Flirting With Danger

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Copyright

“You see, sweetheart, there’s one big difference between your twisted admirer and me, and this is it.”

Slowly Evan bent his head, oblivious to her sharply indrawn breath and the frightened widening of her blue eyes. His mouth touched hers very softly, as lightly as the drift of an autumn leaf falling to the ground. It touched, pressed, lingered for barely a moment, and then, just as Catherine felt herself respond helplessly, he broke the tiny erotic contact with brutal suddenness, lifting his dark head sharply and taking a step backward, away from her.

“You see, Cat, he would never be able to do this and walk away. But I can…”

KATE WALKER was born in Nottinghamshire, England, but as she grew up in Yorkshire she has always felt that her roots were there. She met her husband at university and she originally worked as a children’s librarian, but after the birth of her son she returned to her old childhood love of writing. When she’s not working, she divides her time between her family, their three cats, and her interests of embroidery, antiques, film and theater, and, of course, reading.

Flirting With Danger

Kate Walker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE sound of the doorbell rang loudly through the silent house, making Catherine tense instinctively. She froze in the middle of the room, her bright blue eyes wide with apprehension as her heart lurched into a heavy, painfully accelerated pounding so that she found it difficult to breathe naturally.

‘Who is it?’

She struggled to form the words but her voice failed her, becoming just a thin thread of sound that wouldn’t reach whoever was on the other side of the door.

‘Who are you?’ she tried again, with a little more success than before, but still not loudly enough to gain any response.

She would have to look through the peep-hole that her father had had installed, she told herself, ruthlessly squashing down the fear that held her paralysed. Only then would she know.

Know what? her mind flung at her, forcing her to face the brutal truth. How would she know if the caller at the door was the man she feared when she didn’t even know his identity, had no idea what he looked like?

She had only hesitated a moment or two, struggling to regain enough control to be able to turn and move towards the hallway, but that short time was quite long enough for a key to be inserted in the lock, and she had just taken a couple of steps towards the hallway when the door swung open.

‘Only me!’

Catherine’s slim shoulders slumped under the impact of the sudden wave of relief that broke over her at the sound of her father’s reassuring voice, her heart lifting in instinctive response, and the sense of dread vanishing like the mist before the sun at the sight of his smiling face. But almost immediately all her new-found ease fled as another man, big and dark-haired, stepped into the hall behind him, and all her tension and fear revived at the realisation that there was someone with her father— someone she neither knew nor recognised.

‘Dad!’

Her voice was tight with the panic that the sight of an unknown face—particularly an unknown male face— could spark off in her so easily these days.

‘Oh, I’m sorry darling.’ Recognising her fear, Lloyd Davies’ expression changed abruptly, apologetic concern showing in the blue eyes that were so like his daughter’s. ‘I should have thought—I asked Evan to come back with me, but I should have rung you first—’

‘No—it’s all right—’ If her father could vouch for him, then surely she had nothing to fear.

But her voice lacked the conviction of truth, betraying her uncertainty in the way that it shook revealingly, and her state of mind was not made any easier by the disturbing realisation that the man called Evan was studying her with an interest that was positively laser-like in its intensity. His eyes—strange coloured eyes, neither blue nor green, but with the cold changeability of the sea on a winter’s day—were narrowed assessingly as he watched her, and a frown creased the space between straight, dark brows.

‘H-hello-’

Her weak attempt at a smile met with no response, and she was further unnerved by the way his considering gaze raked over her, from the top of her shining ash-blonde head to the toes on the bare feet that peeped out from beneath the ragged hems of the well-worn denim jeans that she wore with one of her father’s old shirts, the faded pink cotton untucked at the waist and hanging loose around her narrow hips.

Her smile fading, she met that narrowed stare head-on, hiding behind a display of defiance the fact that she was quailing deep inside, her nerves twisting into tight, painful knots. She was used to public attention—in her job it was par for the course—but she certainly wasn’t used to being subjected to such a deliberate scrutiny— particularly not when it was accompanied by such a frowningly disapproving expression.

‘Evan who?’ she asked, her voice more in control this time, though the determined effort she was making to smooth out the earlier unevenness made it sound cold and distant, earning her another of those swift, critical glances.

‘Evan Lindsay,’ he supplied, and the first sound of his voice was something of a shock. It was low and slightly husky, surprisingly soft when one considered that it came from such a big man.

And this Evan Lindsay was big. Her father stood a good six feet in his socks, but this man topped him by more than three inches—four, possibly, Catherine hazarded. The imposing height was matched by a similarly powerful frame, with broad shoulders and chest and long, strong arms.

The smartly tailored navy jacket and trousers, worn with a paler blue shirt and understated tie, might mirror the formal business suit Lloyd wore, but that formality emphasised rather than concealed the fact that the body underneath the fine cloth was definitely not that of a man who spent his day seated at a desk in some modern, high-tech office.

His face had the same sort of impact—hard-boned and strongly carved, with a distinct bump in the nose that told her it had once been well and truly broken and had had to be reset. Altogether, there was something about him that spoke of danger, of a powerful but volatile force barely kept in check, like a half-tame tiger-on the surface apparently quiet and controlled, but never, ever totally trustworthy.

‘Evan’s been working on the alarm system at the office,’ her father put in in an obvious attempt to reassure her, ease the prickly atmosphere.

‘Oh, so you’re the new security man.’

She didn’t even trouble to try to inject a note of polite interest into her voice; as a matter of fact, her thoughts weren’t even on what she was saying. She saw now just why her father had brought this man home with him; exactly what had been in his mind at the time.

‘I’m involved in the work, yes—’

‘And I thought we could use some of Evan’s expertise—’

‘I don’t think so,’ Catherine cut in sharply. ‘I don’t need any burglar alarms or security cameras—unless, of course, you were proposing to act as a bodyguard?’

‘I wasn’t proposing anything.’ The low voice held a trace of something Catherine couldn’t interpret—something that worried her. It might have been humour, but if so it had a dark edge that tightened her nerves disturbingly. ‘Lloyd simply asked me back here—’

‘And I offered you a drink,’ Catherine’s father inter-jected. ‘But all I’ve done so far is keep you standing in the hall. Why don’t we go somewhere where we can sit down and be more comfortable? The conservatory would be pleasant—’

Catherine’s involuntary movement drew his attention, had him changing his mind.

‘No, perhaps the lounge would be better. Cathy, darling, why don’t you take Evan through while I ask Mrs Bentley to organise refreshments? Coffee, Evan? Or would you prefer something alcoholic? And what about something to eat?’

‘Coffee would be fine—but, no, nothing to eat.’

Pushing back his shirt-cuff, Evan consulted a work-manlike watch on a slim leather strap.

‘I’m meeting a friend in just over an hour. We’re having dinner together.’

And he had no intention of being late, his attitude said only too clearly. As she led the way into the lounge Catherine couldn’t help wondering a little about the friend he was obviously so concerned about. She— because it had to be a she—was obviously very important to him, and in spite of herself she found herself trying to imagine what sort of woman appealed to this man. Probably someone dark and fiery—exotically glamorous, very feminine, her looks the perfect foil to his forceful masculinity.

‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, Mr Lindsay.’

She spoke over her shoulder as she crossed to the large window in the far wall, pulling the blue velvet curtains more tightly shut with a swift, jerky action.

‘We have a perfectly efficient security system already installed, and it doesn’t need any improvements.’

‘I don’t think that was what your father had in mind, Miss Davies.’ The quiet voice mocked her deliberate, stiff formality. ‘I take it you are Catherine?’ he added with disturbing abruptness.

Taken by surprise, she swung round to face him. ‘Of course I am. Who else did you think I could be?’

‘A girlfriend?’

‘My father’s? Hardly! You can’t know him very well if you’d think that.’

The strong shoulders under the perfectly fitted jacket lifted in a nonchalant shrug.

‘You could have been. Or a nanny?’ A faint grin surfaced at her look of frank disbelief. ‘I never expected Lloyd’s daughter to be so—mature…’

The last word was loaded with so much deliberate irony that it had a rush of hot colour flooding into her pale cheeks, all the more so because it was accompanied by another of those insolent, assessing surveys, the cool scrutiny searing over the pale oval of her face, with its high cheekbones and full, rather wide mouth, before moving slowly down the length of her body, lingering at the soft swell of her breasts, the curves of her hips in the worn denim jeans.

He might just as well have added the word ‘physically’ to that ‘mature’—as it was, it seemed to hang in the air between them, making Catherine’s skin prickle in irritation.

‘After all, your father isn’t exactly the sort of man one would expect to have such a grown-up daughter—’

‘My misspent youth catching up with me,’ Lloyd put in from the doorway, his laughter holding a trace of embarrassment. ‘I was barely nineteen when Cathy was born, though her mother was older—almost twenty-four-’

‘Really, Dad,’ Catherine cut in hastily, ‘Mr Lindsay doesn’t want to hear all the details of our family history.’

‘On the contrary,’ Evan corrected smilingly. ‘I have to admit to being rather intrigued. I came here expecting to see someone who was perhaps six at the most, possibly even younger. Instead, I’m confronted by a glamorous blonde who is clearly not even an adolescent.’

‘I’m twenty-six, if that’s what you’re angling to find out.’

Catherine regretted the sharpness of her tone when she saw the way those sea-toned eyes turned to her, their regard coolly direct, clearly noting the raised colour in her cheeks, the spark of reaction in her own bright blue eyes. If that ‘glamorous’ had been meant to flatter, to make her loosen up, then it had failed; if anything, she felt even more uptight than before.

‘I would have said twenty-two—no more,’ Evan returned smoothly. ‘But then the clothes are very deceptive—and without a trace of make-up you look like a well-scrubbed young girl.’

‘I don’t like to wear make-up all the time. Having to—’ She caught herself up sharply, not wanting to give too much away. ‘I prefer to let my skin breathe,’ she corrected hastily.

‘My sister feels exactly the same way.’

It was a bland reply, easily spoken, but she knew that she hadn’t succeeded in distracting him completely from the way she had covered up what she had been about to say. The aquamarine eyes had narrowed sharply, and she could sense a watchful awareness about the powerful body before her that made her stomach twist in painful apprehension.

Her father never seemed to dominate the room in quite the same way, she reflected nervously. He never made her feel that the elegant blue and grey room was somehow too small to contain him—or perhaps that was just a reflection of her own inner feelings, the tension that now always seemed to torment her when she was in the presence of any man she didn’t know.

‘That coffee must be ready by now. I’ll go and get it.’

‘Mrs Bentley will bring it through.’

‘No.’ She shook her head determinedly. ‘I’ll go and fetch it. You rely too much on your housekeeper since I left home, Dad. It’s well after six, and she should have the rest of the evening off.’

She prayed that the words wouldn’t sound like the excuse they were as she hastily made her way from the room, grateful for the chance to escape from Evan Lindsay, whose presence in her father’s house had started to become distinctly unnerving, his watchful scrutiny disturbingly oppressive.

In the kitchen, her father’s efficient housekeeper had everything ready, but all the same, after she had dismissed the older woman, Catherine lingered needlessly—rearranging the layout of the cups and saucers on the tray, adding a plate of biscuits, some hot milk as well as the cream, and finally coming to a halt, staring sightlessly at the bright floral blind that concealed the window as she had to face the fact that she was trying to avoid going back to join her father and his companion.

Was her nervousness just a natural response to events? she couldn’t help wondering. Was it just the sort of fear that anyone else might experience if they had been subjected to the sort of pressures, the harassment that she had endured, or was it something more? Was it something more personal, more directly involved with Evan Lindsay himself?

She had acknowledged that shivering sense of reaction when she’d looked at him, the intuitive recognition of a streak of something dangerous in him that had lifted the tiny hairs on the back of her neck in the instinctive reaction of a wary cat faced with a hostile intruder into its territory, but could she trust that? Did that sense of recognition come from her own inner turmoil or some other, more primitive response to his own individual aura?

‘Can I carry something through for you?’

The voice sounded suddenly behind her, making her start violently and drop the spoon she had been holding, letting it fall from nerveless fingers to land on the tray with a clatter that sounded appallingly loud in the quiet of the early evening. Reacting purely spontaneously, she swung round sharply, blue eyes blazing furiously.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, sneaking up on me like that? How dare you invade my privacy in this way? I—’

‘Hey!’

Evan’s hands shot out, catching her flailing arms in a powerful grip, stilling their wild gesticulations.

‘Calm down, lady! There’s no need for this.’

‘No need!’

If he hadn’t touched her then perhaps she might have been able to rein in her temper, get a grip on her self-control, but with the pressure of those strong fingers on her skin, sending electrical impulses shooting through every nerve, it seemed as if something had exploded inside her head, threatening to blow off the top of her skull.

Her vision hazed and she didn’t see Evan Lindsay as a man but as the personification of the male force—big and dark and ominously threatening.

‘No need! You creep in here—’

‘I said, calm down!’

He actually shook her—not hard, but firmly enough to drive the message home, sweeping the panic from her mind and replacing it with a calmer, more logical way of thinking.

‘You were a long time getting the coffee, and your father seemed concerned so I came to see if you needed any help. I wasn’t creeping around anywhere!’ he added more emphatically. ‘It isn’t my fault if you were so lost in a dream world that you didn’t hear me come into the room.’

If she needed bringing back down to reality, then the look in those cold, sea-coloured eyes was enough to do just that. It was like having a bucketful of icy water thrown straight into her face, and it shocked her out of her panic without a second’s hesitation, leaving her gasping in reaction.

‘I—I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I was—thinking of something else.’

‘Obviously,’ was the sardonic response. ‘And something none too pleasant from the looks of things. Just what—?’

But Catherine had remembered exactly what she had been thinking in the moment that he had come up behind her, and with that half-formed fear of him still shadowing her mind she wasn’t prepared to reveal any of her innermost feelings to him.

‘My thoughts are my own, Mr Lindsay,’ she returned tartly. ‘I’ll thank you not to poke your nose in where it’s not wanted.’

‘Fine.’ The single syllable was cold and curt, like the smile that he switched on and off as briefly as a flashing neon sign.

It was only when he let go of her hands that she realised he had still held them, the jarring abruptness of the movement as her arms fell to her sides aggravating her already disturbed state of mind. But she was totally unprepared for the devastating and bewildering sense of loss that ripped through her as cold air reached the spot where the warm strength of his hands had been only seconds before, so that it was all she could do to keep herself from crying out in distress.

‘Would you like some help with the tray, or would that be an invasion of your precious privacy too?’

‘What? Oh, no-’

Catherine struggled to regain some composure, feeling as if the tattered shreds of her self-control were fluttering wildly round her like the remains of some torn and ragged garment.

‘Thanks—that would be kind…’

Her voice faded as Evan moved forward, coming into the full glare of the fluorescent light for the first time, his features being thrown into harsh relief as if someone had directed a spotlight full on to his face.

He was definitely not a pretty man, or even a handsome one, she reflected privately. That strongly carved bone-structure was too harsh, too forceful to be described in any such way. He was a very tough-looking man—a man whose face seemed to be carved out of hard, unpolished wood, all knots and angles and…

‘What happened to your nose?’ The question escaped before she had time to consider whether it was wise to show an interest in such a personal matter.

‘My nose?’ He looked as startled as she felt to hear the words on her lips. ‘Oh—that?

Strong brown fingers touched the definite bump that marred the straightness in the centre of his face.

‘I broke it.’

‘Obviously.’ She echoed his own sardonic tone of moments before. ‘Any fool can see that—but how did it happen?’

A grin curled the corners of his mouth, mocking her indignation.

‘In the army—on a training exercise.’

The smile grew, became devastating in its megawatt brilliance.

‘I had to climb a rope that I believed had been fastened securely—it hadn’t, and I fell—hard. Result—one broken nose and a badly bruised ego. Needless to say, I never trust myself to anything without double-checking now.’

‘You were in the army? When? For how long?’

‘A couple of years. I went in straight from school. My father felt I needed the discipline, and at the time I would have done anything to get away from home. It didn’t last long, though,’ he added drily. ‘Let’s say that the army and I didn’t exactly—suit one another.’

Catherine could well believe it. Even from the little she had seen of Evan she had gained an impression of someone who was too much his own man to submit willingly to the sort of unquestioning routine that was part of army life.

‘And I suppose that’s where you learned about security techniques—I understand that a lot of ex-army men go into that sort of job.’

‘The ones who don’t become night-watchmen or bodyguards.’

He was deliberately probing now; she knew that from the laser-like intensity with which those changeable eyes were fixed on her face. He was echoing her own comment earlier, wanting to push her into explaining.

‘We’d better get this coffee through to the lounge before it gets cold,’ she said, carefully ignoring his pushing. ‘Dad will be sending out a search-party for me.’

‘Is he always this over-protective?’

The question came deceptively casually, with Evan’s head turned away as he picked up the tray, but it was enough to stop her dead in her tracks, halfway towards the door.

‘What do you mean, “over-protective”?’ Her voice was pitched too high and she struggled to lower it a degree or two. ‘He’s just a normal, caring parent—’

‘Sure…’ Evan’s tone poured scorn on her indignation. ‘Look, honey, I don’t normally jump to conclusions about people, but you two don’t exactly have a run of the mill sort of relationship.’

‘I don’t know what you mean—’

‘No? Then let me tell you about this afternoon. I’ve been working with your father for days, and for some time it’s been obvious that his mind isn’t exactly on his job. Then today I called in at his office to discuss some things I needed to talk over with him. He made it plain that I’d have to make it quick—that he couldn’t be late home—and it wasn’t long before I realised that he wasn’t paying me any attention at all. In fact, his thoughts were miles away. In the end he just gave up pretending to listen and suggested that we continued our discussion at his home.’

‘So what’s wrong with that? Dad often brings work home if it’s late.’

‘It was barely five o’clock. His secretary hadn’t even finished work for the day, but Lloyd Davies, the boss of the whole outfit, says he has to go home—he’s worried about his daughter.’

The disturbing note in Evan’s voice scraped over Catherine’s exposed nerves, worsening their already raw sensitivity, and she found it impossible to meet that probing, searching gaze, concentrating instead on smoothing and folding a crumpled teatowel that lay on the draining-board, arranging it with over-meticulous care.

‘Naturally, I assumed from his concern that his daughter was a young girl—school-age at most, maybe even younger—so you can imagine my surprise when I find she’s not a child but a fully grown woman of twenty-six, someone well old enough—’

‘My father and I are very close,’ Catherine broke in on him, unable to face the prospect of the inevitable questions that she knew were coming. ‘It’s probably because the age-gap between us is so small.’

‘It’s more than that.’

‘Are you implying—?’

‘I’m implying nothing—just curious.’

‘Look, my mother left when I was barely five, and Dad and I have been together ever since. Naturally, we’re very close—very dependent—though I don’t suppose you’d understand that.’