions were blasted to pieces by wicked desire.


One Night With Consequences (#ulink_31232264-371e-558e-9dd8-cd4a299ab373)

When one night … leads to pregnancy!

When succumbing to a night of unbridled desire it’s impossible to think past the morning after!

But, with the sheets barely settled, that little blue line appears on the pregnancy test and it doesn’t take long to realise that one night of white-hot passion has turned into a lifetime of consequences!

Only one question remains:

How do you tell a man you’ve just met that you’re about to share more than just his bed?

Find out in:

Her Nine Month Confession by Kim Lawrence September 2015

An Heir Fit for a King by Abby Green October 2015

Larenzo’s Christmas Baby by Kate Hewitt November 2015

Illicit Night with the Greek by Susanna Carr February 2016

Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire by Susan Stephens March 2016

The Shock Cassano Baby by Andie Brock May 2016

The Greek’s Nine-Month Redemption by Maisey Yates June 2016

Look for more One Night With Consequences coming soon!


An Heir to Make a Marriage

Abby Green






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


Irish author ABBY GREEN threw in a very glamorous career in film and TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Mills & Boon with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com or e-mail abbygreenauthor@gmail.com (mailto:abbygreenauthor@gmail.com).


I’d like to dedicate this book to the memory of Jimmy Devlin, who was known affectionately throughout the Irish film business as ‘Jimmy the Bus’. That was his job: driving a minibus to and from different locations, carrying everyone from cast to crew. He made everyone feel like a VIP, even if it was their first job. He was a true gentleman who oozed an old-world charm and respect for everyone around him—especially women.

Men like Jimmy Devlin make it easy to write about larger than life heroes, because he epitomised what a hero is. Ar dheis dé go raibh a h-anam.


Contents

Cover (#ub79ec09f-bc45-5f74-b9cc-3868db8971ce)

Introduction (#u87d22166-329e-59f8-83b9-43bf9a60aa33)

One Night With Consequences (#ulink_e2c82792-e1ec-5f8d-9307-30da671f8016)

Title Page (#u27566d84-e265-5367-b7bf-e0ab5641ec05)

About the Author (#ua93ba03f-a213-5921-af23-2dd4ab6cd3c4)

Dedication (#uf2d9641e-c6f3-5242-bddf-76b844c3b8e3)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f5021c65-60cb-5e65-b82d-e46a509d7112)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_abfb63ae-3a3a-5dc1-a03d-7964fb80b964)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_172357a2-7a64-5d72-8392-8c2767b7d006)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_fb46693c-73de-5778-ba5e-eb3eb12914f1)

ROSE O’MALLEY’S HEART was racing. Her skin felt clammy, her palms were sweaty and she was light-headed. She was basically exhibiting all the signs of heading into a full-blown panic attack, or some kind of emotional and physical meltdown, right here on a closed toilet seat in one of Manhattan’s most exclusive hotel bathrooms.

Her surroundings, opulent as they were, were only making things worse. Highlighting the fact that she shouldn’t be here. Highlighting the fact that this was not her world. She was one generation removed from Ireland, by way of Queens, and to say she felt like a fish out of water was an understatement.

Her reflection in the mirror on the back of the cubicle door showed a stranger. A sleek, soignée stranger. Her normally wavy shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair was all straight and glossy and coiled up into a sophisticated chignon at the back of her head.

Rose acknowledged faintly that she had a neck. She’d never noticed it before now.

Only the bottom half of her face was visible because the rest of it was obscured by a delicately ornate black and gold mask. Her eyes glinted out, looking very frightened and green and almost feverish. Her mouth was painted a garish red. Her cheeks were flushed.

She put the back of her hand to one burning cheek.

Relief flooded her for a moment. That was it: she was coming down with the flu. She ignored the little voice pointing out that they were in the middle of an abnormally warm New York spring and rationalised that she couldn’t possibly go out there now—she’d infect all the most important people in Manhattan with her germs.

But just as she was about to stand up, with her sheer black dress shimmering in the mirror, the main door of the powder room opened and some women came in, chattering excitedly. Rose sat back down again, a feeling of futility sinking into her bones.

Of course she didn’t have the flu.

But she still wasn’t ready to come into actual human contact with anyone. Thankfully she was in the end stall, furthest away from the door. She’d wait till they left.

One of the women who’d entered—Rose figured there were two—spoke in a loud indiscreet whisper. ‘Oh, my God. Did you see him? I mean, I know he’s totally hot—but seriously? I think my ovaries just exploded.’

The other woman’s tone was dry and sardonic. ‘Well, that’s just a waste of good eggs. It’s common knowledge he doesn’t want anything to do with the inheritance his family have bequeathed to any child he might have—he even changed his name to distance himself!’

The friend was incredulous. ‘Who on earth would turn their back on billions of dollars and a family name that dates back to the Mayflower?’

Rose’s insides cramped painfully. She knew exactly who: the most infamous man at the party. Zac Valenti. He was here. She’d been hoping he might not be. But he was. And now the palpitations were back.

The women were still gossiping amidst the sounds of rummaging in a bag.

‘Everyone thought he was having, like, a breakdown or something after he left Addison Carmichael waiting at the altar, but the man literally rose from the ashes.’

The voices got lower, and Rose found herself straining forward towards the door to hear.

‘They say that he’s now the richest eligible male in the United States.’

‘But did you get the vibe he sends off? Seriously cold—and moody. Like, you can look, but you can’t touch.’

The other voice turned dreamy. ‘I know... Those silent brooding types are so damned attractive.’

There was a squirt of something that sounded like perfume and a derisive snort. ‘I think it has a little more to do with the fact that he’s a walking gold mine for any woman who can succeed in getting him to be her baby daddy. He might not want his family’s fortune, but I for one would not say no—and whoever has his baby will have access to the famous Lyndon-Holt fortune.’

As those words reverberated, Rose chose that precise moment to overbalance and fall against the door of the cubicle with a clatter. She stiffened in horror as an awful silence descended over the powder room, and then she heard frantic hushed whispering and the rapid clickety-clack of heels as the women left again.

She sat back on the toilet seat and rubbed her shoulder where it had connected with the door. Hysteria rose. As those women had just pointed out, Zac Valenti was probably the man least likely to father a child, thanks to his well-documented estrangement from his family—the cause of which no one knew. But that hadn’t stopped the endless speculation as to why. He hadn’t even gone to his own father’s funeral when he’d died almost a year previously.

After the rift and the death of his father, a new version of the Lyndon-Holt will had been leaked to the press. It had revealed that if Zac had a child, boy or girl, that child would inherit the entire Lyndon-Holt fortune in lieu of Zac—as long as it carried the Lyndon-Holt name, of course. Many suspected that the details of the will had been leaked on purpose.

So now, if Zac Valenti fathered a child, there would be immense pressure on him not to deny it its rightful inheritance, and the child’s mother would have a say in it—including the naming of the child... Something Zac Valenti was undoubtedly aware of and which was probably behind the conveniently leaked will.

Which brought Rose O’Malley neatly back to the reason she was there in the first place. She was here to cold-bloodedly seduce Zac Valenti—one of the most coveted bachelors in the world—with her aim being, however impossible it might seem, to try and become pregnant with his child.

Rose’s mind boggled anew at what she’d agreed to. It was only now, a day later, that the panic and fear that had led her to making that decision had faded a little, restoring her to cold, stark reality. And the realisation that she’d made a pact with the devil.

Rose’s conversation with her employer, Mrs Lyndon-Holt, was still vivid in her mind—as vivid as the beautifully preserved woman’s ice-cold blue eyes.

Zac Valenti’s mother had held up the signed contract and said, ‘You are now bound by the terms of this agreement, Rose. If you become pregnant with my son’s child, and ensure that it will take the Lyndon-Holt name on its birth, it will inherit everything. And once I receive confirmation of your pregnancy, your father will go to a clinic and receive the best medical care for his condition.’

Mrs Lyndon-Holt had continued, ‘But if you break the terms of the non-disclosure agreement and reveal these details to anyone, you will be prosecuted with the full force of my legal team. In the event that you do have a baby but you don’t comply with these terms, I will crush you. Needless to say a legal contretemps between me—’ she’d looked Rose up and down pointedly here ‘—and a maid isn’t a fight you’ll want to engage in.’

The magnitude of what was at stake had hit Rose. She’d blurted out, ‘What on earth makes you think a man like your son would look twice at someone like me?’

The older woman had stood back and narrowed those calculating eyes. ‘A man as cynical and jaded as Zachary...? He’ll look. He can’t fail to notice a fresh-faced beauty like you. You just have to ensure that it goes beyond noticing.’

Rose came back to the present and looked at herself in the mirror. She didn’t feel fresh-faced or beautiful. She felt ridiculous, tainted. Garish. With her hot cheeks and the slash of red lipstick. In a fit of self-disgust she grabbed some tissue and wiped the lipstick off her lips.

She couldn’t do this. She should never have agreed to such an outlandish plan.

She stood up, galvanised into leaving this place and informing Mrs Lyndon-Holt that she could find someone else to be her sick baby bait. But the reason she’d agreed to it in the first place came back like a slap in the face, and she sat back down again heavily.

Her father. His face full of pain. Pale. Losing hope. Far too young at fifty-two to be facing certain death if he didn’t receive the operation he needed.

The kind of operation that was far beyond the reach of an ex-chauffeur and a humble maid, with only the most basic of health insurance.

It was a fact that Mrs Lyndon-Holt had seized upon to use to her advantage, capitalising on Rose’s fear and panic. Her father had worked as the Lyndon-Holts’ driver until Mr Lyndon-Holt had passed away, after which Mrs Lyndon-Holt had taken on new staff, without so much as a thank-you for years of service. Rose had kept her job, however, and it had been a relief at the time.

Shortly afterwards her father had started to feel unwell, and this had culminated in the diagnosis of a rare heart condition, fatal if not treated.

Rose battled with her conscience. The thought of her father succumbing to an inevitable decline was too much to bear. She’d lost her mother already—far too young. Her father was all she had left. They had no other family in America. And he could be saved easily. If he had the operation. The operation that Mrs Lyndon-Holt had agreed to pay for if Rose did this...

She looked at her glittering eyes and hectically flushed cheeks. She told herself that she would make an attempt to find Zac Valenti, but if she couldn’t find him—or if she did and he didn’t look at her twice, which she fully expected—then she would go. At least she would know that she’d tried her best.

And then she would worry about what to do with her father. But at least she would have given it a shot.

* * *

Zac Valenti looked around the massive glittering ballroom from his antisocial location leaning against a pillar at the back of the room. The opulent space shone with a thousand priceless jewels that screamed the social status of their skinny owners like lurid neon signs over their heads.

One woman passed him, literally weighted down with baubles. Her hand looked barely strong enough to carry the enormous ruby cocktail ring on her index finger. Then she caught sight of him and he could see her eyes widen comically behind her elaborately feathered mask as she almost tripped over her feet.

Evidently his own understated black mask wasn’t an effective shield for his identity. Zac’s mouth tightened. As if he needed proof that he was still the enfant terrible of Manhattan, after delivering the biggest scandal to rock the island in decades when he, Zachary Lyndon-Holt—golden boy and heir apparent to become the uncrowned King of New York—had broken up with his family and given up his inheritance.

Not to mention leaving his fiancée standing at the altar of one of Manhattan’s oldest Gothic churches in her bespoke Oscar da la Renta wedding dress.

Addison Carmichael, a blue-blooded WASP from the top of her gleaming blonde head and her blue eyes to her toes, was nothing if not a product of her breeding and background—and she was as tenacious as a Jack Russell terrier. Within a year she’d married into a well-known political family dynasty and was currently the wife of a New York senator.

When Zac bumped into her now she smiled at him with only the slightest tinge of malice—his ensuing rupture with his family had diluted her public humiliation somewhat.

He hadn’t been worried about causing her emotional trauma—it wasn’t as if they’d had a love match. His relationship with her had been as much of a charade as the rest of his life at that time. And he could only be thankful that he’d discovered the ugly truth in his family before he’d sleepwalked into a veritable prison of his parents’ making.

He cursed silently and corrected himself: his grandparents making.

He’d grown up knowing them as his parents until the day he’d found out otherwise, when his world as he’d known it had exploded out of all recognition.

But he’d stayed standing.

And after the shock had passed he’d discovered that all he cared about was the heinous betrayal of the two people who had brought him into this world. A resolve had filled him to honour his real father and mother—not the people who had brought him up as if he was an ill-favoured guest in his own home.

That day he’d had an incredible sense of his own personal destiny rising from the ashes, outside of the weighty yoke of the great Lyndon-Holt name which he’d never felt entirely comfortable with. And so he’d thrown it off, together with everything else bound with that name. And he’d never looked back.

He was determined to make the Valenti name as revered as the one he’d been born with. He owed it to his immigrant Italian father, who’d had the temerity to fall for a Lyndon-Holt princess and in the eyes of her family had sullied her aristocratic beauty...

The fact that a sizeable part of Zac’s wealth now came from his new-found career as a hotelier and nightclub owner caused him no little measure of satisfaction—because he knew damn well how much it would enrage his grandmother.

Not to mention the tabloid headlines that had followed his latest nightclub opening, when the supermodel currently being hailed as the most beautiful woman in the world had been papped leaving his apartment late the next morning, looking thoroughly bedded and sexily dishevelled.

So why aren’t you returning her calls? asked a snide little voice, which Zac tried to ignore. The sex had been...adequate. But the truth was that their encounter had reminded him a little too forcibly of that feeling of disconnection he’d experienced when he’d discovered the deceit in his family. As if nothing was really real. As if he was a construct...

But he wasn’t a construct. He was flesh and blood and very real. And those people could send snide looks and whisper all they wanted—because Zac Valenti was enjoying being a constant reminder that they were all part of the façade, just as he had been. A reminder that they were hypocrites and just as liable to fall from grace as he had. Even though he hadn’t really fallen—he’d jumped.

He rolled his shoulders in the confines of his bespoke three-piece tuxedo suit, feeling claustrophobic and irritated with the insular direction of his thoughts.

He looked around, seeking distraction.

A flutter of movement in his peripheral vision made him look to his right. He found his gaze resting on the slender figure of a woman in a long, black, backless dress.

She was facing away from him—about ten feet away. So far so unremarkable—Zac had seen women dressed in a lot less in the name of fashion, even if her back was remarkably pale and the line of her spine curved temptingly just before it disappeared under her dress. But something about her kept him looking, and as he did, narrowing his gaze, he realised with a jolt of awareness that her dress was seductively sheer.

She moved then—shifting her weight, stretching up slightly as if she was looking for someone in the crowd—and the dress revealed slim yet obvious curves, the globes of her pert bottom encased in black underwear. His eyes travelled up her long, slender back to where strawberry blonde hair was upswept, revealing a graceful neck.

The ends of the black ribbon of her mask trailed in the golden-red strands, and Zac had an insane urge to go over and undo it. Turn her around to face him. He wanted to see her.

He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, wondering what the hell was going on. Women didn’t usually attract his attention without trying.

Then she turned sideways, towards him, and the jolt of awareness became something much earthier and stronger. The black dress teased at an inordinate amount of pale skin, even though she was covered from neck to ankle, and Zac found that he was holding his breath as his gaze landed on her breasts. They were on the small side, but beautifully shaped, pert and upthrust against the fine material.

Evidently she wore no bra, as the dress was backless. With that realisation a rush of heat went straight to his groin, and Zac found himself reduced to the kind of hormonal surges a teenage boy might feel, captivated by his first pictures of naked women.

Her features were mostly obscured by the mask, but he could make out a ripe mouth and delicate jaw. Everything about her was graceful...feminine. She held a full champagne glass in her hand, and from where he stood he could see how white her knuckles were. He realised that she looked uncomfortable, or ill at ease.

He frowned, but just then a waiter passed by and she quickly stepped forward, put her glass on his tray and turned away again. It was as if she’d made some kind of decision. She started walking in the opposite direction, her movements jerky, almost panicked, but she didn’t get far because a large group of men blocked her. She hovered uncertainly, craning forward as if to try and see another way out.

Zac’s interest was spiked in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time—if ever. Because if there was one thing he knew about this crowd, it was that everyone here felt entitled and no one hesitated...over anything. They barrelled through, regardless of niceties. So she was an anomaly, and Zac was suddenly wide awake and deliciously distracted.

* * *

Rose was feeling a mixture of sick dread and relief. She couldn’t see Zac Valenti anywhere. And right now she just wanted to get out of there—out of this stifling room full of people dressed like glittering peacocks, where she didn’t belong, in a dress that made her feel like a call girl.

The stylist Mrs Lyndon-Holt had hired had been like an army officer, barking at Rose to get dressed. When she’d tried to voice her objections the woman had given her a steely look and said, ‘I’ve been given a brief and you’re wearing that dress.’

Humiliation crawled up Rose’s spine as she thought of the instructions the stylist must have received: She needs to look good enough to catch my son’s eye, but slutty enough to make him believe she’s up for it.

Relief at the thought that Zac Valenti must have left washed over Rose again. She reassured herself that there was no way he’d have looked at her twice anyway. The man took supermodels as his lovers, for crying out loud! Not pale and freckled maids who worked in big houses and got themselves embroiled in a deception that was utterly heinous.

Rose was still being comprehensively blocked by a group of men and she balled her hands into fists, determined to push her way through if she had to.

‘I sincerely hope you’re not planning on taking a swing at the mayor of New York. I’m sure he’ll let you through if you ask nicely.’

The voice was deep and sexy and very close to Rose’s ear. She spun around in fright and came face to chest with a tall, powerful body. She had to look up, and up again, to see the man’s face.

Her heart stopped.

Even the small black mask couldn’t hide his identity.

Zac Valenti. He hadn’t left. He was right here.

The mask obscured the upper part of his face, but not the piercing blue eyes glinting down at her. He was famous for his blue eyes. Some called them icy, but right now all she could feel was a disturbing level of heat rising through her body.

Rose’s first thought was that pictures could never have prepared her for seeing him in the flesh. He towered over her own not inconsiderable five feet seven inches, and his shoulders were broad enough to block out the room behind him.

His hair was dark golden brown, thick and wavy. He was dark—darker than he looked in pictures—with a hard jaw and a firm and wickedly sensual mouth, currently tipped up sexily at one side.

He oozed the kind of easy charm and grace that came with impeccable breeding and inestimable wealth. He made Rose think of how she’d imagined Jay Gatsby from The Great Gatsby when she’d read the book. Aristocratic. Untouchable. Impossibly handsome. A golden being.

Something deep and unfamiliar inside Rose pulsed to life, disturbingly intense. Hot. It struck her: sexual awareness. It was like being plugged into an electrical socket. Her relatively sheltered life with her father, after her mother had died, hadn’t allowed for much time to mingle with the opposite sex. Rose had been too busy worrying about her father and the deep pit of despair he’d fallen into.

Zac Valenti cocked his head to one side, eyes sparkling, ‘I take it that you can talk?’

Rose found one brain cell that wasn’t still frozen in shock and nodded her head. ‘Yes,’ she said faintly, and then more strongly, getting a grip on herself, ‘Yes, I can talk.’

‘That’s a relief.’ He held out a hand and smiled. ‘Zac Valenti—pleased to meet you.’

His smile had the wattage of the sun at full blast. Rose had to stop herself from blurting out, I know exactly who you are.

She took a deep breath. ‘I’m Rose.’

His hand engulfed hers. Warm and strong. Slightly rough. He was no soft city boy. Between her legs, her flesh jumped in response.

‘Just Rose?’

She was about to supply her second name when she thought of something and panic made her belly swoop. He might recognise her name—she and her father had worked for his family. She thought quickly and said, ‘Murphy. Rose Murphy.’ It had been her mother’s maiden name.

‘With a name and colouring like that you can’t be anything but Irish.’

Rose was sweating. ‘My parents emigrated here just before I was born.’

She pulled her hand back from his. Even though she’d met him now she still couldn’t do this. She was out of her depth, her league...her everything. Shouldn’t men like Zac Valenti have cordons of bodyguards around them? Yet he didn’t. He was like a lone wolf. This had been a crazy plan and one she couldn’t possibly execute.

She stepped back.

‘Where are you going?’

Her tongue felt too large for her mouth. ‘I have to...go...’ she said lamely.

‘Without a dance?’

He extended his hand again and now Rose felt a different kind of panic surge. ‘I don’t dance.’

‘I find that hard to believe—who doesn’t know how to dance?’

Someone who grew up watching the girls in her class go to dance classes and who buried her envy because she knew her parents couldn’t afford to send her.

Suddenly angry at being in this position, and in this place, Rose said sharply, ‘Well, I don’t...and I really should go.’

She turned away, only to feel a hand closing around her arm, tugging her back. Damn the man. Why wouldn’t he just let her go? Already she was feeling remorse for being sharp. This had nothing to do with him. Well, it did...but he wasn’t aware of her nefarious intentions.

Oh, God. She felt nauseous.

He’d put his hands on her arms now, and she looked up into that classically perfect face.

He was concerned. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

Predictably, Rose’s brain cells were scrambling again under that blue gaze. ‘You didn’t. I was being silly—I’m sorry.’

His mouth tipped up again in that sexy way. ‘Was that our first fight?’

Rose’s belly swooped alarmingly. ‘You’re very smooth,’ she remarked dryly, even as she battled surprise that he wasn’t more...arrogant. She’d had no idea he would be so charming or flirtatious. She hadn’t expected to like him.

But then, she thought with uncharacteristic cynicism, if she’d been there as one of the impeccably clad waitresses he really wouldn’t have looked twice at her. And she wasn’t so naive she couldn’t see that underneath the suave exterior were the sharp talons of his own cynicism. A man like him, from a world like this...? His mother was right: they didn’t come more jaded.

He smiled, oblivious to her inner turmoil. ‘I try.’

Then he slid his hands down her arms, slowly enough to make her breath quicken and her skin prickle into goosebumps. Especially when he brushed against the sides of her breasts.

He took her hand in his and started to lead her towards the dance floor, where couples were swaying cheek to cheek to the seductive tones of sultry jazz.

Rose put her other hand over his and tried to tug free. Aware of a lot of curious looks, she whispered desperately, ‘Really, I’ve never—’

He sent her a look over his shoulder, stopping her words. ‘Trust me.’

They were on the dance floor now, and Zac swung Rose round until she was in front of him. She looked at him helplessly. He took her right hand and held it in his and slid his other arm around her back, up high, his hand spreading out over bare skin. And then he pulled her close and she stumbled forward slightly, right into his taut, lean body.

Every thought left her head. Why she was there. What she was there for. Who she was. All she was aware of was how it felt to be held so close to this man, every inch of his tall body, hard and muscled, against her much softer one.

Her breasts were pressed against his chest. His hand was making small subtle movements against the skin of her back. And they were moving, going around in a circle across the floor. Rose couldn’t actually feel her feet. She was floating.

Her nipples had tightened to hard points, pressing against her dress. She’d never been so aware of herself as a woman before. She blushed and ducked her head. A finger came under her chin, tipping her face up again. Even in spite of the mask she could see that Valenti looked incredulous.

He shook his head and frowned. ‘Are you for real?’

‘Of course I’m real,’ Rose answered automatically, becoming aware of her surroundings again as she saw a woman gliding past, a condescending expression in her eyes as she looked Rose over from behind her own ornate mask. She tensed in his arms. ‘Look, Mr Valenti, I really should—’

He pulled her closer and growled, ‘It’s Zac. Mr Valenti makes me sound like an old man. And I’m not an old man—yet.’

She looked up at him and gulped. He most certainly was not an old man. He was young and dynamic and virile. And she couldn’t believe she was in his arms. Even though this had been the exact objective of the evening...

‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘you’re the only woman here who isn’t wearing one piece of jewellery?’

Rose immediately scrambled to think of something to say under that incisive blue gaze. ‘I...er...I’d be afraid of losing something.’

Zac shook his head again in that slightly incredulous way. ‘Your jewels aren’t insured?’

Rose cursed herself. Of course, every woman here would have insured each priceless jewel she owned to within an inch of its life. However, the only precious jewellery she owned was her mother’s engagement ring, and that had more sentimental value than real value.

She affected what she hoped was an air of nonchalance and fudged telling the truth with deflection. ‘The current trend is that less is more.’

Zac’s hand moved then, slowly down her back, his fingers trailing along her spine down to where her back started to curve just above her dress, and her entire body flushed with heat.

He said throatily, ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

Run—quick, run! said a voice in Rose’s head. She was playing a high-stakes game and she was not remotely prepared or ready. And yet, a small stark voice reminded her, she didn’t have much of a choice. If she wanted her beloved father to get better. To live.

‘What do you say we get out of here? Go somewhere a little less...stuffy.’

Zac’s voice cut through her troubled thoughts and feelings of guilt. She wasn’t a dishonest person and she’d never told a lie in her life. Yet right now she was actively engaged in deceiving this man with every word that came out of her mouth. With her very presence.

But the huge room did feel as if it was closing in on them. The heat was stifling. Weakly choosing more time to think about her predicament, Rose said, ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

Zac smiled, and it had a quality to it that wasn’t remotely civilised. But before she could change her mind he was tugging her off the dance floor, her hand firmly in his, and she had to lift her dress to keep up with him as he cut a swathe through the crowd.

Rose was aware that she could probably just tug her hand out of his and flee, get lost in the crowd and escape through a side entrance, but...treacherously...she didn’t.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f95802ef-87bd-5d56-8ebe-dc81717a6f17)

ONCE THEY WERE in the vast marbled lobby, the increased flow of oxygen helped to unlock a delayed dose of cynicism that mocked Zac for being so taken by a woman. Yet even this rush of sanity couldn’t stop the realisation that he hadn’t felt so alive in a long time.

And certainly no woman had ever precipitated this level of arousal. He took her over to a secluded area and as soon as he looked at her he felt any attempt to control his libido turn to dust.

Her cheeks were flushed and her chest was moving up and down rapidly. Cynicism be damned. He didn’t want its protection now—he needed to see her. He took his own mask off and threw it carelessly but expertly into a nearby bin. He saw how her eyes widened on his face and his body pulsed with desire.

‘Now you,’ he said softly. ‘I want to see you.’

For a second she bit her lip, and he had the crazy notion that she was going to refuse and walk away and he’d be left with just her name... But then she nodded a little jerkily and took her hands out of his to lift them to the back of her head.

‘Wait—’ Zac cursed silently. His voice sounded too harsh. Needy.

She looked at him, arms lifted.

‘I want to do it. Turn around.’

Slowly her arms came down and she turned, giving him her bare, slender back. Zac had to restrain himself from slipping his hands under the sides of her dress and around to cup her breasts in his palms. Just imagining the scrape of small hard nipples against his skin was enough to send his arousal levels into orbit.

Instead he lifted his hands to where the mask was tied and undid the knot, letting it fall open. She caught the mask in her hand, in front of her face, and Zac slowly turned her around again, a crazy surge of anticipation tightening his gut.

And when she lifted her face to his...he stopped breathing.

She was stunning. But in a way that caught Zac in a different place than when he usually looked at a beautiful woman. She was ethereal...delicate. The faintest trail of freckles sat across her small, straight nose. Her cheekbones were high, elevating her face out of mere prettiness. And her mouth was ripe and full, like a crushed rosebud. Rose, indeed. Not caked in lipstick. Ripe for kissing.

Her eyes held him captive. Huge and green, with tiny flecks of gold.

They stood looking at each other for long silent seconds—until Zac realised that they were still in a public place. He’d never lost himself like this...in a moment. As if she was some fey creature in an enchanted wood who’d captivated him.

Feeling more than a little exposed, he took a breath and stepped back. Rose blinked, her long black lashes a contrast to her fair brows. Suddenly Zac wanted to see her in a more contemporary setting, as if that might somehow help defuse this sense of not being connected to reality any more.

He took her hand in his again and started to lead her back to the main part of the lobby, sending a silent signal to the attentive concierge to get his car brought round.

‘Wait...where are we going?’

She was tugging on Zac’s hand and he stopped to face her. There was something he’d never seen before in the depths of those amazing emerald-green eyes. Wariness. Women weren’t wary around Zac. They were confident, seductive. Intent on pursuing him.

Not this one. Bells rang in his head, telling him to be suspicious. But the heat in his body drowned them out. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman. There was something about her that called to a very animalistic part of him.

‘We’re going to one of my clubs.’

Rose’s eyes widened slightly. She appeared almost reluctant, but then she said, ‘Okay.’

Zac felt a moment of lightness bubble up inside him. ‘Just...okay? You don’t care which one?’ He did own three of the most successful clubs in Manhattan, after all.

‘Should I?’

Her guileless question caught him unawares. Of course she shouldn’t. But in his experience everyone always wanted to go to the hottest place. The place that was so hot it wasn’t even hot yet.

Zac tugged her closer. ‘I’ll choose, then, shall I?’

She just nodded. He very badly wanted to kiss her right then, but he’d never indulged in public displays of affection in his life, and he was aware of a million pairs of curious eyes on them. So he drew back.

A discreet cough came from nearby. ‘Mr Valenti? Your car is here.’

Zac thanked the man and led Rose outside to where the valet was holding the passenger door open. Zac tipped him and helped Rose into the low-slung silver Falcone sports car.

When he’d got in behind the wheel he looked over to see her staring straight ahead, her hands clenched in her lap, still holding on to her mask. She swallowed, the long graceful column of her throat moving up and down. She was tense.

Something alien moved within Zac. Concern. ‘I can take you home, if you’d prefer?’

Personally, he would prefer to walk over hot coals than let her go anywhere out of his sight. But he was not about to admit that weakness.

After a few interminable seconds she turned to look at him and the shadows of the car made her face even more ethereally beautiful. She was pale, but determined. As if she’d made some kind of decision.

She shook her head. ‘No, I want to go with you.’

Zac felt a disturbingly strong flare of triumph. He ignored it and lifted her hand, forcing it to uncurl, slipping his fingers between hers. A relatively chaste gesture, but one that felt positively carnal when he saw how her eyes dilated. He brought it to his mouth and pressed his lips against her knuckles. A sweet, delicate scent filled his nostrils. Tantalising. Innocent.

His body tightened with anticipation.

‘Well, then, let’s go.’

* * *

Rose was very aware that she’d had two opportunities now to decline Zac Valenti’s invitation gracefully and leave. Before this farce continued. But as he’d looked down at her in the lobby she’d been agreeing before she’d been able to stop herself, transfixed by his sheer male beauty.

And what excuse did she have for saying yes just now? None.

But, as Zac’s car purred silently and powerfully through the streets of Manhattan, for the first time in her life Rose felt a very rogue urge to rebel, to do something she wanted. Which was to eke out another few illicit moments in his company.

She’d never felt so intoxicated. It was heady. The way he’d removed her mask...it was the closest she’d ever come to an erotic moment. And then the way he’d looked at her, with such thrillingly explicit intent... Her heart still beat a frantic tattoo.

She’d never had much of a chance to indulge in flirtation with men; her time had been taken up with work and caring for her father. Was it so bad to want a little more of this man’s attention?

Yes, because you know very well that if he knew who you were and why you were here he’d have you out of the car so fast your head would be spinning for a year...

That almost caused Rose to turn in her seat and ask Zac to stop the car, but they were pulling up outside the club now, which appeared to be in the basement of a very tall, gleaming modern building.

Zac looked at her when the car had come to a stop. She was transfixed by his mouth, and imagined what it might be like on hers. On her skin.

‘I’m glad you came with me.’

And just like that all of Rose’s good intentions were blasted to pieces by wicked desire.

He got out of the car and walked around the bonnet, his powerful body sheathed in that amazing suit. He stopped at her door and opened it, which she was grateful for, as she realised that the car was way too fancy and sleek for her to know where the handle was—if there even was something as pedestrian as a handle.

When he’d helped her out she became aware of a long queue of hopefuls outside the roped-off doors of the club. She was also peripherally aware of a flurry of activity between the doormen and someone who looked very officious when they realised who had just arrived. The owner and their boss.

Suddenly there was a cacophony of calls: ‘Zac! Zac!’ And Rose was vaguely aware of him putting his arm around her and shielding her as he all but bundled her through a door beside the main one. It was being held open by one of the bouncers.

When the door had closed behind them he turned to her, concerned. ‘Are you okay? Luckily the paparazzi didn’t get us.’

She nodded, her ears still ringing from the shouting. ‘I think so.’

He stood up straight and ran a hand through his hair, quirking a smile. ‘I’m more used to people waiting until they’re sure they have been comprehensively papped.’

Rose shuddered at the very idea of her picture being splashed on the front pages of the tabloids. The thought was horrific. And of course he was referring to the kind of women who were as used to this kind of scene as she was used to a black and white uniform with an apron and to people never looking her in the eye.

But he was looking her right in the eye now, and it was very hard to regret being here. Even though she knew it was wrong.

‘Shall we?’

He put out a hand, indicating for her to precede him down a narrow corridor, luxuriously carpeted, with dark walls. It screamed sin and decadence, and it was a world away from anything she had ever experienced.

Another spurt of that dangerously rebellious spirit urged her on. Just a few more minutes, Rose assured herself. And then she would go.

She walked ahead of Zac, and she could feel the pounding bass beat of the music coming from all around them. They were approaching a door, and as if by magic it was opened by a handsome young man in a suit. He gave a small deferential nod as they walked in.

She came to a stop inside what was clearly the VIP space, with its velvet banquette seats and gleaming table. There was a railing and steps leading down to the dance floor, which was on the level below. The bottom of the stairs was guarded by another huge bouncer.

The dance floor was filled with hundreds of scantily clad lithe and gyrating bodies. Everyone looked like a supermodel. The local nightclub near where she’d grown up, on Bliss Street, Queens, could never have prepared Rose for this sophisticated spectacle.

She was mesmerised for long seconds, and then she felt a prickling sensation across her skin and looked to see Zac leaning with one arm on the railing, staring at her with a small smile. He was holding two delicate flutes filled with sparkling wine and he handed her one.

She accepted it, hoping she didn’t look like a total wide-eyed hick, and he clinked his glass to hers.

‘Here’s to...new friends.’

‘New friends...’ she echoed, and took a sip of the golden wine, delighting in the way it fizzed as it slid down her throat. She’d been too nervous to contemplate drinking any of the champagne at the function earlier.

He took her hand with an ease that set her pulse on fire and led her over to the seat—a semi-circular shape around the table. She felt unaccountably self-conscious and nervous now that it was just the two of them in this dimly lit intimate space.

She gestured to the heaving dance floor below and asked a little shakily, ‘Is this where you come to survey your kingdom?’

Somewhere along the way Zac’s bow tie had come rakishly undone and the top button of his shirt was open. As was his waistcoat. There was space between them, but with his snowy white shirt pulled across his flat belly and one arm spread out along the back of the seat, with a hand resting near Rose’s head, she felt as hot as if they were touching. The darkness of his skin was visible through his shirt.

He shrugged minutely, dragging Rose’s attention north again. Something crossed his face...some indecipherable expression. Almost distaste. But it was gone before she could analyse it.

‘It’s a prettier view than the floor of the stock exchange.’

His words were flippant, but Rose detected something sharp. He gave off a blasé air, but she didn’t think he was for a second. She could tell that he was supremely aware of absolutely everything going on, and she would guess that there wasn’t the smallest thing left to chance.

‘I wouldn’t know what that looks like,’ she replied. ‘I’ve never been there.’

Zac’s gaze narrowed on her and her skin felt tight all over.

‘So tell me about you. I haven’t seen you around before...’

She curbed a semi-hysterical giggle. ‘That’s because I’m not really from around here.’

Zac frowned. ‘But you’re a New Yorker?’

Rose took another fortifying sip of champagne. Mrs Lyndon-Holt’s cut-glass tones came back to her. ‘Don’t lie—he’ll see through you in an instant. Be honest. He won’t connect you to here. He was gone before you started working for us.’

Her guts were tangled into a knot. She couldn’t believe it had really come to this. She felt as if at any moment she’d wake up back in that toilet cubicle. Maybe she’d knocked her head as well as her shoulder—

‘Rose...?’

She looked at Zac Valenti. This was no dream. He was as real as she was.

Illicit excitement vied with fear and guilt. She swallowed. ‘Yes, I’m a New Yorker. From Queens. The truth is...’ She faltered for a moment, tempted to blurt the whole thing out, but then the reminder of her signature on the bottom of that non-disclosure agreement told her that she couldn’t. No matter what happened.

It was like a slap on the face.

She couldn’t tell him the full truth but she could tell him this. ‘The fact is that I’m just a maid... I really shouldn’t have been at that function earlier, but my boss gave me a ticket. This isn’t my world. I’m no one special, really.’

Rose almost hoped that this would be enough to have Zac Valenti recoiling in horror, hastening back to his own kind. But his expression only hardened in a way that she could see wasn’t directed at her.

‘It’s as much your world as anyone else’s, believe me.’

Her insides lurched. She hadn’t expected him to express solidarity, and she was surprised at the vehemence in his voice.

Then he took her glass out of her hand and put it down on the table alongside his own. He stood up from the seat, pulling Rose with him. ‘I want to show you something.’

She balked. She wasn’t meant to be prolonging this, but there was something intense in his expression.

Weakly, she said, ‘But we just got here.’

He looked at her. ‘Do you really want to stay?’

Rose ripped her gaze away from his and looked down over the club—it was spectacular and sinfully seductive, but ultimately it left her cold. Like a beautiful picture with no depth.

She shook her head. ‘No.’

A small smile touched his mouth and then he was leading her back the way they’d come—except instead of going back out to the entrance of the club Zac was going through a secret door that led them into a massive and hushed lobby.

A man in uniform jumped to attention from behind a security desk as soon as he saw Zac. ‘Mr Valenti, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’

Zac lifted a hand. ‘Relax, George, I’m good.’

‘Goodnight, Mr Valenti.’ He nodded at Rose. ‘Ma’am.’

They were stepping into a lift now, and flutters of trepidation mocked Rose’s inability to do what she knew she should: leave. Angry with her own weakness, she pulled her hand free and tried not to be so aware of Zac in the small space, but it was hard when he dominated it.

‘Where are we going, exactly?’

He looked down at her, his blue eyes bright enough to hurt. ‘Trust me.’

He’d said that twice now. This man was a complete stranger to her, and yet she was allowing him to lead her astray as easily as if she was a lemming going over a cliff.

Irritation with herself made her say testily, ‘I barely know you.’

He leant back against the wall of the elevator, hands in his pockets, exuding louche arrogance, and arched an amused brow. ‘Do you really think I’d have alerted a witness to the fact that I’m with you if I was intent on some wicked deed?’

Heat bloomed deep inside Rose at the look in his eyes that told her his head was indeed filled with all sorts of delicious wickedness. But she was the one who was really being wicked here.

The bell pinged then, and Zac straightened up and said, ‘I promise to deliver you straight back to George if you don’t want to stay...’

She was just thinking Stay where? when the doors slid open and she gasped.

Rose stepped out and blinked hard. It was like stepping through the back of a wardrobe into Narnia. If Narnia was under a star-filled Manhattan sky.

It was a garden, with some parts like a wild meadow and others like a very ordered English garden. Rose didn’t even realise she’d walked so far until she saw she was standing right in the middle of a huge green space on a central paved walkway.

The dark smudge of Central Park was visible in the distance and lights twinkled from the buildings around them, giving the illusion of being suspended in mid-air, amongst the tall structures.

‘This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,’ she breathed in awe, thinking poignantly of her mother, who had loved gardens.

‘It took some time to perfect.’

She looked at Zac as understanding dawned. ‘You built this...? How long did it take?’

* * *

Five years, to be precise. But Zac didn’t say that. He led Rose over to an elevated terrace that looked in the opposite direction.

When they were at the railing he guided her in front of him and placed his arms around hers, his hands resting on either side of her on the rail. Trapping her against him.

He gritted his jaw but his body reacted helplessly, rising to the temptation of the provocation of her buttocks against him.

She was tense. Again, not a reaction he was used to with women, who were generally all too eager to capitalise on his exclusive interest.

In a bid to slow the blood rushing to his crotch, he leant forward slightly and pointed. ‘See over there? That’s the Rockefeller Center.’

Her head moved to the left, away from Zac, and he struggled not to press his mouth to her bared neck. The urge to bite that pale skin was almost overwhelming. With some dark humour he figured that he knew how vampires felt. Her scent was light and floral. Sweet. Sexy. Intoxicating.

Curbing his desire, he pointed again to the right. ‘That’s Carnegie Hall. Times Square is just beyond.’

Rose’s face was close to Zac’s now, turning to follow the direction of his finger. She was trembling very lightly, her hands in a white-knuckled grip on the railing.

Her voice was husky. ‘Is this what you do to impress women?’ She huffed a little laugh. ‘I have to admit, it’s working.’

Zac stood up straight, surprised at the immediate indignation he felt. He was no angel, but he resented the insinuation that this was a well-worn routine.

He turned Rose to face him. Her green eyes were huge. Luminous. ‘I don’t bring any women up here. You’re the first.’

* * *

Rose looked up at one of Manhattan’s most desirable men, standing against the backdrop of a glittering city that he could command to do his will with a mere click of his fingers. It was the kind of view most New Yorkers were only lucky enough to see if they queued up to climb the Empire State building or similar tourist attractions. And it was in his backyard.

It was all so unexpected...and especially this amazing, incongruous and wondrous slice of greenery that he’d created, which was so magical.

She desperately wanted to believe he was just spinning her a line, because that would help her feel disgusted with herself—and him. And that would give her the impetus she needed to leave, and walk away.

But she couldn’t move—treacherously. Was he lying? But why would he lie? As if he needed to impress a woman with a mere garden—even if it did soar magically above one of the most vibrant cities in the world. The thought that she really might be the first woman he’d brought here was a little overwhelming and ultimately too seductive to resist.

As if sensing her vacillation, her desire to believe him, Zac cupped her jaw, his fingers light on the back of her neck. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you, Rose. You’re different...’

She swallowed down an urge to giggle at his understatement. ‘You can say that again.’

Her heart thumped erratically against her breastbone. She wasn’t aware of their surroundings any more, only of the fact that he was looking at her as if she truly was...something special.

For all that she had a soft, romantic core that she didn’t show to the world, and in spite of her unfashionable lack of experience, she was street-smart and had a healthy cynicism about men and love.

You couldn’t be a woman living in the twenty-first century in New York and not know that fairy tales really only existed in movies or books. But Zac Valenti was dangerous, because he made her yearn for something that she’d seen between her parents. He made her think that perhaps the fairy tale was possible...

Zac’s head ducked at that moment, and before Rose could finish her thought his mouth was settling over hers and words and thoughts fused into one blinding white flash of heat.

Fairy tales were the last thing on Rose’s mind now, under the masterful and expert touch of Zac’s hard mouth. Carnality—that was on her mind as heat raced through her bloodstream and into every erogenous zone, breathing fire into her nerve endings until they were tingling and jumping.

He’d cupped both hands around her face now, and his tongue was sliding past her shamefully weak and shy resistance to stroke and explore, urging her mouth open, compelling her to accept him.

The sheer power of his kiss was breathtaking, and so was the arrogance with which he calmly and methodically went about stealing her sanity.

Rose only realised she was clinging on to his waist when her fingers encountered hard, unyielding muscle. The kiss was hard, yet soft, and rough enough to send a thrill through her. She was gasping when Zac left her mouth to kiss along her jawline.

He pulled her closer, one arm wrapped so far around her back that his hand slid under her dress, across her bare skin. His fingers were tantalisingly close to her breast. His other hand undid her hair and Rose could feel it fall down and his fingers exploring, threading through the silken strands, cupping her skull.

Rose let her head fall back, giving him better access to her jaw and neck, and his mouth blazed a trail of fire across her skin.

Dimly, she knew she should be making some kind of effort to stop this, but the temptation to go deeper into this new world of sensations was too great to resist. She felt powerful, feminine. Desirable.

Zac lifted his head from her neck and Rose looked up, dazed. Her breath was coming fast and harsh and her breasts were moving against his chest, making her aware of how hard her nipples were.

His eyes burned a bright blue, his cheeks were flushed, and a lock of hair flopped onto his brow. It made her feel curiously tender amidst the tumult rushing through her system.

Then he subtly moved his hips, and the bold thrust of his erection told her far more starkly just how real this was. And his words.

‘I want you.’

His voice sounded guttural and almost coarse. It should have jarred against this beautiful and civilised backdrop, but it didn’t. Because high on this terrace, overlooking the shining city, Rose felt disconnected from everything but this moment and this man. His coarseness and his arousal resonated deep inside her.

She struggled to put some kind of brake on this crazy, all-consuming urge just to say yes. She put her hands on his chest, forced some space between them. She felt undone, with her hair around her face and her mouth swollen from his kisses.

‘I don’t...do this.’ The words were a hopelessly ineffectual attempt to articulate her confusion.

Zac finally—mercifully—straightened and moved back a little too. His mouth twisted. ‘Would you believe me if I said I don’t do this either?’

The space between them finally restored some of Rose’s functioning brain cells. Because she knew very well that Zac might not have brought a woman up to this garden, but he did do this. Very frequently, if the gossip columns were to be believed.

She stepped back, burningly aware of the telltale dampness between her legs. She folded her arms across her chest, residual heat making her feel prickly. ‘You might not do this here, but you do seduce women elsewhere. So, no, I don’t believe you when you say you “don’t do this”.’

His expression hardened, giving Rose an insight into another, more intimidating side of this man that she hadn’t seen yet.

‘I’m not a monk, but I’m not a player. Women know where they stand with me, and when I take a lover I’m faithful to her for as long as it lasts. We have fun and then we move on. I’m not into commitment.’

I’m not into commitment. Rose hated the swoop of her insides to hear it articulated so baldly.

She lifted her chin. ‘And is that what you’re offering here?’ She cursed herself, feeling impossibly gauche. Show the girl from Queens a cool club and an even cooler secret rooftop garden and she’d be eating out of your hand like a bird. Throw in one of the world’s most gorgeous and eligible bachelors and she’d be ready to do a lot more.

But that’s why you’re here, a snide voice reminded her. So who was she to judge him? He didn’t deserve her judgment!

Rose whirled away from that penetrating blue gaze before he might see something, her stomach in knots and her brain freezing at the thought that what she’d been sent to accomplish had so nearly become a reality...

Zac cursed behind her, and even though she’d only known him a few hours she could already imagine him raking a hand through his hair.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said frigidly. ‘No doubt you’re used to a more...sophisticated response.’

It’s not that,’ he grated harshly. ‘I’m angry with myself. I’m not in the habit of propositioning women within hours of meeting them.’

Slowly she turned around to face him again. His face was unreadable but his eyes glowed. The knots in her belly loosened. She didn’t doubt his sincerity. This man was proud. Prouder than anyone she’d ever met.

She could at least be honest about this. ‘I don’t even know you.’

Zac’s mouth quirked with that easy sexiness and he leant back against the railing, his hands behind him. Lord and master of all he surveyed. Power and privilege sitting easily on his shoulders.

‘Most people assume they know me.’

Rose felt shy and lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘That’s understandable, I guess.’

He turned and faced forward again, leaning on the railing. He looked out over the view for a long moment, and then he looked sideways at her. His voice had a resigned quality. ‘What do you say to a coffee and then I’ll arrange for my driver to take you home?’

The rush of disappointment was acute, even though Rose knew she should be welcoming it. Zac was obviously bored rigid. But even that thought couldn’t compel her do the right thing when she had the chance. She longed for a few last seconds basking in his golden aura.

‘Okay, that sounds good.’

She told herself that she welcomed the chance to sober up, even though she’d hardly even drunk. She felt drunk though—drunk on this man.

Zac just nodded, showing no discernible emotion at her acquiescence, and she preceded him back through the garden.

He directed her to a different door this time, not back to the lift. He opened it and indicated for Rose to go first. She went down a spiralling set of stone steps and then he was reaching past her to push open another heavy door. A huge vast space with floor-to-ceiling glass windows was revealed as she stepped over the threshold.

‘This is my apartment.’

Of course he had the apartment below the garden. Above the nightclub. He probably owned the building.

‘Make yourself comfortable. How do you like your coffee?’

Rose was momentarily distracted by the views outside the massive windows. ‘White with one sugar, please.’

She walked into the casual living space, with lots of luxurious-looking sofas and sleek coffee tables, strewn with big photography and art books. A media centre was set up on shelves that formed a dividing wall, with well-thumbed books and DVDs.

The stark minimalism of a quintessential bachelor pad was evident, but it was softened.

‘Coffee?’

Rose jumped at his voice where she’d been standing, looking at his DVDs, and took the cup he held out, noticing that he’d taken off his jacket and waistcoat, so now he was just wearing the open-necked white shirt and trousers.

He gestured with his head towards the shelves. ‘Don’t tell anyone about my predilection for vintage Kung-Fu movies, will you?’

Rose forced a smile and tried to ignore the sensation of her heart turning over. ‘I won’t.’

The lights of the vast city around them lit up the huge space and it was impossibly seductive. She moved towards a window, cupping her hands around the mug in a bid to put some space between them.

Drink the coffee and get out—before you get lost again.

She marvelled at the life of privilege Zac enjoyed. Although he didn’t give off the air of complacency and entitlement that she’d experienced from others. People like his parents...his mother. Her insides cramped.

‘So...when you say you’re a maid...?’

Zac’s words scattered her guilt and Rose looked at him. She had to bite back a smile at his curious expression. She said dryly, ‘It means that I’m one of those invisible workers who tidies up your world so that when you turn around nothing is out of place.’

He winced. ‘Ouch.’

Rose shrugged. ‘It’s the way it is.’

‘You don’t sound bitter,’ he observed.

She glanced at him again. She wasn’t bitter at all. It had never bothered her that she came from a solidly working-class background. She’d had the love of two parents and knew that that was the most important thing in the world. Which was why she had to save her father...

Rose quickly averted her gaze from that incisive blue one. She felt sick and guilty again. She couldn’t do this.

She put down her cup on a nearby table and straightened and looked at him, steeling herself. But her words dried in her mouth. Zac was looking at her with such searing explicitness that a shiver of anticipation raced through her.

She instructed herself with silent desperation. Say, Thank you for the coffee, but I really should be going. Because I never would have met you in a million years if it hadn’t been for—

And then Zac said, ‘Why do I think that you’re about to bolt, and that if you do I’ll never see you again?’


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_2eeb4ed9-4af9-55aa-a49f-f8b5e5d9edfc)

ZAC’S WORDS IMPACTED on Rose like a punch in the gut. Because I am, and you won’t. She knew that if she walked out of there right now she wouldn’t see him again, because this had been an exercise in madness.

She’d never in a million years expected to find herself in this situation, and maybe that was why she’d agreed to this extreme plan—because it had never entered her head that it could possibly become a reality.

Yet despite that she was there, and what had sprung to life between them was...unprecedented. It called to all of Rose’s unawakened desires. And she knew that if she wanted—against all the odds—she might quite possibly be able to fulfil the demands of his mother.

But she couldn’t do it.

Not now that she’d met him.

She couldn’t deceive this man and use him in whatever power play was going on with his mother. She had no right. And she should never have been tempted. Jocelyn Lyndon-Holt had appealed to her fear and vulnerability. Her lack of resources. And she’d shamelessly taken advantage of Rose’s father’s ill health to do so.

For a moment Rose had been terrified enough to agree. But now, facing the stark reality of putting the plan into action, she knew she couldn’t live with herself if she did. She would have to find another way to try and save her father. Which was what she would have had to do anyway. If she walked out of here right now they would be no worse off than if she hadn’t done this. She’d do anything but play with someone else’s life.

She reiterated more firmly, ‘I have to go.’

Bright blue eyes bored into hers and a hand closed around her upper arm. ‘Why? Give me one good reason.’

Anger spiked in Rose—anger that she was in this predicament with the one man she couldn’t have.

She pulled her arm free. ‘Because I’m not meant to be here.’

‘Says who?’

Rose glared at Zac and the anger bubbling up inside her was projected easily onto his arrogant tone.

She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Not everyone has to bow down to the mighty Zac Valenti.’

Zac’s cheeks flushed with dull colour. ‘I don’t expect everyone to bow down to me.’

But they always will just because of who you are.

That wasn’t fair. Rose’s anger drained away. He was not the object of her ire. He was the object of something else—something much darker and hotter. And if she didn’t get out now... Panic made her jerky as she looked around for her small clutch bag.

She couldn’t see it, and she stopped and took a breath, looked back at Zac. ‘I’m sorry. But I just...really have to go.’

Something in his expression hardened—again that glimpse of a more intimidating side. Intractability.

‘You’re married? You have a lover?’

Shocked, Rose answered with affront. ‘No! Nothing like that.’

Now he folded his arms across his chest. ‘Then tell me, Rose, why do you have to run?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Because it might be approaching midnight, but I don’t think you’ll turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes, and you still have both your shoes.’

Something weakened inside Rose—some resistance she was desperately clinging on to. Zac filled her vision, filled every sense with his sheer charisma and masculine allure. And all of it was fixated on her.

She heard herself admitting, ‘I don’t want to leave.’

His stern expression immediately relaxed. He uncrossed his arms and stepped close to her again, cupping her jaw with a hand. ‘Then don’t. Stay, sweet Rose. Stay with me for tonight.’

She looked up into fathoms-deep, clear blue eyes and fell headlong into a dream where she did stay, and spent one beautiful, illicit night with the most exciting man she’d ever met.

A seductive voice whispered over her feverishly hot skin. You can do this if you really want to...take this night and keep it your secret forever.

Just then a shrill sound pierced the thick silence. Rose blinked out of the fantasy being woven in her head and saw Zac’s face tighten with irritation as he plucked a small phone out of his pocket. He looked at the screen and issued a curse.

He glanced at her. ‘I’m sorry, I have to take this for a moment...it’s an important call I’ve been waiting for. But don’t move...’

The phone kept ringing—insistent. Zac was looking at her, commanding her to his will, waiting for her promise that she wouldn’t leave.

Rose finally said, huskily, ‘Okay...’

But as she watched him walk away from her, with that powerful, lithe grace, she knew she’d just uttered a lie. This was her last chance. She had to leave—now.

At least, she told herself as she found her bag and stole out of the apartment, she wouldn’t be adding any further transgressions to her already blackened soul. She wouldn’t be betraying this man.

And she would never see him again.

Her chest grew tight and she bit her lip hard in the lift on her way back down to the ground level—a not so subtle reminder of where she belonged in the world. Not in the lofty heights of fantasy land, but here on the streets, among the millions of other anonymous New Yorkers who never got to taste the rarefied world inhabited by people like Zac Valenti.

Rose left through the main lobby and sent up silent thanks that George, the doorman, appeared to be busy with other residents. He barely spared her a glance.

When she emerged into the street she saw Zac’s car and driver nearby and quickly took off in the other direction, hailing a cab. She knew what she had to do now.

When she returned to the Lyndon-Holt residence, she slipped in through the staff entrance and went straight to the staffroom, where she’d left her own clothes after dressing earlier.

When she’d changed, at the last minute she obeyed a rogue urge, packing up the beautiful sparkly dress, knowing that it was wrong. But it would be the only tangible reminder she would have of a beautiful night with a beautiful man when the possibilities had seemed endless—even if just for a moment.

She crept back out of the house, after leaving a note for Mrs Lyndon-Holt.

I’m sorry, the plan didn’t work.

I’m resigning with immediate effect.

A short while later, on the subway back out to Queens, Rose swayed with the carriage and clutched her bag close on her lap, telling herself that it was ridiculous to feel such a sense of loss. She’d met Zac Valenti and been bathed in the sun of his incredible aura like thousands of other women—for a brief moment.

She was nothing special to him. She’d intrigued him, that was all, with her gauche manners and unsophistication. She was doing the right thing. The only thing she could do. She wanted her father to get better more than anything, but not at the expense of playing with someone else’s life.

* * *

A week later Rose was walking home from doing some shopping with her fast-dwindling savings. Luckily she’d got a job working a few hours a week in a local health food store, but she would need other work—and fast—if she was to try and add to their health insurance so her father would be in with a shot to get on a waiting list for the operation he needed.

But that will take months, a small voice reminded her. Months he doesn’t have.

Rose willed down the panic. She could do this. She was young, healthy. Relatively strong. She would work five jobs if she could find them.

She didn’t regret walking away from her job in the Lyndon-Holt house. No way could she face that woman again. She felt tarnished even knowing what she’d agreed to, knowing what she’d almost done.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she barely noticed the sleek black car crawling beside her and coming to a stop at the same time as she did when she went to cross the road.

A prickling sensation stopped her in her tracks, though, and she looked to see an all too familiar figure emerging from the back of the car, where the door was being held open by a driver.

As if conjured straight out of her thoughts by some nefarious alchemy, Mrs Lyndon-Holt stood resplendent in her designer clothes against the backdrop of the tired Queens street and said superciliously, ‘Won’t you join me in the car, Rose? I think we have some things to discuss.’

* * *

Hours later, dressed in a white shirt, black bow tie and knee-length black skirt, with her unruly hair in a neat bun on the top of her head, Rose held a tray of hors d’oeuvres aloft so that guests could help themselves.

Mrs Lyndon-Holt’s cold voice still rang in her head. ‘Do I need to remind you that you signed a legal document? I could sue you for breach of contract if you give up now.’

Rose had protested vociferously in the back of the car, to no avail. She’d even tried to convince the woman that Zac had asked her to leave.

The response to that had been, ‘If Zachary isn’t interested in you then why has he spent the week looking for you?’

Rose’s heart had palpitated, and she’d asked shakily, ‘How can you even know that?’

The other woman had waved a hand dismissively. ‘I know everything my son is involved in. Believe me. And he wants you.’

Stupidly, Rose had given herself away by saying, ‘He does?’

Mrs Lyndon-Holt had snapped impatiently, ‘Of course he’s interested, you stupid girl. By running away from him you’ve ensured his interest. Women do not evade Zachary Lyndon-Holt, and my son seems to have found your particular brand of unsophistication intriguing.’

As if Rose needed that reminder.

Her protests that she hadn’t run away as part of an attempt to entice him had fallen on deaf ears. And Mrs Lyndon-Holt had reminded Rose cruelly of her other concerns when she’d said, ‘Don’t forget who you’re doing this for, Rose. Your father. He doesn’t deserve to suffer for your lack of action, does he?’

In the end, the not so subtle threat of legal action and a reminder of why she’d signed the contract in the first place had had Rose reluctantly accepting a note with an address on it and terse instructions from Mrs Lyndon-Holt as to what to wear.

So that was why she was now serving at a buffet luncheon inside one of Manhattan’s most exclusive addresses, which housed one of the world’s most famous private art collections, only on view to a very select few on occasions like this, once or twice a year.

Rose prayed that Zac wouldn’t appear, and assured herself that even if he did he probably wouldn’t even remember her, in spite of what his mother claimed.

But just as she was thinking that a very perceptible hush went around the room and she looked up to see him entering through the main salon door.

The tray nearly tipped out of her hands and she had to cling on for dear life. Her nerves went haywire and her blood sizzled. He was dressed in a dark grey three-piece suit and listening attentively to something the host was saying as he greeted him.

Rose couldn’t breathe. She was suddenly filled with sheer dread that he would turn his head and see her.

On a panicky reflex, she swung around to try and stay out of his line of vision—and crashed straight into another server who was right behind her. Her tray was already unstable in her hands, and Rose watched helplessly as it collided with the other silver platter and they both tipped up and turned end over end, spraying horrified guests nearby with slivers of exotic hors d’oeuvre fillings before crashing to the undoubtedly priceless oriental carpet on the floor.

A deathly silence filled the air.

* * *

Zac was trying to appear interested in what the host was saying, but as per usual his mind was elsewhere. Specifically fixated on about five foot seven of elsewhere. A woman with slim curves and strawberry blonde hair. And the face of an angel that inspired distinctly un-angelic thoughts and desires.

He still couldn’t believe she’d actually left that night. After looking at him with those wide green eyes and saying okay. He shouldn’t have taken the call. She’d slipped through his fingers like shimmering quicksilver, impossible to hold onto.

No woman had walked away from Zac. Ever. And while that admittedly did add to the intrigue, the insatiable desire she’d roused inside him was unprecedented. And the need to know more about her. And why the hell hadn’t his team found her yet?

Suddenly there was a loud metallic clatter, and Zac jerked his head around to see two trays spewing their contents and crashing to the floor. At the same moment that he was sending up silent thanks for being released from the attention of his host he was also noticing a very distinctive reddish blonde head of hair near the area of sudden carnage. Tucked up into a bun. Above a long neck.

His insides clenched—hard. It couldn’t be her. But then she turned her head ever so slightly in his direction and he saw a familiar profile. Paler than pale skin...

It was her. Recognition washed over him in a dizzying sweep of heat and relief. Zac was not letting her slip through his fingers again.

* * *

Rose had gone cold and clammy, all fingers and thumbs as she tried to gather up the detritus of expensive canapés. The other server hissed at her. ‘What is wrong with you? You’ve probably cost us both our jobs and I need this work.’

Rose’s gut lurched and she looked at the other girl’s blazingly angry expression. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know—’

‘Now,’ an assured and deep voice cut in, ‘I don’t think anyone is going to lose their jobs over a simple accident—are they, Mr Wakefield?’

Rose went still. That voice. Right above her head. His voice. She looked to her left and saw expensively shod feet.

Someone else was saying something brightly—‘Not at all. Please, let’s just move aside and get this cleared up.’—and then Rose felt a hand under her upper arm, curling around it, and she was being urged upwards.

All the way up until she was standing in front of a familiar broad chest. She couldn’t find enough breath to suck into her lungs. She was barely aware of people cleaning up and Zac leading her away from the site of the accident. She was surprised her legs were working; she couldn’t feel them.





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