Forbidden Seductions. India Grey

buttoned the neckline of her leather jacket and wrapped a blue and green striped scarf around her collar.

      There was no point in pretending she wasn’t going to be frozen sitting watching a rugby football match. Despite Eric’s promise that they’d be protected by the roof of the stands, there wouldn’t be any heating at all.

      Why had she agreed to go with him? she wondered. It wasn’t as if she wanted him to get the wrong impression about their relationship. He was a good friend; a good neighbour. But that was all.

      The truth was that since Serena Montoya’s visit, she’d spent every evening on edge, waiting for the doorbell to ring. Although it was three days now since that encounter at the supermarket, she couldn’t believe the woman wouldn’t try to see her again. An evening out, even at a rugby match with Eric Morgan, was better than staying in on her own.

      Norah had a date. She wouldn’t be home until much later, whereas Cleo’s job as an infant-school teacher meant she was home most afternoons by five o’clock.

      After stepping into short sheepskin-lined boots, she considered the beanie lying on the table beside her. What the woollen hat lacked in style, it more than made up for in warmth and comfort.

      But, on the other hand, she didn’t want Eric to think she was a wimp. And wearing a woolly hat was strictly for the birds. All the same…

      With a muffled exclamation, she picked up the beanie and jammed it onto her head. She could always say she’d worn it to keep her hair tidy, she thought, viewing her reflection in the mirror without satisfaction. It wasn’t easy to keep the tumbled mass of silky dark hair in check. It was long enough to wear in a braid, but she’d caught it up in a ponytail this evening.

      At least no one could say she looked beautiful at present. Quite the contrary, she’d decided firmly. But then she grimaced. She’d told herself she wouldn’t think about what the Montoya woman had said, so where had that come from?

      When the doorbell rang at half-past six, she felt none of the apprehension she’d experienced in recent days when anyone came to the apartment. It just meant Eric was a few minutes early, and, as he only lived in the apartment upstairs, he didn’t have far to come.

      ‘Hang on,’ she called, snatching up her purse and her mobile phone and stuffing them into her pockets. Then, pulling the door open, she carolled, ‘See! I am rea—’

      But it wasn’t Eric.

      In fact it wasn’t anyone she knew and she felt a moment’s panic. Strange men just didn’t come calling this late in the day. Particularly not tall, dark men, with deep-set eyes and hollow cheek bones, and the kind of dangerous good looks that seldom went with a caring disposition.

      He wasn’t a particularly handsome man. His features were too harsh, too masculine, to be described in such modest terms. Nevertheless, he was disturbingly attractive. He disturbed her in a way she recognised as being wholly sexual. And that was not good.

      ‘Um…’ Her voice failed her for a moment and she saw his eyes—green eyes, she observed—narrow perceptively. Then, clearing her throat, she continued tightly, ‘Can I help you?’

      ‘I hope so.’

      His voice was as smooth as molasses and twice as sensual. Cleo’s stomach plunged alarmingly. She wasn’t used to having this kind of reaction to a man and she struggled to compose herself.

      He had to be looking for Norah, she thought, though her friend had never mentioned meeting anyone like him. One thing was for sure: she’d never seen him before.

      ‘You must be Cleopatra,’ he went on, supporting himself with one hand raised against the jamb, and she stiffened.

      His action had caused the sides of his dark cashmere overcoat to fall open to reveal an Italian-made suit that had probably cost more than Cleo made in a year at her job. A matching waistcoat was buttoned over a dark blue shirt that looked as if it was made of silk, dark trousers cut lovingly to reveal muscled thighs and long, powerful legs.

      Even without the name he’d used causing her a shiver of apprehension, his appearance alone sent a frisson of awareness feathering down her spine.

      No one she knew called her Cleopatra. No one except Serena Montoya, of course. Dear heaven, this man must be something to do with her.

      ‘Who—who are you?’ she got out uneasily, suddenly conscious of her less than glamorous appearance. Snatching off the beanie, she thrust it into her pocket. ‘I—I was just going out.’

      ‘I had sort of gathered that,’ remarked the man, faint amusement tugging at the corners of his lean mouth. ‘I guess I’ve come at a bad time.’

      Cleo pressed her lips together for a moment and then said, ‘If—if Ms Montoya sent you, there wouldn’t be a good time.’ And let him make what he liked of that.

      The man’s hand dropped from the frame of the door and he straightened. ‘I have to assume you didn’t like Serena,’ he commented drily, and Cleo made a sound of impatience.

      ‘I neither like nor dislike her,’ she said, not altogether honestly. ‘And my name’s Cleo. Not Cleopatra.’

      ‘Ah.’ He glanced up and down the hall before looking at her again. ‘Well, Cleo—whether you like it or not, sooner or later we have to talk.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I think you know the answer to that as well as I do,’ he replied levelly.

      ‘Because some old man says I’m his son’s daughter?’ demanded Cleo tersely. ‘I don’t think so.’

      ‘No.’ The man shook his head. ‘Not just because my grandfather says it’s so—’

      ‘Your grandfather?’ Cleo felt as if the ground beneath her feet had shifted a little. ‘You—you’re Ms Montoya’s son?’

      He laughed then, his lips parting to reveal a row of even white teeth. What else? thought Cleo irritably. The man was far too sure of himself.

      Then he sobered, his grin totally disarming her. ‘No,’ he said, and she didn’t know why she wasn’t relieved by his explanation. ‘My name is Dominic Montoya. Serena’s my aunt.’

      Cleo swallowed. ‘I see,’ she said. But what did that mean?

      ‘She’s yours, too,’ he added, unsteadying her still further. ‘Robert was my father, as well.’

      Cleo couldn’t speak. This man was her brother? She didn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it.

      ‘That’s impossible,’ she managed at last, and he pulled a wry face.

      ‘Yeah, well, that’s the way it is.’ He shrugged dismissively. ‘Get used to it.’

      ‘It can’t be true—’

      ‘Cleo?’

      She had never been more relieved to hear Eric Morgan’s voice. The young man from the apartment on the floor above was coming down the stairs just along the hall from her door.

      ‘Is everything OK?’ he asked, coming to join them, and Cleo could tell from his tone that he’d heard at least some of what they’d been saying.

      His eyes flickered suspiciously over the man standing by her door, but Cleo had to admit his words had more bluster than substance. In his navy duffel coat and club scarf, Eric was at least half a foot shorter than Dominic Montoya, and in any physical contest she doubted he’d stand a chance. Nevertheless…

      ‘It’s fine, Eric,’ she said now, grateful for his concern. She gestured towards her visitor. ‘Mr Montoya was just leaving.’

      Dominic knew a momentary sense of irritation. Serena had been right, he thought impatiently. Cleopatra—Cleo—whatever she called herself, was arrogant. And stubborn. It would serve her right if he and his aunt abandoned the whole business.

      But