Taken by the Boss. Кэрол Мортимер

give me a break, Kit,’ Marcus came back. ‘You’ve already told me exactly why you started wearing those ridiculous glasses and unflattering clothes. The fact that you’re back to wearing them today implies you still think you need some sort of protection from my obviously unwanted advances!’

      What would he say if she were to tell him that what she really wanted to do—not just now, but all the time!—was throw herself into his arms and have him make love to her? Here. Now.

      ‘And just when did you intend telling me about your father?’ Marcus continued.

      Kit blinked at this sudden change of subject. ‘My father…?’

      Marcus nodded tersely. ‘Your father is Tom McGuire!’ he accused.

      ‘I know who he is,’ she answered levelly.

      ‘So do I—now.’

      Kit looked at him curiously. ‘How do you know?’

      Marcus’s mouth twisted self-derisively. ‘Because I have one of his paintings hanging on my apartment wall. I sat there in my apartment all weekend—’

      ‘We didn’t come back to town until Saturday afternoon,’ Kit reminded him.

      Marcus gave her a scathing look. ‘I sat there all weekend,’ he repeated, ‘when I suddenly realised that the painting I was staring at was by Tom McGuire. It was just too much of a coincidence for it not to have been painted by your father!’

      Kit didn’t even attempt to deny the connection—how could she? ‘His paintings are considered a very sound investment nowadays—’

      ‘I didn’t buy the painting as an investment!’ he replied. ‘I’ve owned it for twelve or thirteen years now.’

      She nodded. ‘It’s only the last ten years he’s suddenly become quite famous—’

      ‘Quite famous!’ Marcus echoed with an incredulous note in his voice. ‘Each of his paintings are worth thousands of pounds!’

      ‘And do you know how old he was when he suddenly became famous?’ she returned exasperatedly. ‘Sixty-two,’ she continued without waiting for him to answer. ‘Before that he and my mother lived on the little they could make selling the odd painting and some of the vegetables my mother grows—in—in their huge—garden.’ Her voice began to falter as the façade she had kept up so far this morning slowly began to crumble and disintegrate. ‘It was a—a happy life,’ she defended huskily. ‘But it certainly wasn’t—wasn’t—’ She simply couldn’t go on any more, her throat clogged with the tears she was trying so hard not to shed.

      She had tried so hard to appear normal this morning, to come to work as normal, to sit at her desk as normal, even to carry out this ridiculous conversation with Marcus as normal—when in reality her whole world felt as if it were falling apart. Every certainty, every stability in her life, suddenly no longer seemed that way…

      * * *

      She had travelled down to Cornwall on Saturday, totally ignorant of the bombshell that was about to be dropped on her.

      ‘Kit!’ her mother cried out excitedly, absolutely thrilled to see her getting out of the taxi, running over to hug her, and then promptly bursting into tears.

      ‘Hey…’ Kit said gently once she had paid off the taxi, looking affectionately at her tall, slender, still-beautiful mother.

      Heather McGuire had been a noted beauty in her youth, with her long auburn hair and classical features. She was still a very striking woman.

      She linked her arm with Kit’s as the two of them strolled over to the cottage. ‘I’m just so pleased to see you.’ She beamed. ‘Your father will be too,’ she added with certainty.

      And he was, taking Kit up in his arms and hugging her.

      He was tall and handsome, his hair and beard snowy white now; his blue eyes twinkled at her merrily as he said, ‘You’re looking lovelier than ever, Kit; new boyfriend?’

      ‘No,’ she laughingly denied.

      He arched white brows. ‘Still hankering after that handsome boss of yours?’

      ‘For all the good it’s doing me,’ she confessed, knowing she never had been able to keep secrets from her father.

      ‘Come along in and let’s all have a glass of wine before dinner,’ her mother suggested happily, her tears dried now.

      Kit hung back as her mother went off to get the glasses for their wine, looking concernedly at her father. ‘What’s wrong with Mummy?’

      ‘Wrong?’

      ‘Wrong,’ Kit insisted, very aware of the fact that her father’s voice sounded forced, that his eyes weren’t quite meeting hers, or in fact twinkling any more.

      ‘Why, nothing, darling—’

      ‘Daddy,’ she rebuked gently. ‘I’m not a child any more, you know.’

      ‘I do know.’ He sighed wistfully. ‘Long gone are the days when I could—’

      ‘Daddy, please,’ she encouraged, definitely knowing there was something wrong now from the way he was prevaricating.

      Not that her mother wasn’t always overjoyed to see her; she just didn’t usually cry over it, had accepted long ago that Kit worked and lived in London, that she would come down every four to six weeks to see them. It had, in fact, only been three weeks since she’d last visited, so her mother’s emotional outburst just now seemed totally out of character.

      Her father hugged her to his side. ‘We’ll discuss it over dinner, all right, Pumpkin?’ he told her gruffly.

      No, it wasn’t all right, but she knew her father too well to try and push him; he would explain when he was ready and not before.

      And he had explained, both he and her mother…

      But it wasn’t an explanation she intended sharing with Marcus now, here in his office.

      His anger this morning was one thing, something, she could deal with; his sympathy would be something else entirely!

      ‘Which painting is it?’ she asked, recovering her composure.

      ‘“Tempest”,’ Marcus revealed. ‘The young girl on the rocks? It’s you, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes,’ she confirmed, knowing exactly which painting he was referring to, of a young girl, red hair swirling behind her, as she sat on the rocks looking out at a storm-tossed sea.

      Kit had been thirteen when her father had painted her, no longer a child, but not quite a woman yet, either. That winter, some days she had been so angry with herself, the world, everything, that her only escape had been to go to the beach near their cottage, sit on the rocks, uncaring of how wet she became, and just allow herself to become a part of the stormy sea.

      Her father had seen her there one day and captured her on canvas.

      And it was incredible to think that Marcus had owned that particular painting for all this time…!

      She gave a warm smile. ‘It’s probably now worth a hundred times what you paid for it.’

      Intensity flared in the dark depths of Marcus’s eyes. ‘I have no intention of selling it.’

      ‘It’s a very sound investment.’

      ‘I told you, I didn’t buy it as an investment!’ he came back impatiently.

      ‘I was only—’

      ‘Kit, I know what you were “only”,’ he cut in forcefully. ‘And I don’t appreciate it!’

      Kit could see that he didn’t. But if she were to have any pride left at all she had to try and keep up the barriers between them. And if that meant