Ruthless Tycoon, Inexperienced Mistress. CATHY WILLIAMS

and with a picture-postcard picket fence. Inside was as quaintly pretty, with old wooden floors and a feeling of age and comfort. In short, it was a million miles away from his marvel of pale marble, pale leather and abstract paintings—investments which had cost an arm and a leg.

      ‘Phone book…phone book…’ Jude was muttering to herself as she looked under tables and behind chairs. ‘Ah. Here we go. Right. Hotel. Any in particular?’

      ‘Forget it.’

      ‘What do you mean, forget it?’

      ‘Look outside.’ He nodded in the direction of the window and Jude followed his gaze with a sinking heart. This was turning into a blizzard. He would need a snowplough to clear the roads for his car and a tractor to transport him to the city centre. Other than that, it was madness to even think about leaving the house.

      ‘But you can’t stay here!’

      ‘Why not?’ Cesar looked at her narrowly, weighing up whether to pursue his line of thought or leave it until the following morning considering the lateness of the hour. ‘Would Fernando object?’

      ‘Freddy? Object? Why on earth would he object?’ They were both in the small hallway and she felt as though her breath was being sucked out of her. He was so tall! He was also removing his coat and she gave a little squeal of horror. Chatting pleasantly to the man for half an hour and singing Freddy’s praises was all well and good but enforced overnight companionship was a completely different matter. ‘You can borrow my car to get into town!’ Pure genius. ‘The comfort level’s a bit low but you’ll make it there in one piece, at any rate, and a hotel would be a lot more comfortable than the floor here…’

      ‘Floor?’

      ‘I know. Appalling.’ He was now hanging his coat on the banister and she wanted to fling it back at him, demand that he put it on and send him firmly on his way. ‘Small house.’ She pointedly kept her duffel coat on so that he would get the message.

      ‘Forget about trying to shove me outside, Jude. I’ll leave in the morning and if I have to sleep on the floor, then so be it. I’m certainly not going to risk my life in your clapped-out car in this weather.’

      ‘Oh, very well,’ she snapped, edging back a few inches as he stepped towards her.

      ‘So why don’t you take your coat off and show me which particular part of the floor you want to designate to me?’

      ‘There’s a guest bedroom,’ Jude admitted grudgingly, ‘but it’s very small and very cluttered. You’d find it a very challenging space to sleep in.’

      Cesar strolled past her towards the general area of the kitchen, inspecting the surroundings as he went. No signs of his brother in the house, at any rate. At least no photos, no bits of male paraphernalia which, in his brother’s case, would probably have been hugely expensive, garishly coloured jumpers or any one of those ridiculous hats which he collected. In fact, no signs of any male occupancy at all.

      ‘Would you like a guided tour?’ Jude asked acidly, arms folded. ‘Or are you happy just nosing around on your own?’

      Cesar turned to her and gave her a long, leisurely appraisal. Not only was she not his brother’s usual trademark busty blonde, she was also not the usual trademark giggly airhead. He really would have to work on finding out just what her job was and how it involved his brother. Maybe the weather could work to his advantage, he thought. Trapped in the confines of her own house, she could hardly disappear if the questions got tough. He smiled slowly, relishing the prospect of asserting his authority and letting her know, in no uncertain terms, that he was not a man to be messed with.

      ‘No,’ he said lazily, eyes back on her mutinous, flushed face. ‘The guided tour won’t be necessary. At least not at this hour of the morning.’

      ‘Fine. Then, if you follow me, I’ll show you where you can spend the night.’ Up the stairs, which creaked protestingly under his weight, and to the left, pausing only so that Jude could yank a sheet and a blanket from the airing cupboard. ‘I’m sure you know how to make a bed,’ she told him, handing over the linen. She was pretty sure he didn’t. Like Fernando, he would have been spared the necessity of doing any menial tasks thanks to a background that had seen him raised with all the help that money could buy. It was only after he had met Imogen that he had discovered that fast food wasn’t just a pre- theatre dinner. She was reliably informed by her friend that he could complete most household tasks now but with record slowness and only dubious success.

      She would have liked to have witnessed his botched attempts at bed-making, but she let him get on with it while she swept aside all her stuff and, by the time she looked around, the bed was perfectly made and he was looking at her with an amused smile.

      ‘Up to your standards?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows, and she had the grace to blush.

      ‘The bathroom’s next door and we share it, so if I’m in it then you’ll just have to wait your turn.’ She was suddenly flustered as he reached for the top button of his shirt. ‘I’ll make sure that there’s a towel for you.’ She backed towards the door as a sliver of hard, muscled, bronzed torso was revealed.

      ‘What’s with all the drawings?’

      Her mouth went dry as he reached the final button and began to undo his cuffs.

      ‘Are you an artist?’ He walked across to the pile of sketches which she had dumped on the ancient pine table, which had begun life as a dressing table but was now used as a surface on which any and everything found its way.

      Jude snatched her drawing from his hand and returned it to its place. ‘I’m a designer, actually.’ Thank God she kept all her work in her architect’s chest downstairs or he would be rifling through those as well. ‘I just do a bit of sketching now and again as a hobby.’

      ‘Well, well, well. A designer. Interesting.’

      ‘Yes, it is,’ she responded tightly.

      ‘Actually, I meant that it’s interesting to discover that you have a proper job. Most of the women who have cluttered up my brother’s life have only paid lip service to the work ethic. In fact, the last one to grace my presence was a flightly little thing with a sideline in glamour modelling.’

      Jude tried hard not to think of Imogen. What, she wondered with an inward shudder, would he have thought of a stripper? She and Imogen went back all the way to pigtails and hopscotch. A couple of poor choices on the boyfriend front had found her working in a nightclub, saving hard so that she could continue her studies and get the qualifications she needed to become a primary school teacher, but Jude doubted whether the man looking at her now would find an ounce of compassion for that sob story.

      He appeared to have read her mind because he continued, musingly, ‘Naturally I had to ensure that that particular relationship was stillborn.’

      ‘Why?’ Jude asked uncomfortably. Images of her pregnant friend rose in her head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with glamour modelling…’

      ‘A glamour model and my brother equate to a gold-digger out to fleece a golden goose.’

      ‘That’s a very cynical way of thinking…’

      ‘It’s called the realities of life. Another reality of life is that I would do anything within my power to ensure that my brother is not taken advantage of. Flings with women are all well and good, just so long as they leave the picture. Any unsuitable ones who try to stick around…would have me to contend with…’ Always a good idea to lay down one or two ground rules, Cesar thought. She might blush like a teenager and appear to have a face as transparent as glass, but he was savvy enough to know that neither of those two things necessarily added up to a personality as pure as the driven snow.

      ‘Well, thank you for that,’ Jude told him coolly. ‘It’s always illuminating to hear what other people think, even if you don’t agree with what they say. Although I’d guess that you don’t really give