The Aristocrat and the Single Mum. Michelle Douglas

accent. She wanted to ask him to say that word again so she could watch the way his lips shaped it. She forced her spine to straighten instead. ‘Do you have any proof?’

      He leaned towards her again. ‘You really don’t believe me?’

      She didn’t know if he was angry or intrigued. ‘I don’t take risks with my staff’s safety, Mr Morton-Blake.’ Former staff’s safety, she amended silently. Felice wasn’t staff any more. She was family. ‘I don’t know you from Adam and I only have your word that you’re who you say you are. For all I know, you could be stalking Felice.’

      He sat back and folded his arms. ‘And what if I am? What would you do?’

      ‘I have a black belt in judo.’ Which was the truth. ‘And a spear gun in my desk drawer.’ Which wasn’t. ‘I wouldn’t try anything if I were you.’

      Her desk drawer!

      She clapped a hand to her head. Then she flung the drawer open. There it sat. Right on top—the file containing all the receipts her accountant had demanded from her—receipts that would save her from being fined by the Taxation Department. She didn’t remember putting it there, but she pulled it out and kissed it all the same.

      Simon had pulled back as if he expected her to draw a gun. Now his lips twitched at the corners, hinting at those cheek creases. ‘My day just got a whole lot better,’ she confided.

      ‘I’m glad.’

      He actually sounded as if he meant it. He pulled a wallet from his inside jacket pocket and flicked through it. It gave her a chance to study him. If he lived here in Port Stephens she’d bet the sun would bleach the tips of his hair. Simon Morton-Blake might be a lord but he didn’t look as if he spent the majority of his time indoors behind a desk. If he lived around here she had a feeling he’d spend more of his time in the sun than out of it. Not that he was tanned, of course. England was only just emerging from winter. But he had a rugged outdoor aura that she recognised because she had it too.

      And he had mentioned something about sheep.

      He held a card out to her. ‘My international driver’s licence.’

      His name—Simon Morton-Blake—stared back at her in official black and white type.

      ‘And a photograph of me with my sister.’

      Kate took it. Felice, Simon and another couple—older—all stared out from it with a formal reserve Kate found difficult to associate with Felice. She couldn’t see anything of Felice in Simon’s face, but she could see both Simon and Felice in the older couple—their parents?

      ‘Our mother and father,’ he said, as if she’d asked the question out loud. ‘And no, they are no longer living.’

      At least Felice hadn’t lied about that.

      She handed him back the licence and the photograph, wondering at how easily he could read her face. ‘I’m sorry.’

      He didn’t say anything. He didn’t glance back down at the photograph. He didn’t even shrug.

      With both parents dead… ‘Do you have any other siblings?’

      ‘No.’

      That made Felice his only close relative. It went some way to explaining his concern.

      ‘May I call you Simon?’

      He smiled again. The grey of his eyes lightened. ‘Please.’

      Even though she was sitting, her knees still wobbled. ‘Simon, why were you worried about Felice?’

      ‘I haven’t heard from her in over two months.’ He raked a hand back over his hair. ‘And her mobile isn’t working.’

      ‘It took a dunk in the bay,’ Kate said carefully. ‘Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.’ She shrugged, trying to appear casual, but her mind raced. Why hadn’t Felice contacted him? Why hadn’t Felice told him about her marriage to Danny?

      And what on earth was Kate supposed to do about it?

      Not that Danny and Felice had told anyone about their marriage yet. They’d only told Kate because they’d wanted time off. She could understand them wanting to hug their secret close to their chests for a bit and enjoy a honeymoon idyll, but surely Felice could’ve found the time to let her only brother know?

      ‘If…if you knew Felice was working for me, why didn’t you give me a call or email me?’ She could’ve allayed his worry and put his mind at rest in an instant.

      He lifted his chin. His eyes glittered. ‘I want to see Felice in the flesh. I want to see for myself that she’s okay and not in any trouble.’

      In trouble? Felice was twenty-two. Old enough to make her own decisions. Old enough to make her own mistakes. Old enough to look after herself.

      ‘She’s not in any kind of trouble.’

      He ignored that. ‘When can I see her?’

      Kate’s office suddenly shrank. Perhaps it was all that bristling over-protectiveness emanating from the seventh Lord of Holm that had the walls closing in on her, making him loom larger in her field of vision, making her notice the shape of his lean lips. Lips pressed tightly together, but it didn’t stop her from imagining those lips on hers and…

      Fresh air and food, that was what she needed, and the warmth of the sun on her shoulders. ‘C’mon.’ She rose and started for the door.

      Simon followed her, watching closely as she locked the door behind them. ‘Are you going to take me to her?’ he asked, staring at her as if he couldn’t believe it would be that easy.

      ‘I’m taking you for coffee.’ Of course it wasn’t that easy.

      ‘I don’t want coffee!’

      Up this close, he smelt like wood shavings and cooler climes. She held her breath and reminded herself about the warmth of the sun—it’d help melt any ridiculous fantasies. ‘But I do.’

      He glared at her for a moment, then he visibly shook himself, his eyes cleared and he smiled. ‘And you don’t know me from Adam.’

      She couldn’t believe how quickly he could change from indignant prickliness to this…this melt a girl with his yumminess. She couldn’t help but smile back. ‘That’s right.’

      The problem was, she felt as if she did know him—a whole lot better than any Adam she’d ever met. Which was nonsense…and dangerous. It should frighten her off, but it didn’t.

      Kate’s office was located in a small arcade. She led Simon down the tunnel of shop fronts to the bright February sunlight pouring in at one end, then turned right into Kelly’s café.

      ‘Flat white, cappuccino, latte…espresso?’ she asked.

      ‘Whatever.’

      His voice drifted to her, slow and bemused. She glanced around and found him staring out at the view. She suppressed a grin. On a day like this, with the sun sparkling off the water in a thousand different points of light and the white hulls of the yachts at anchor in the marina gleaming, the sand golden and the sky blue, the bay looked spectacular. Couple it with the sounds of holidaymakers and the squawking of seagulls, the smell of salt and coconut oil, and most people were lost.

      The seventh Lord of Holm was definitely lost.

      ‘Would you like something to eat? A muffin?’ Her stomach rumbled its approval. She hadn’t had time for breakfast this morning, and Kelly’s triplechoc muffins were to die for.

      ‘No, thank you.’ He didn’t glance away from the view.

      She wasn’t eating if he wasn’t. With her luck, she’d end up with chocolate muffin all over her face and that so wasn’t the look she was after.

      ‘Two flat whites, please,’ she said to the waiting Kelly. ‘In