The Reluctant Fiancee. JACQUELINE BAIRD

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      “You can’t force me to stay here. You have no right.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

      “You can’t force me to stay here. You have no right.”

      “You are not leaving here,” Leo interrupted.

      

      “I brought you here to protect you, and that is what I am going to do.”

      

      “Protect me?” she protested. “Is that what you call it? Invading a girl’s bedroom—”

      

      “Be careful what you say, Phoebe,” he cut in ruthlessly, “or I will be forced to remind you just how willing a bed partner you were.” His hand touched her cheek and stroked back to tangle in her hair. “And you will be again.”

      JACQUELINE BAIRD began writing as a hobby when her family objected to the smell of her oil painting, and immediately became hooked on romance. She loves traveling, and worked her way around the world from Europe to the Americas and Australia, returning to marry her teenage sweetheart. Jacqueline and husband Jim live in Northumbria, England, and they have two grown sons.

      The Reluctant Fiancee

      

      Jacqueline Baird

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      BEA looked around the crowded room, her full lips twitching in a wry grimace. Music blared from two amplifiers, gyrating bodies were everywhere and the flashing lights were giving her a headache. She should be enjoying herself; after all she was in her living room! It was her twenty-first birthday party! Her friends!

      She turned her back on the crowd and stared out of the tall Georgian window to the blackness beyond. Bea lifted a fluted champagne glass to her mouth and took a sip of the bubbly. It was as flat as she felt. It was futile to worry, she knew, but she did not seem to be able to help it.

      Tomorrow she was travelling down to London, and on Monday she would start work as a junior partner in the firm of Stephen-Gregoris, an import and export firm started forty years ago by her late father, John Stephen, and his greek Cypriot friend, Nick Gregoris. But it wasn’t the thought of work that bothered her, or the fact that the firm had diversified into other areas. No, her real worry was that she would have to meet Leon Gregoris again.

      Leon Gregoris was the chairman and managing director, and a despot to boot, as she knew from past experience... Also, until today, he had been the trustee of her thirty per cent share of the business, left to her by her father.

      As a child Bea had considered Leon a friend, even though he was fourteen years older than her. But that had ended when her father had died. For the last three years any communication between them had been strictly business, conducted through lawyers and the occasional telephone call.

      An orphan at seventeen, Bea had stayed on in the home she had shared with her father in Northumbria. Her mother had died when she was a baby and it was her honorary aunty Lil and her uncle Bob who had looked after her.

      They still did. A fond smile curved Bea’s full lips. She was going to miss the elderly couple when she was in London. She had never really had to take care of herself before. While attending the University of Newcastle upon Tyne she had simply travelled in every day. Now she was the proud recipient of a first-class degree in Maths and Accountancy, and on Monday she would take her place in her father’s firm!

      A frown creased her smooth brow. Leon Gregoris was the only fly in the ointment; she cringed at the thought of seeing him, not at all sure of her ability to face up to him.

      For heaven’s sake! Was she a woman? Or a wimp? She shook her head dismissively. She was bright, intelligent, and no longer the naive eighteen-year-old girl she had been when she had last seen Leon, in love with the idea of love.

      ‘Humph!’ she snorted, disgusted with the memory of her much younger, gullible self. ‘You’re a fool, Bea. You have nothing to worry about.’ she told herself firmly, and, lifting her glass, she took another large swallow of champagne, unaware she had spoken out loud.

      ‘If you say so, Phoebe, darling. Far be it from me to disagree with a lady.’

      The deep melodious voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She would have known that voice anywhere. Her hand tightened, white-knuckled, on the stem of her glass. It couldn’t be! She raised her eyes and stared at the couple reflected in the window pane.

      Her own reflection showed a young woman of average height with straight silver-blonde hair and pale, bare shoulders. She wore a silver Spandex sheath dress that clung to the soft curves of firm breasts and on down to fit like a second skin over feminine hips, ending mid-thigh and exposing long, shapely legs.

      All the colour left Bea’s face. The picture she presented was almost ghostly, but there was nothing ghostlike about the tall, dark man hovering behind her. Warlock, more like! she thought grimly. Wide shoulders seemed to shadow her. The harsh, handsome features had not changed a jot, she realised, swallowing hard. Too long black wavy hair, and even blacker piercing eyes. Slowly turning around to face him, she silently added, And an even blacker heart...

      ‘You, Leon,’ she murmured, finally finding her voice and hating the way it quavered. She tilted her head back and looked up into his tanned, attractive face. He was watching her, laughter lighting his dark eyes. He knew damn well he had shocked her rigid. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded curtly. ‘I didn’t invite you.’

      ‘An oversight on your part, Phoebe, but I forgive you.’ he drawled mockingly. ‘You know I wouldn’t miss your twenty-first birthday for the world.’

      He was the only person who ever called her Phoebe, and she hated it. She opened her mouth to tell him as much, but never got the chance. Two large hands settled on her naked shoulders and a firm male mouth descended on her parted lips.

      Whatever she had been about to say vanished from her mind at the first touch of his mouth on hers. She closed her eyes.

      Bea knew she should resist, and lifted her free hand to press against the hard wall of his chest, but for some reason her fingers spread out instead, over the soft silk of his shirt.

      It was Leon who broke the kiss, murmuring against her mouth, ‘Happy birthday, darling.’ Then, lifting his head and staring down into her flushed, beautiful face, he winked...

      ‘The chemistry is still fizzing, Phoebe, which is more than can be said for the glass of champagne you’re clutching with such