Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

helplessly into his eyes.

      Close up, his presence haunted her even more. Initially she had thought that he had changed very little, but she had been wrong. It was true that the thick ruffled hair had remained untouched by grey—a fact made all the more remarkable by its coal-dark blackness—but the years had subtly redefined his face, Romy realised. All the softness of youth had completely disappeared. His features were harder, while his mouth fell naturally into a cynical line. Around the piercing grey eyes were now the fine lines of age and experience. He looked, she thought, suppressing a sudden shudder of sexual awareness, like a man who knew exactly what he wanted out of life...

      So what the hell did he want from her?

      ‘Romy!’ he said again, and this time gave her an almost imperceptible little shake. ‘What is it?’

      She stared at him, completely deflated by the shocking memory of what had happened between the two of them. ‘I’m tired.’

      ‘Tired?’ He gave a cynical laugh. ‘I’m not surprised! Deception can be tiring, can’t it? In fact, it must be positively exhausting. Imagine the amount of devious planning it must take to make sure that your lies don’t get found out. I wonder if Mark ever found you out?’ he mused. ‘I often wonder if your rampant promiscuity could have been a contributing factor to his premature death.’

      Romy sucked in an agonised breath, a movement which made her cheekbones look impossibly hollow. How could he? How could he be so deliberately cruel? But she decided to let it go. For the moment.

      ‘Quite apart from the fact that your sexual demands must have been pretty challenging,’ he continued contemptuously, ‘I must say that even I have never met a woman who was turned on so completely or so quickly as you, Romy. I don’t think that Mark was the best man to be able to cope with your needs, do you?’

      ‘That’s enough!’ she told him angrily, shaking his hands off her arms impatiently. He had only pretended to be concerned—it had taken very little time for him to start insulting her all over again! ‘Don’t you imagine I feel bad enough about Mark’s death without you adding to it with your vile accusations?’

      His eyes glittered with dangerous challenge. ‘So your conscience is entirely clear, is it, Romy?’

      ‘Oh, damn you, Dominic Dashwood!’ She could barely bring herself to look into those clever, searching silver eyes. ‘Damn you to hell!’ And as her words whipped discordantly around the room Romy wondered just what her secretary would say if she could hear her.

      Or see her. Sitting weakly and pathetically on the edge of the sofa whilst glaring balefully at a man who was doing nothing more sensational than recounting facts which she had tried to keep hidden away—even from herself—for all these years.

      What the hell was happening to her? Romy Salisbury was famous for her ability to remain unruffled, for refusing to be thrown—no matter how sticky the situation.

      What about the time early last year, for example, when a foreign minor royal had hired her to organise an American evening for his thirty-fifth birthday and the cook and the waitress had failed to show?

      Romy had cooked and served the meal entirely by herself, and the royal personage had got wind of it, insisting on coming down into the kitchen to congratulate her in person.

      ‘Oh, it was nothing, sir.’ Romy had blushed modestly, whilst trying out a very rusty curtsy. ‘Just hot dogs and beans and a mud-pie pudding.’

      ‘Though I suspect,’ the Prince had murmured, with a practised smile, ‘that even a swan fashioned out of ice would not have defeated you!’

      ‘I’m just grateful that you had less elaborate requirements than that, sir!’ Romy had joked, pulling a mock grimace which had told the Prince exactly what she thought of over-the-top gestures like swans made out of ice. And the twinkle in the Prince’s eye had told her that he agreed with her sentiments entirely!

      After that, her workload had quadrupled overnight, giving Romy the luxury of being able to pick and choose her jobs. It really was amazing how much clout royal patronage gave you!

      So, this Romy Salisbury who could chat with ease to princes—what connection did she have with the woman who was currently behaving like a beaten dog? Just because she had come across the man she had alternately dreamed of and dreaded meeting for five long years. What are you, Romy Salisbury? she asked herself. A woman or a wimp?

      Her dark eyes flared with the light of battle, and Dominic’s eyes raked over her face.

      ‘So why?’ he suddenly demanded.

      So many whys. ‘I’m not a mind-reader!’ she retorted. ‘Why what?’

      ‘Why did you pretend not to recognise me?’

      Romy smiled and decided to brazen it out. ‘Because I dislike the idea of being manipulated, I suppose.’

      ‘Manipulated?’

      “That’s right.’

      ‘Manipulated by whom?’

      ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ she remonstrated tartly. ‘By you, of course. You deliberately went to the trouble of booking me under the name of one of your more obscure property companies instead of giving your real name. Presumably with the intention of shocking me when we met. What kind of reaction were you hoping for, Dominic? That I would collapse in a swoon at your feet when I came face to face with you?’

      His grey eyes narrowed. ‘You mean you knew that you were about to meet me?’

      ‘Of course I knew!’ scoffed Romy. ‘Or did you imagine that I would just happily take a job without bothering to check it out first? My work involves me going into people’s homes—often staying there. And I’m a woman! Do you suppose for a moment that I would put myself at risk by not finding out a few details about who is employing me? I’m running a business here, Dominic, for heaven’s sake, not a knitting circle!’

      He gave her a grudging look of admiration. ‘Well, well, well, Romy,’ he observed drily. ‘You seem to have acquired a little common sense over the years, at least. Pity it didn’t come five years earlier.’

      His patronising comment made Romy even more angry. She drew a deep, indignant breath. ‘But even if I hadn’t known I was going to meet you, why would you naturally assume that I’d recognise you immediately? Is it so inconceivable that I would fail to do so? Do you imagine that you are such a magnificent specimen, Dominic, that you’re unforgettable? That any woman meeting you would have you branded indelibly on her memory for evermore?’

      ‘I would have been more than a little—surprised if you had failed to recognise me. Quite apart from the fact that I was your best man. After all, we had quite an...experience together, didn’t we?’ He gave a lazy smile which made Romy uncomfortably aware that he was recalling that erotic encounter in the lift. ‘Though I have to admit that most women tell me I have an unforgettable face.’

      His words stabbed at her like a knife and it took every ounce of concentration that Romy possessed not to lash out at him in a jealous fit of rage she knew she had no right to feel.

      ‘Oh, do they?’

      ‘Yes.’ He smiled arrogantly. ‘They do.’

      ‘Dominic Dashwood,’ Romy declared heatedly, ‘did anyone ever tell you that you are nothing but an arrogant...arrogant...?

      ‘Bastard?’ he supplied drily. ‘Is that the word you’re searching for? So why not come out and say it, Romy? It’s true, after all.’

      Romy gave him a steady look. ‘I would have used a far more creative insult than “bastard”, thank you very much! And that sounds like a mighty big chip on your shoulder to me.’

      His smile had suddenly died and now he shook his dark head with slow emphasis. ‘Not at all,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Illegitimacy no longer carries the stigma that it did when I was growing up.’

      She