Memo: The Billionaire's Proposal. Melissa McClone

up the telephone and pressed the button for the staff line.

      “Good evening, Mr. Llewelyn,” a propersounding male voice said. “What may I do for you?”

      “Please deliver a large bouquet of flowers to Miss Sullivan’s room tomorrow. In the morning, if possible.”

      “Roses?”

      “No,” Drake answered quickly. She would take roses the wrong way and rightfully so. “A mixed bouquet will be fine.”

      “What would you like written on the card, sir?”

      He thought for a moment. “’Friends’ with a question mark.”

      The man repeated the phrase.

      “That’s correct.”

      “I’ll take care of this straight away, sir.”

      “Thank you.” Drake hung up the phone.

      Friends would be the perfect place to start with Chaney. Friends could have lots of fun together.

      Staring at the armor she’d neatly put away for him, he smiled.

      And if things worked out the way he planned, he and Chaney would be more than friends very, very soon.

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHANEY stood on the manicured lawn of the castle, her boots sinking into the sodden grass. A touch of foreboding in the air made it easy to forget the crew running around as they prepared for this morning’s first scene.

      She stared at the castle wall, rising up to meet the overcast sky. The ancient stones, battered by weather and war, had remained impenetrable, inviolate, over the centuries.

      Shivering, she clutched her cup of Earl Gray. She’d forgotten how chilly English mornings could be.

      Chaney had never been strong like the castle’s wall. She’d always crumbled in the past, allowing people to break through her weak defenses and take what had been hers—a fiancé, a promised job, the dream of a happily ever after. Afterward, she would never say a word. Always the quiet one, forever the peacekeeper, bendable to a ridiculous degree, a proverbial doormat. That was what how she made those in her life, those who loved her, happy.

      But the truth was she wanted to be more like the wall, solid and sure. That would make her happy.

      The only person she’d ever been able to stand up to was Drake Llewelyn. And only twice. Five years ago and again last night.

      His hitting on her as if she were still his naive intern infuriated Chaney. She had been even madder at herself for putting herself in a position where that could happen. Her anger had hardened her. Protected her from his charm.

      Thank goodness.

      Standing up to him, she’d felt strong, and she’d like that. Chaney resolved to be unbending, unconquerable and, for the remainder of the taping, immune to Drake.

      The scent of green from the carpet of grass and rows of neatly clipped hedges filled the air.

      She thought about the bouquet of flowers delivered to her room this morning with the oneword note—“Friends?” She couldn’t imagine they were from Drake. The only kind of friend he would want was a friend with benefits. Gemma hadn’t sent them. She would have sent something edible, most likely chocolate, as she always did. Not her parents, either. They hadn’t been happy with Chaney when she canceled out on the housewarming party. Besides, they’d never sent her flowers before. Why start now?

      Chaney had asked the castle desk about the flowers, and they promised the delivery had not been a mistake. But who would have sent them? And why?

      A breeze rustled through a nearby tree. She looked up and saw the branches sway. Three leaves floated to the ground as the sky darkened on the horizon.

      She eyed the heavy skies with misgiving, her hands still curled around her cup for warmth. She really hoped it didn’t rain. A delay in the shooting schedule would force her to spend even more time with Drake. All she wanted was to do her job and avoid him as much as possible for the remainder of the shoot.

      Milt motioned he was ready for the first take. The crew took their places and quieted.

      She wasn’t sure where this morning’s scene would fit in the episode, a host shot or a wraparound. Maybe a teaser of some sort.

      One of the cameras panned across the landscape, from the formal gardens to the acres of grass to a grove of trees. Something moved in the distance between the trees.

      A white horse decked in armor.

      And Drake, in his armor costume, on its back.

      Despite the things he’d said and the way he’d acted last night, Chaney’s breath caught in her throat. She’d thought he’d looked knightly yesterday, but today…

      He was Lancelot. Okay, not Lancelot. But he sure did look the part.

      Her heart thudded in her chest.

      A helmet covered the sides of his jaw, but still showed most of his face. Not that she could see any details from this distance. Still she had no trouble imagining his lips with a wry curve to them and his dark eyes full of excitement.

      He sat tall in the saddle, holding the reins in his left hand and a battle standard in his right. A long pennant-shaped banner flapped behind him.

      The horse cantered through the trees to the lawn, animal and rider in perfect rhythm.

      She stood mesmerized.

      The air crackled, the impending storm or some sort of magic. Chaney didn’t know which. But once again she felt as if she’d stepped back in time.

      His gauntleted hand tightened on the reins as he sat back hard in the saddle. The horse tossed its head. Its armor jingled.

      The knight raised the battle standard, a black dragon on a field of gold, before plunging the pole into the ground. The flag fluttered in the breeze. The horse arched its neck, dancing in place. The whole scene was like something from a movie or fairy tale, as far removed from Chaney’s real life as it was possible to be.

      And yet this man had tried to kiss her, had invited her to stay in his room last night.

      Hot blood flooded her face and flowed through her veins.

      “‘My good blade carves the casques of men.’” His deep voice resonated, his words pure poetry. Tennyson’s poem about Sir Galahad, in fact. Chaney recognized the poem from the script. The horse looked to the left and then pranced to the right. “‘My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure.’”

      Pure. Right.

      This wasn’t the Dragon Knight, a man who lived hundreds of years ago. This was Drake Llewelyn, a man from the twenty-first century.

      He raised a shiny sword to the camera. His lips curved into the same come-hither-I-want-you-now smile he’d used in the drawing room and with her later in his room. The man was normally sexy, but practically smoldered now.

      A good thing the noble-knight stuff was just an act, but even so, tingles filled her stomach.

      As if on cue, a flock of birds flew overhead, their dark wings a stark contrast against the gray clouds. The horse stamped its front hooves, ready to rear or run away if given the chance.

      But Drake was in complete control.

      As usual.

      Whether on horseback or sitting at a table negotiating his next deal, he was comfortable in any environment. Sure of himself and strong. That was how she wanted to be.

      Milt gave a signal.

      Drake allowed the horse to rear. The horse looked majestic, nearly standing perpendicular on its hind legs.

      Chaney’s heart pounded in her ears. She knew Drake didn’t