The Spaniard's Woman. Diana Hamilton

main hall was lit by a solitary table lamp and the glow from the dying fire, and just as she set her feet on the massive flagstones a grandfather clock chimed the hour of eight from a dim and shadowy corner and made her jump out of her skin.

      She’d been about to scurry back to her attic room, and her hand shot up to steady her bumping heart. It was the shape of the pendant beneath her T-shirt that gave her the courage to go on. To stiffen her spine and cross the floor to open doors and flick on lights. Large rooms led to much smaller, tucked-away ones, the furniture shrouded against the depredations of the departed and unlamented decorators.

      At last, descending two worn stone steps, she thrust open an ancient door of highly polished broad oak planks and found herself in what had to be Marcus Troone’s work room. Her eyes widened as she took in the book-lined study with its low, heavily beamed ceiling. It had been brought into the twenty-first century by the addition of a long custom-built desk which housed a computer system, fax machine, a bank of files and two telephones.

      The book-filled shelves drew her. Beautifully bound classics—both ancient and modern—tomes devoted to viticulture, the poems of Wilfred Owen, masses of biographies, three yards worth of paperback whodunits and a whole tranche of gardening books. And, what she’d been looking for, right at the far end of one of the lower shelves: a bulky photograph album.

      Her mouth going dry, Rosie carried it to the desk. Her hands shook as she opened it to a series of wedding photographs. Her father? A blond, craggily handsome young man with a beautiful dark-haired girl wearing a dream of a wedding dress, posing outside a small weathered stone church. Lots more—she flicked through the pages, met the smiling eyes of the dark-haired girl holding the reins of a pony, a small grinning boy on top. The same girl in a wheelchair, apparently directing operations while a middle-aged man was planting a tree. Could it be her grandfather? It was difficult to tell.

      So far there were no more photographs of Marcus Troone: presumably he’d been behind the camera, she decided frustratedly. Until, right at the back of the album, a threesome standing in front of a huge greenhouse. Her grandfather, the stern features she remembered from her childhood relaxed and happy, her mother, a slender slip of a girl, clad in a checked shirt and old corduroy trousers, her blonde hair blowing in the breeze, her smile radiant. And Marcus Troone—her father—standing at her side, smiling down at the vitally lovely young Molly Lambert. Her mother.

      Rosie felt sick.

      Her mother had looked so happy back then. She would have had no idea what the future held for her on that long-ago summer’s day.

      Hands shaking, her heart thumping, she closed the album and carried it back to where she’d found it. But putting it back proved a problem. It just wouldn’t go!

      Biting her lip, she got down on her hands and knees and pulled out a book that seemed to be obstructing progress. That last photograph had really upset her; the album seemed to be burning her unsteady hands. She wanted rid of it.

      She dropped it and could have screamed her head off when a few loose pictures fluttered to the floor. She shouldn’t have touched the wretched thing. She wished she hadn’t!

      Passing through the hall, Sebastian paused to throw more logs on the dying fire. He was tired and hungry. The place felt deserted. Madge would have retired to her rooms. He guessed he could stretch to making himself an omelette and wind down in front of the fire with a glass of wine. Or two.

      His tense features began to relax just a little. Driving back had been a nightmare of roadworks and clogged motorways. He should have spent the night in town and now he wondered why he hadn’t. At least he’d sorted out the head office panic over a planning permission hiccup concerning the new hotel complex in Greenwich. And, barring more cries for help from a business manager who should have looked at things more logically instead of flapping, he should be able to get the Troone Manor show on the road.

      Just one more chore—checking Marcus’s fax machine—then he could fix himself something to eat. Heading for his partner’s study, he wondered how the new recruits were settling in.

      Sharon Hodges had quite a reputation in the village. Bone idle and no better than she should be, so the gossips said. Grinning wryly to himself, he decided she was either lying on her bed eating chocolates or dyeing her hair a new and startling colour and trying to decide which of her current boyfriends was most likely to come up to scratch, whisk her away to the bright lights and keep her in the manner to which she would like to become accustomed.

      And the other one, Rosie Lambert. Hadn’t Madge mentioned that today was her birthday? Was she out celebrating with friends? A special boyfriend, maybe? From what he recalled from their brief meeting she was quite a looker. But vulnerable, too. Fragile.

      The idea of some callow youth sniffing around her brought his brows down as he opened the door to his partner’s study. Then he held his breath just before his scowl fled and was replaced by a grin that threatened to split his face.

      ‘This is getting to be a habit.’

      On her hands and knees, Rosie froze. She knew that voice. Her slender body was suffused with pleasure, it wriggled with sharply sweet sensations all over her. But, oh my goodness, what would he be thinking? That she had no business being in this room?

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      She had to grit her teeth and force herself to her feet, clutching at one of the loose photographs she’d been scrabbling around to retrieve. Her face felt hot and she felt such a fool, especially when he gave her that slow, sexy smile and said, ‘Don’t be.’

      He could get used to opening doors to be met by the sight of that curvy little backside, clad tonight in shape-hugging worn denim!

      He smiled into her anxious eyes, hiding a stab of annoyance. ‘Surely you’re not still working?’

      What was Madge thinking of? Granted, there was a lot of hard physical graft to get through here, but making this delicate little creature work overtime was way out of order and he’d make damn sure it didn’t happen again!

      Butterflies were rampaging around in Rosie’s stomach and she couldn’t get her lungs to work properly. She’d tried to stop gawping at him but how could she when he was so gorgeous? The sharp grey business suit he was wearing did nothing to disguise the raw power of his magnificent physique and, try as she might, she couldn’t help wondering what would happen if he kissed her.

      She’d probably go into a terminal swoon, she thought in dire agitation and managed, finally, to give him the answer he was waiting for. ‘No. I knocked off ages ago. I was looking for something to read,’ she mumbled, uncomfortably aware that her face was bright scarlet. Lying to him made her feel horrible, but what choice did she have? She could hardly tell him the truth.

      And she’d have to explain away the photograph she was holding. Bend the truth again. And the way those sultry, smoky eyes were pinned on her wasn’t helping any. She felt as if she were drowning in wicked sensation. Her throat strangely tight, she croaked out, ‘I was clumsy, I knocked that off the shelf—’ she gestured jerkily to the album on the floor ‘—and photographs fell out.’

      ‘No damage done.’

      Sebastian’s dark brows met. Dio mio—why was she so nervous? She looked like a puppy waiting to be beaten for some minor misdemeanour! Was she accustomed to being chastised for the slightest accident? A powerful surge of anger tightened the muscles of his shoulders. He’d like to meet the brute who had done that to her!

      Madre di Dio!—her soft, full mouth was trembling now! He made a conscious effort to stop frowning—it was obviously giving her the jitters—relax his shoulders and approach her slowly.

      ‘May I?’

      Sebastian plucked the photograph from Rosie’s suddenly nerveless fingers and his gentle, velvety tone made a wave of startling heat wash right through her. Her breath coming in short stabs, she tried to come to terms with the weird effect he had on her. It was a new phenomenon as far as she was concerned and one she could well do without, she decided grittily, as she felt her breasts