Married Under The Mistletoe. Линда Гуднайт

how John had worked that one out, but the old man had assured him that the woman was not only in agreement but was delighted with the arrangement. After all, the flat was large and roomy and there was some sort of problem in the restaurant that might make a woman alone uneasy. He hadn’t added, though Daniel was no fool, that the flat also belonged to the Valentine family and that Miss Stephanie Ellison had no real choice in the matter.

      If not for his determination to sink every shilling he had into the new business and ultimately into the Ethiopian water project, he might have felt badly about intruding upon the restaurant manager. He might have. But he didn’t.

      Obsessing. Stephanie Ellison was obsessing. And she had to get a handle on it fast. She glanced at the stylish pewter clock above the sofa. Five minutes.

      “Oh, Lord.”

      The pressure against her temples intensified.

      She paced from one side of her flat to the other, stopping to straighten every piece of framed art, two fresh flower arrangements and a pewter bowl of vanilla potpourri. All useless, obsessive gestures.

      The living room, like every other room in the luxury Knightsbridge flat, was immaculate. And why not? She had cleaned, re-cleaned, and triple-cleaned today. Even the cans in the kitchen cupboards were organized into groups according to the alphabet.

      And yet the throb in her temple grew louder and her gut knotted as if something was out of order.

      Something was out of order. Seriously out of order.

      “But I can do this.” She paced across the white-tiled floor and down the hall to her bedroom to assess her appearance—again. “Oh, why did John put me in this situation?”

      Especially now, with the problems in the restaurant. Until the missing money was recovered, Stephanie needed to concentrate her attention there. After all, as manager she was ultimately responsible. But thanks to her employer, she had to deal with an even more dreaded scenario. An unwanted male flatmate.

      A shudder rippled through her.

      John Valentine had no way of knowing that thrusting his son upon her as a temporary roommate had the power to push her over the edge. John, like everyone else, knew nothing of the hidden shame that caused her to keep people at arm’s length.

      Oh, she was friendly enough. She’d learned from a master to put on a smile, keep her mouth shut, and play the game so that the world at large believed the masquerade instead of the truth.

      That was why she’d never taken on a roommate. Brief visits by girlfriends such as Rebecca Valentine, yes. But a roommate? Never. Having someone invade her space for a few days was bad enough. A roommate was sheer terror.

      Anyone who got too close might discover the truth. And she couldn’t even face that herself.

      Since hiring her a year ago as manager of the exclusive Knightsbridge restaurant, the Valentine family had given her carte blanche in remodeling and running the Bella Lucia. They’d even indulged her penchant for contemporary art décor. Her boss seldom interfered. Which was exactly why she hadn’t been able to say no when he’d asked her to house the son who’d spent years doing charity work in Africa.

      She chewed on that, allowing a seed of hope that Daniel Stephens was as noble as his work implied. From her boss’s enthusiastic description, Daniel was one minor step below sainthood.

      She laughed, though the sound was as humorless as the hammering in her head.

      “A saint. Sure, he is. Like all men.”

      One other thing worried her. Actually, a lot of other things worried her. But in her flummoxed state, she’d failed to ask how long Daniel would be staying. With all her heart, she hoped not long. There was too much at stake to have him here indefinitely.

      She swiveled around backwards, twisting her head to look at the slim, smooth line of her pale green dress. Everything was covered. Nothing showed. But she’d have to be extra careful with a flatmate lurking about. She hated that. Hated worrying that someone would discover the secret she kept hidden away beneath designer labels.

      Someone tapped softly at the door.

      Stephanie jumped, then gritted her teeth in frustration. She would not, could not, let anxiety take over. The willowy redhead staring back from the mirrored tub enclosure looked in complete control, unruffled, and well groomed. Good. As long as the outside appeared in control, let the inside rage.

      She smoothed newly manicured hands down the soft, flowing skirt, realigned the toiletries on the counter for the third time, and went to greet her boss’s son.

      One look at the big, dark, wild-looking man filling up her foyer and Stephanie’s heart slammed against her ribcage. The throbbing in her head intensified. Fight or flight kicked into high gear. Escape lay past him and down the elevator to the restaurant below. She had little choice but to stand and fight.

      There had to be a mistake. This could not be Daniel. Mr Valentine had called him a boy, and, even though she had fully expected a grown man, she hadn’t expected this…this…barbarian!

      “My boy,” John had said with an indulgent chuckle. “He’s a tad rough around the edges. Too much time abroad living without the amenities of the civilized world.”

      A tad rough around the edges? A tad? That understatement was a record even for the British.

      This was no boy. This was a motorcycle gang in battered jeans, bomber jacket and rough-out boots. A pirate with piercing blue eyes, stubble darkening his jaw and unruly black hair in need of a cut. She had expected him at the worst to resemble his twin brother, Dominic, who worked for her as a part-time accountant. But this man was nothing like harmless, middle-aged Dominic. There wasn’t a bald spot or an ounce of fat anywhere on this guy. And he was anything but harmless.

      Surely there was a mistake.

      Another equally disturbing concern struck. If this was Daniel, and she prayed he wasn’t, could John have sent him to spy on her, suspicious that she was responsible for the money missing from the restaurant accounts?

      Fighting panic and forcing a bland expression she didn’t feel, Stephanie took a small step back. The stranger was too close, too threatening.

      “Are you Daniel?”

      One corner of his mouth quirked. “And if I say no?”

      If he said no? What kind of introduction was that?

      She blinked several times, then drew upon a glib tongue and a sharp mind to gloss over her real feelings. “Then I’ll assume you’re the plumber, at which rate you’re five days late and fired.”

      He laughed, a quick flash of white teeth in a sun-burnished face. Oh, my.

      “To save myself that indignity, I’ll confess. I’m Daniel Stephens, your new flatmate.”

      She’d always enjoyed the British male voice with its soft burr in the back of the throat. But this man’s voice was half purr, half gravel and all male, a sound that shimmied down her spine to the toes of her new heels.

      Heaven help her. What had she agreed to? This could never work. Not even if she wanted it to. And she most decidedly did not. He was too rugged to be handsome and too blatantly male not to be noticed. And Stephanie did not notice men. Not anymore.

      She couldn’t meet his gaze but she couldn’t take her eyes off him either.

      Her silence must have gone on a bit too long because he said, “May I come in?”

      Stephanie opened the door wider, determined to remain as composed as possible under the circumstance. “Of course. Please.”

      She couldn’t let him know how much his size and strength and sheer manliness unnerved her. She could handle him. Hadn’t she determined long ago that no man would ever get close enough to hurt her again? Hadn’t she rid herself of that fear by moving far, far away from Colorado?

      “I’m afraid you caught