The Gold Collection. Maggie Cox

Dinner had been an unmitigated disaster, he brooded darkly as he unfastened his tie and shoved it in the pocket of his dinner jacket. Not that it had been Nicole’s fault. She had looked stunning tonight and her low-cut dress with its thigh-high split down one side had left little to his imagination.

      Throughout the meal in one of Monte Carlo’s finest restaurants, she had been on sparkling form and had prattled on endlessly about her life, which seemed to consist of shopping or sunbathing on Daddy’s yacht, and in the rare lulls in her conversation her smile had sent the subtle signals indicating her willingness to spend the night with him.

      It had been their third date, after all, he mused cynically, and the unspoken rules of the game they were both playing dictated that tonight the attractive brunette had expected their relationship to progress to a full-blown sexual affair. But somewhere between the entrée and dessert he had lost his appetite for both the food and his companion, and instead of envisaging Nicole’s tanned, lissom limbs his mind had seemed intent on recalling every detail of Freya’s slender figure.

      He had never known another woman to have such pale skin. It was as if even the sun’s rays had not been permitted to touch her and his hands had been the first to stroke her virginal flesh—as they had, he acknowledged, feeling an uncomfortable tightness in his groin. He had been Freya’s first lover and, if he was honest, sex with her had been an amazing experience he had never come close to repeating with any other woman.

      And he had tried. He’d never professed to be a monk, he conceded sardonically, but sitting in the restaurant with Nicole tonight he’d realised that he did not feel the slightest desire for her and after driving her home he had politely refused her offer of a nightcap. Clearly disappointed, Nicole had eventually accepted his rejection, but he didn’t feel good about it—in fact he felt intensely irritated with himself, life in general, and, at the top of the list, the woman who had managed to disrupt his comfortable existence in less than twenty-four hours.

      With a muttered oath he strode into the penthouse and headed for the lounge and the well-stocked bar, but the sight of Freya curled up on the sofa caused him to halt abruptly. The low coffee table in front of her was littered with books and papers and she was leafing through the pages of a thick folder, so engrossed that she seemed to be unaware of him.

      For a few seconds Zac stood still and allowed his eyes to roam over her mass of blonde hair and perfectly defined heart-shaped face. Her grey silk robe was vaguely familiar from the past and he frowned as he focused on the way the edges had parted to reveal the wisp of silk and lace beneath.

      Every item of clothing he had bought for her when she’d lived with him had been chosen with the express purpose of pleasing him, particularly her nightwear, and his mouth tightened cynically as he wondered whether she had changed into the sexy negligee set deliberately to taunt him. Freya was still absorbed in her books and his irritation upped a notch. Being ignored was a new experience for him and, giving an angry shrug of his shoulders, he stepped into the room.

      Only then did she glance up. ‘Zac…’ She blinked at him and fire surged through his veins when he took in the image of her silky blonde hair framing her flushed face. Her skin was bare of make-up, but somehow that made her sexier, he decided as he studied her closely, noting the dusting of freckles on her nose and the fact that her long eyelashes were tipped with gold. She was staring up at him with her wide witch’s eyes, casting her magic, and with a jolt he realised that he suddenly felt more alive than he had done in months.

      ‘I wasn’t expecting you to wait up for me, chérie,’ he drawled as he crossed to the bar and poured himself a large cognac.

      ‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t,’ she replied shortly. ‘I didn’t even know you would come back tonight.’ She’d lain in bed torturing herself with images of him making love to the woman he had taken to dinner, until she’d given up hoping she’d fall asleep and had dug out her college books.

      Now she stumbled to her feet and clutched the front of her robe that seemed intent on parting to reveal the skimpy excuse for a nightgown underneath. In the rush to pack for the trip to Monaco, she had forgotten several essential items, including the oversized, comfortable tee shirts she usually wore in bed. The nightwear she had left behind at the penthouse had been chosen for seduction rather than sleep, and she blushed when Zac raked his eyes over her in open appreciation.

      ‘Now that you are here, it’s time I left,’ she mumbled, hastily gathering up her books. In her desperation to escape him, she dropped her folder and papers flew everywhere. ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d catch up on some work,’ she babbled when Zac leaned down to gather up the pages and his hand briefly brushed against hers.

      ‘What kind of work?’ he asked curiously. He handed her the sheaf of papers and frowned when she quickly snatched her hand away. ‘You don’t have to run away from me, Freya. We may have been forced together under difficult circumstances but I’m sure we’re both adult enough to manage a civil conversation.’ He straightened up. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

      For a moment Freya was tempted to flee, unconvinced that she could manage any kind of conversation with him. It wasn’t as if she’d had much practice, she thought wryly. Her time as Zac’s mistress had been spent mainly in the bedroom and they hadn’t wasted time on idle chit chat.

      But the sight of him had inflamed her senses and sleep seemed as impossible now as it had two hours ago. Perhaps a drink would help her to relax? ‘White wine, please—a small glass.’ She hovered awkwardly while Zac poured her drink and mumbled her thanks when he handed her the glass, his terse, ‘Sit down,’ causing her to sink back into her seat. He sprawled on the opposite sofa, his white silk shirt open at the throat and his ankle balanced across his thigh in a position of indolent ease—lithe, tanned and so stomach-churningly sexy that Freya hastily tore her eyes from him and took a large gulp of wine.

      ‘What job do you do that requires you to sit up working until midnight?’ he asked again, his brow furrowing. He was regularly at his desk until the early hours, but he was the chief executive of a global business empire and a self-confessed workaholic.

      ‘It’s not my job exactly—I’m doing a home study course for an English degree,’ Freya told him. ‘One day I hope to train to be a teacher so that my career will fit around Aimee’s schooling, but obviously I need to work and can’t afford to go to college full-time. The only free time I have to study is at night, when she’s in bed.’ She didn’t add that after a long day at work and the responsibilities of being a single mother, she often had to force herself to pull out her books, which was why she had fallen behind with the work and had several assignment deadlines looming.

      Zac hid his flare of surprise. During the months that Freya had lived with him, he had never really got to know her. His workload had been particularly heavy and after a long day at the office he had simply wanted to take her to bed. He had asked about her day out of politeness rather than any real interest and had thanked his lucky stars that she wasn’t one of those women who insisted on regaling him with every detail of her life.

      He had found her quiet, gentle nature soothing, and, if he was honest, he had missed the calming effect she seemed to have on him after he had thrown her out. But now he realised that he knew very little about her. Perhaps it was her faint air of mystery that intrigued him, he debated as he drained his glass and stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, his eyes skimming over her and lingering on the fall of her silky hair. ‘It’s obvious from the state of your flat that you’re struggling financially. Why don’t you receive any support from Brooks?’ he demanded curtly. ‘Are you no longer in contact with him?’

      The wine had been a bad idea, Freya decided as she carefully set her glass down on the coffee-table. It seemed to have gone straight to her head and loosened the constraints that held her anger in check. ‘As a matter of fact I do see Simon occasionally,’ she said with deliberate calm. ‘We’ve remained friends, despite the fact that he now lives in Italy. I’m sure he would help me out if I asked him, but Aimee isn’t his child and there’s no reason for him to support her. That responsibility lies with her father, wouldn’t you say?’ She glared at him across the coffee-table, twin spots of colour