His Forbidden Passion. Anne Mather

equally, she had no desire to go to his hotel room. What if Serena wasn’t there? That troubled her, too, more than she wanted to admit.

      ‘Um—perhaps we could have a drink,’ she murmured at last, and Dominic breathed a sigh of relief.

      ‘OK,’ he said, ‘where? Is there somewhere near here?’

      ‘No, not here,’ said Cleo quickly, and Dominic arched a quizzical brow.

      ‘No?’

      ‘You wouldn’t like any of the pubs around here,’ Cleo assured him firmly, looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder again, almost poking him in the eye with her umbrella as she did so.

      But she didn’t want to have to explain to any of her colleagues, who might be lurking in the saloon bar of the King’s Head, what she was doing having a drink with a—well, sexy stranger, who was evidently far out of her usual sphere of escorts.

      ‘Where, then?’

      He sounded impatient and Cleo licked dry lips before saying awkwardly, ‘There’s a hotel at the next crossroads. Could we go there?’

      ‘You tell me.’ Dominic swung open the passenger-side door. ‘D’you want to get in?’

      ‘Oh—yes. Thanks.’ Cleo closed her umbrella without causing any more damage and climbed into the front of the car.

      It smelled deliciously of warmth and leather, and when Dominic got in beside her she detected his shaving lotion also. It wasn’t obvious; just pleasantly subtle. But it created an intimacy around them that caused Cleo to shift a little nervously in her seat.

      ‘Is something wrong?’

      Dominic had noticed and was looking her way now. Cleo managed a convulsive shake of her head.

      ‘Just getting comfortable,’ she murmured, far too aware of the taut fabric moulding his thigh just inches from her own.

      She endeavoured to concentrate on the vehicle. It was superbly sprung, superbly comfortable, and Cleo was half sorry she was only going to enjoy it for such a short time. But perhaps it was just as well. She was far too aware of the man beside her.

      Her brother!

      But no. There had to be some other explanation. A surreptitious glance in Dominic’s direction assured her that they were nothing alike. They were both dark-haired, of course, but so were at least a third of the population. And he owed the colour of his skin to the heat of a Caribbean sun, whereas she—

      ‘Is this the place you meant?’

      She’d hardly been aware of them moving, let alone that he’d driven in the right direction and was now slowing for the turn into the grounds of the hotel she’d mentioned.

      ‘Oh—yes,’ she said, recovering herself with an effort. ‘I—er—I can’t stay long. I’ve got a lot of marking to do tonight.’

      Dominic didn’t make any comment. Instead, he pulled into a parking bay, shoved open his door again and thrust long legs out of the car. Cleo hurriedly followed suit and he slammed her door behind her, pressing the fob to lock the vehicle.

      Cleo had only been in the hotel once before and that had been on the occasion of a friend’s wedding. The reception had been held in the conference room and she remembered lots of seafood, vol-au-vents and cheap champagne.

      On reflection, she thought perhaps it hadn’t been the wisest place to bring a man like Dominic Montoya. He was bound to think it was seedy and not up to his usual standard.

      In fact, the lobby was encouraging. Someone had placed a large tub of late chrysanthemums on a table in the middle of the floor, and the signs indicating the various public rooms of the hotel were well-lit.

      ‘Shall we go into the cocktail bar?’ she asked, with a confidence she was far from feeling. ‘I imagine we can get tea or coffee in there.’

      ‘Tea or coffee?’ Dominic’s lips twitched. ‘Well, yeah, if that’s what you want.’

      ‘It is.’ Cleo spoke firmly. ‘I don’t drink, Mr Montoya.’

      She started across the floor and to her relief he accompanied her. But she couldn’t help being aware of the speculative glances they were attracting from female staff and patrons alike. They were probably wondering what a hunk like him was doing with someone like her, she thought ruefully.

      Even in casual clothes, Dominic Montoya exuded an air of power and authority that was hard to ignore. Whereas she, in a dark green sweater, khaki trousers and an orange parka jacket felt—and probably looked—as if she was out of her depth.

      Thankfully, the cocktail bar was almost empty at this hour of the afternoon. They had their choice of tables and Cleo chose one that was both clearly visible from the bar and near the exit.

      A waitress came at once to take their order, not turning a hair when Dominic requested coffee for two.

      ‘Is that OK with you?’ he asked, taking the armchair opposite. ‘I can’t say I’m a great fan of tea myself.’

      ‘Coffee’s fine,’ agreed Cleo tensely. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Hey, no problem,’ he responded, picking up a coaster and flicking it absently between his fingers. Long brown fingers, Cleo noticed unwillingly. ‘So…’ He arched his brows enquiringly. ‘Have you thought any more about what I told you?’

      Cleo hunched her shoulders. ‘Yes, I’ve thought about it,’ she admitted. She’d literally thought about little else, unfortunately.

      ‘And?’

      ‘And I don’t see how what you say can be true,’ she offered carefully.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Um—’ She moistened dry lips before continuing, ‘If you and I are supposed to be—brother and sister, we don’t look much alike, do we?’

      Now, why had she chosen that particular item out of all the things he and his aunt had told her to question first? She was pathetic!

      ‘Well, that’s easily explained.’ Dominic lay back in his chair, steepling his fingers and regarding her over them with lazy green eyes. ‘I was adopted. Your father’s wife couldn’t have any children.’

      ‘Will you stop calling him my father?’ exclaimed Cleo fiercely, even while the relief she felt was zinging through her veins. He wasn’t her brother.

      But then, what did it matter? She probably wasn’t his adopted sister either.

      Probably?

      The waitress arrived with the coffee and the few minutes she took unloading her tray gave Cleo time to think. What was she supposed to make of his answer? That his wife’s inability to give him a child was why Robert Montoya had had an affair with Celeste Dubois?

      It annoyed her that the woman’s name sprang so easily to mind. She’d only heard it mentioned a couple of times and yet it felt as if it was emblazoned on her soul.

      The waitress poured the coffee, and offered cream and sugar. Cleo accepted, but her companion declined. Then the young woman departed again, but not without a calculated backward glance at Dominic. Which he didn’t return, Cleo noted, annoyed at herself for doing so.

      Dominic tasted his coffee and then pulled a face. ‘When will the English learn to brew a decent cup?’ he demanded, shaking his head. He intercepted the look she cast him and gave a rueful grin. ‘I bet you could do better than this.’

      ‘I doubt it.’ Cleo wasn’t prepared to be cajoled into an invitation. She put down her cup. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you think the Novaks aren’t my real parents?’

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘IN