An Heir To Make A Marriage. Эбби Грин

      Her chest grew tight and she bit her lip hard in the lift on her way back down to the ground level—a not so subtle reminder of where she belonged in the world. Not in the lofty heights of fantasy land, but here on the streets, among the millions of other anonymous New Yorkers who never got to taste the rarefied world inhabited by people like Zac Valenti.

      Rose left through the main lobby and sent up silent thanks that George, the doorman, appeared to be busy with other residents. He barely spared her a glance.

      When she emerged into the street she saw Zac’s car and driver nearby and quickly took off in the other direction, hailing a cab. She knew what she had to do now.

      When she returned to the Lyndon-Holt residence, she slipped in through the staff entrance and went straight to the staffroom, where she’d left her own clothes after dressing earlier.

      When she’d changed, at the last minute she obeyed a rogue urge, packing up the beautiful sparkly dress, knowing that it was wrong. But it would be the only tangible reminder she would have of a beautiful night with a beautiful man when the possibilities had seemed endless—even if just for a moment.

      She crept back out of the house, after leaving a note for Mrs Lyndon-Holt.

      I’m sorry, the plan didn’t work.

      I’m resigning with immediate effect.

      A short while later, on the subway back out to Queens, Rose swayed with the carriage and clutched her bag close on her lap, telling herself that it was ridiculous to feel such a sense of loss. She’d met Zac Valenti and been bathed in the sun of his incredible aura like thousands of other women—for a brief moment.

      She was nothing special to him. She’d intrigued him, that was all, with her gauche manners and unsophistication. She was doing the right thing. The only thing she could do. She wanted her father to get better more than anything, but not at the expense of playing with someone else’s life.

      * * *

      A week later Rose was walking home from doing some shopping with her fast-dwindling savings. Luckily she’d got a job working a few hours a week in a local health food store, but she would need other work—and fast—if she was to try and add to their health insurance so her father would be in with a shot to get on a waiting list for the operation he needed.

      But that will take months, a small voice reminded her. Months he doesn’t have.

      Rose willed down the panic. She could do this. She was young, healthy. Relatively strong. She would work five jobs if she could find them.

      She didn’t regret walking away from her job in the Lyndon-Holt house. No way could she face that woman again. She felt tarnished even knowing what she’d agreed to, knowing what she’d almost done.

      She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she barely noticed the sleek black car crawling beside her and coming to a stop at the same time as she did when she went to cross the road.

      A prickling sensation stopped her in her tracks, though, and she looked to see an all too familiar figure emerging from the back of the car, where the door was being held open by a driver.

      As if conjured straight out of her thoughts by some nefarious alchemy, Mrs Lyndon-Holt stood resplendent in her designer clothes against the backdrop of the tired Queens street and said superciliously, ‘Won’t you join me in the car, Rose? I think we have some things to discuss.’

      * * *

      Hours later, dressed in a white shirt, black bow tie and knee-length black skirt, with her unruly hair in a neat bun on the top of her head, Rose held a tray of hors d’oeuvres aloft so that guests could help themselves.

      Mrs Lyndon-Holt’s cold voice still rang in her head. ‘Do I need to remind you that you signed a legal document? I could sue you for breach of contract if you give up now.’

      Rose had protested vociferously in the back of the car, to no avail. She’d even tried to convince the woman that Zac had asked her to leave.

      The response to that had been, ‘If Zachary isn’t interested in you then why has he spent the week looking for you?’

      Rose’s heart had palpitated, and she’d asked shakily, ‘How can you even know that?’

      The other woman had waved a hand dismissively. ‘I know everything my son is involved in. Believe me. And he wants you.’

      Stupidly, Rose had given herself away by saying, ‘He does?’

      Mrs Lyndon-Holt had snapped impatiently, ‘Of course he’s interested, you stupid girl. By running away from him you’ve ensured his interest. Women do not evade Zachary Lyndon-Holt, and my son seems to have found your particular brand of unsophistication intriguing.’

      As if Rose needed that reminder.

      Her protests that she hadn’t run away as part of an attempt to entice him had fallen on deaf ears. And Mrs Lyndon-Holt had reminded Rose cruelly of her other concerns when she’d said, ‘Don’t forget who you’re doing this for, Rose. Your father. He doesn’t deserve to suffer for your lack of action, does he?’

      In the end, the not so subtle threat of legal action and a reminder of why she’d signed the contract in the first place had had Rose reluctantly accepting a note with an address on it and terse instructions from Mrs Lyndon-Holt as to what to wear.

      So that was why she was now serving at a buffet luncheon inside one of Manhattan’s most exclusive addresses, which housed one of the world’s most famous private art collections, only on view to a very select few on occasions like this, once or twice a year.

      Rose prayed that Zac wouldn’t appear, and assured herself that even if he did he probably wouldn’t even remember her, in spite of what his mother claimed.

      But just as she was thinking that a very perceptible hush went around the room and she looked up to see him entering through the main salon door.

      The tray nearly tipped out of her hands and she had to cling on for dear life. Her nerves went haywire and her blood sizzled. He was dressed in a dark grey three-piece suit and listening attentively to something the host was saying as he greeted him.

      Rose couldn’t breathe. She was suddenly filled with sheer dread that he would turn his head and see her.

      On a panicky reflex, she swung around to try and stay out of his line of vision—and crashed straight into another server who was right behind her. Her tray was already unstable in her hands, and Rose watched helplessly as it collided with the other silver platter and they both tipped up and turned end over end, spraying horrified guests nearby with slivers of exotic hors d’oeuvre fillings before crashing to the undoubtedly priceless oriental carpet on the floor.

      A deathly silence filled the air.

      * * *

      Zac was trying to appear interested in what the host was saying, but as per usual his mind was elsewhere. Specifically fixated on about five foot seven of elsewhere. A woman with slim curves and strawberry blonde hair. And the face of an angel that inspired distinctly un-angelic thoughts and desires.

      He still couldn’t believe she’d actually left that night. After looking at him with those wide green eyes and saying okay. He shouldn’t have taken the call. She’d slipped through his fingers like shimmering quicksilver, impossible to hold onto.

      No woman had walked away from Zac. Ever. And while that admittedly did add to the intrigue, the insatiable desire she’d roused inside him was unprecedented. And the need to know more about her. And why the hell hadn’t his team found her yet?

      Suddenly there was a loud metallic clatter, and Zac jerked his head around to see two trays spewing their contents and crashing to the floor. At the same moment that he was sending up silent thanks for being released from the attention of his host he was also noticing a very distinctive reddish blonde head of hair near the area of sudden carnage. Tucked up into a bun. Above a long neck.

      His insides clenched—hard.