The Boss's Forbidden Secretary. Lee Wilkinson

haven’t any luggage. I wasn’t intending to make an overnight stop. However, a rescheduled business meeting meant a late start, and, given the weather conditions, it seems preferable to possibly ending up in a ditch.’

      She could only agree as, heads bent against the driving curtain of snow, they mounted the steps.

      Seeing she was having a struggle to keep her footing, he put a strong arm around her. The caring gesture brought a glow of comforting warmth, in sharp contrast to the bleakness she had lived with for a long time now.

      Since her parents’ untimely death she had been forced to shoulder all the responsibility, and it was lovely to feel cherished and protected, to have someone else safely in control.

      She was sorry when they reached the door and he took his arm away.

      He rang the bell, as a small notice requested, and, turning the knob, ushered her inside. Snowflakes whirled around them like confetti, before he closed the door again, shutting out the elements.

      As they wiped their feet on the doormat, he turned down the collar of his coat and brushed melting snowflakes from his thick fair hair.

      The red-carpeted foyer-cum-lounge was pleasantly cosy, with several easy chairs, a couple of small couches, an abundance of Christmas decorations and a log fire burning in the old-fashioned grate.

      But all Cathy’s attention was taken by the man who stood so easily at her side. It was the first time she had seen him properly, and his effect on her was immediate and powerful. With his strong, clear-cut features, his chiselled mouth and those thickly lashed, heavy-lidded eyes, he was the most attractive man she had ever seen, and she wanted to keep on looking at him.

      But, she reminded herself hastily, she mustn’t allow herself to be attracted. She must try and think herself into the role of a married woman.

      A role she had only agreed to play to enable her brother to get a post as a ski instructor—an ambition he had cherished since boyhood. A role she must appear to be happy in, whereas her own short, real-life experience of being married to Neil had been anything but happy…

      Becoming aware that the stranger was studying her and, judging by his expression, liking what he saw, and feeling suddenly self-conscious, she glanced hastily away.

      A melted snowflake dripped off her hair and trickled down her neck, making her shiver.

      ‘You look as if you could use this.’ He fished in his pocket and handed her a folded hankie, adding, ‘By the way, my name’s Ross Dalgowan.’

      Their eyes met briefly and hers dropped, the long, curly lashes almost brushing her cheeks. ‘Mine’s Cathy Richardson.’

      A little shy, he thought to himself, but she had to be the most fascinating woman he’d ever set eyes on and he wanted to keep looking at her.

      Despite good teeth and a flawless complexion she wasn’t, strictly speaking, beautiful. Her hair was somewhere between ash-brown and blonde, her eyes were every colour but no colour, her nose was too short and her mouth was too wide. But her heart-shaped face held real character and a quiet, haunting loveliness.

      As they made their way over to the reception desk she mopped at her face and hair before handing back the damp square of cambric. ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Always at your service,’ he said with a white, crooked grin that made her heart lurch drunkenly, then pick up speed.

      She was still trying to regain her composure when a plump, homely woman with grey hair came through a door at the rear.

      Smiling at them across the polished desk, she said cheerfully, ‘Good evening. I’m afraid it’s a nasty night…’ Then, in surprise, ‘Why, it’s Mr Dalgowan, isn’t it?’

      ‘It is. Good evening, Mrs Low.’

      ‘I didn’t expect to see you in weather like this.’

      ‘It’s due to the weather that I’m here,’ he told her ruefully. ‘I was on my way home when the blizzard made me change my mind and decide to stay the night.’

      ‘Och, now!’ she exclaimed, evidently flustered. ‘And we don’t have a single vacant room. But it would be madness to travel farther on a night like this, so you’re more than welcome to a couch in front of the fire and the use of the family bathroom—which is just through the archway on the right—if that will do?’

      ‘That will do fine, thanks.’

      ‘I’d give you our Duggie’s room, but he’s home for Christmas, and he’s brought his girlfriend with him.’ With a sigh, she went on, ‘Young people these days are so casual when it comes to relationships. It wouldn’t have done when I was a girl, but Duggie is always telling Charlie and me that we should move with the times, and I expect he’s right…but listen to me rattling on… Now, what about the young lady?’

      Glancing at her ringless hands, Ross Dalgowan said, ‘Miss Richardson has a room booked.’

      Mrs Low opened the register and ran an index finger down the entries. ‘Richardson…Richardson… Ah, yes, here we are…’

      Then, that flustered look returning, she said, ‘I’m afraid we owe you an apology, Miss Richardson. Earlier this evening we found we’d made a mistake and the only accommodation we had left was a small family suite on the ground floor. It’s comprised of two adjoining rooms and a bathroom. Hastily she added, ‘But, as the mistake was ours, we’ll be happy to let you have it for the price we quoted you… Have you any luggage?’

      ‘Just an overnight bag.’

      Mrs Low glanced at the cavorting teddy bears on the bag Ross Dalgowan was still holding and rightly identified it.

      At that precise moment, another stray drop of water trickled down Cathy’s cheek, and Ross reached to wipe it away.

      Clearly the intimate gesture gave Mrs Low the wrong impression and, with the air of having solved a thorny problem, she suggested, ‘Possibly you could share the suite?’

      ‘I really can’t ask Miss Richardson to—’

      ‘If there are two rooms I have no objection to—’

      They spoke, and stopped, in unison.

      ‘If I show you, you’ll no doubt find it easier to decide.’ Emerging from behind the desk, Mrs Low led them briskly through a small, inner hallway and opened a door on the right.

      ‘Although there’s central heating, I’ve lit a fire in this bedroom… So much more welcoming on a night like this, don’t you think?’

      The room she showed them into was warm and cosy in the leaping firelight. Heavy folkweave curtains had been drawn to keep out the night, and a single lamp cast a pool of golden light.

      There was a double bed with an old-fashioned patchwork quilt, a tallboy, a wardrobe, a carved blanket chest and, set in front of the hearth, a low table and two comfortable-looking armchairs.

      To one side of the fireplace was a wicker basket of logs and a big pile of fir cones. The aromatic scent of pine resin mingled with lavender hung in the air.

      Through a curtained archway was another small room, not much bigger than a large cupboard, with bunk beds and a narrow fitted wardrobe.

      Glancing up at Ross Dalgowan’s six feet two inches, Mrs Low said doubtfully, ‘I’m afraid the bunk beds were only intended for children, but even one of them might be more comfortable, and give you a tidy bit more privacy than a couch. And this is the bathroom…’

      Though old-fashioned, the bathroom was spotlessly clean and had every facility, including a walk-in shower cubicle.

      ‘There are plenty of towels and toiletries, even a disposable shaving kit, if you do decide to share.’

      Looking from one to the other, she added, ‘While you talk it over why don’t you sit in front of the fire and get warm?