‘Did you try and find me?’

‘How could I? Where would I have started?’

Roman took a step closer, a tall and overpoweringly male presence that made her feel trapped. She lifted a hand to her throat to cover the pulse she could feel beating there.

‘Do I make you nervous, Isabel?’ He stepped in closer again, his nostrils flaring as the scent of her perfume brought back memories. His body responded hungrily, making him uncomfortably aware of the heaviness in his groin.

His husky voice sent a secret shiver down her spine. Her pale skin was dusted with a layer of perspiration with the effort of concealing her emotional turmoil and presenting a semblance of normality when all she wanted to do was run away. ‘Not Isobel—Izzy. People call me Izzy.’

‘I’m not “people”. I’m the father of your child.’

About the Author

KIM LAWRENCE lives on a farm in rural Anglesey. She runs two miles daily, and finds this an excellent opportunity to unwind and seek inspiration for her writing! It also helps her keep up with her husband, two active sons, and the various stray animals which have adopted them. Always a fanatical consumer of fiction, she is now equally enthusiastic about writing. She loves a happy ending!

Recent titles by the same author:

 SANTIAGO’S COMMAND

 GIANNI’S PRIDE

 IN A STORM OF SCANDAL

 THE THORN IN HIS SIDE (21st Century Bosses)

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Petrelli Heir
Kim Lawrence

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

London

June 2010

IZZY let out a startled yelp as her heel caught in a hole in the pavement and brought her to an abrupt stumbling halt. Wincing, she flexed her narrow ankle experimentally. Fortunately it held her weight when she put it back down again.

No damage but her feet hurt.

Why?

It took her a few moments to connect the ache in her feet with the time she’d been walking. She glanced at her watch, scrunching her eyes to read the face concealed by the cuff of her thin jacket. What time had she started walking?

Her smooth brow furrowed as she tried to sort out the confused sequence of the day’s events in her head. It had been afternoon when she had shaken the hand of her mother’s solicitor and thanked the funeral director. There had been no one else to thank, no one else to exchange amusing anecdotes of the departed with.

Her mother, Dr Ruth Carter, famous in the academic world all her professional life and famous outside it since her one attempt at a populist book landed her with an international best-seller that had broken all previous records for a non-fiction book.

The royalty cheques still kept dropping on the doormat—Izzy’s doormat now. She was almost rich … Was that a bit like being nearly famous …? Izzy shook her head. For no reason at all she suddenly wanted to laugh or was that cry? No, not cry, she didn’t think she had any more tears available to shed. They were all frozen in the lead weight that lay hard and heavy pressing against her breastbone.

Dr Ruth Carter had enjoyed her fame as a celebrity psychologist, and had become a firm favourite on breakfast television shows. There were probably many people who would have liked to come and pay their last respects, but Ruth Carter had had firm views about funerals.

No religion.

No fuss or flowers.

No wake.

No fuss and no tears.

Her only child, actually her only living relative, Izzy had respected her wishes and she hadn’t cried. She hadn’t even cried when she had found her mother’s body and the neat handwritten note, written as she spoke in that distinctive bullet-point dogmatic style.

In the weeks that followed both the police and then coroner at the inquest had praised her composure and bravery, but Izzy hadn’t been brave. She had been numb, and now, today, she was … angry, she realised, identifying the emotion that was making her chest tight. She had kept walking because she was afraid that if she stopped all that anger would spill out and she had a mental image of herself enveloped in an angry toxic cloud.

She wasn’t angry with her mother for choosing the time and manner in which she died. The insidious terminal disease that had slowly been robbing her mother of her ability to function independently, keeping her locked in a helpless body, had been terrible. No, her mother had made her choice in her time, the note had said.

And to hell with everyone else!

Her mother hadn’t said that, but during the clinical goodbye today Izzy had thought it. So, yes, she was angry! The doctors had said her mother had at least another twelve months of relatively normal life, months when Izzy could have said all the things she would never say now.

Not even goodbye.

And now today her mother had reached out from the grave and … Izzy unfolded her stiff fingers from the typed letter that lay scrunched in her pocket and lifted a hand to her head. The dampness on her skin and her hair came as a surprise and she stared at the wet shiny pavement. She hadn’t even realised it had been raining.

She didn’t even know where she was! Or for that matter who she was …? She knew she wasn’t the product of a contribution by an anonymous sperm donor.

It turned out she had a real father, one who was right now receiving a similar letter to the one the solicitor had handed her this afternoon. Apparently, the poor man had been an eighteen-year-old student at the time, selected as a suitable genetic father and seduced by her forty-something mother, who had been reacting to her ticking body clock.

Why had her mother lied?

Why had she told her now?

Why had she left her alone?

Izzy straightened her slender shoulders and gave herself a strong talking to. Focus! You can’t fall apart, you’re capable—everyone says it, so surely it must be true.

Where are you, capable Izzy?

As she looked vaguely around a door opened to a nearby building and sounds of people talking and laughing spilled out, all so normal … how weird.

Without meaning to she followed the sound and found herself in a bar. She loosened the button on her jacket, aware that she was thirsty. It was warm and humid and crowded as she began to work her way through several groups of people standing; all the tables were full, except one.

Izzy’s restless gaze was drawn as if by some invisible magnet to that table or, more specifically, to the man who sat at it.

He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen!

The sheer awfulness of the day fell away and she stood stock still, oblivious to the curious stares she drew. As she stared at the man her heart hammered against her ribcage, her throat became dry and her knees were quite literally shaking, but not with exhaustion. She no longer felt weary but energised, her body taut and tingling with a squirmy, stomach-clenching excitement.

The man put down his drink and stared back, dragging his dark hair from his wide bronzed brow. Izzy shivered, as if the man had touched her, which was crazy, and she pressed a hand to her stomach where the fluid heat was spreading outwards.

On a purely aesthetic level he was someone people would always stare at. His face could have belonged to a classical statue and was a miracle of classical symmetry. He had incredible carved cheekbones, an aquiline nose and sculpted lips that were both sensual and cruel …?

Izzy shivered again. Just then a group of noisy, slightly the worse for wear young men bumped into her, the physical jolt wrenching her from the bold, overtly sexual scrutiny of those dark eyes. She turned her head sharply and thought, My God, I’m panting!

A man had never looked at her that way—as if he wanted her—or if one had Izzy hadn’t noticed. Not enough to do anything about it anyhow. Not a sexual creature, Izzy’s mother had proclaimed—her professional opinion—after first ruling out the possibility her daughter was actually gay, but in denial about her sexuality.

My mum, the big fan of plain speaking; my mum, who respected honesty; oh, yes, my painfully honest mum. Izzy felt the letter again—the bombshell honest Dr Carter had exploded when she was no longer around to answer for the biggest lie of them all—and felt her anger rise up once more. Well, maybe she could, just for once, prove her mother wrong?

Just because she’d never experienced blinding lust before didn’t mean Izzy didn’t recognise it when she felt it. She dabbed her tongue to the moisture that had broken out along her upper lip, still staring at the man even with a solid wall of people between her and those dark disturbing eyes.

The crowd of men jostled her again, moving in close and delivering a few good-natured comments that Izzy didn’t even register. As she approached the bar she was still seeing those dark hungry eyes. She focused on them—it wasn’t hard—and seeing them, feeling them, she didn’t have to think about anything else.

‘Are you eighteen?’ the barman asked for the third time, studying the young woman’s glazed blue eyes and wondering if she was on something.

‘No, yes … I mean, I’m twenty-one … almost.’

Izzy was not surprised when he asked, ‘You got some identity, miss?’

Flustered, she reached into her bag and found her driving licence, holding her thick wavy chestnut hair back from her face with her forearm when it flopped in her eyes.

The barman raised his brows as he scanned it before producing her drink and an apologetic, ‘We have to check.’

She jumped when a beefy, slightly clammy hand landed on top of her own, pressing it into the surface of the bar. ‘A beautiful woman should never pay for her own drink,’ the owner of the hand slurred.

Oh, God, and the hits just kept coming, she thought, her nostrils flaring in distaste as she inhaled the beerladen fumes of her admirer.

‘Thank you, but I’m meeting someone … excuse me.’

The man didn’t move. If anything, egged on by his mates, he moved in closer. Izzy hunched in on herself defensively.

Not a violent or angry person, diplomatic Izzy balled her hand into a fist in her head. She could hear her mother saying, When you have to shout, Izzy, you have lost an argument.

But her mum wasn’t here.

‘Go away, you creep!’

I just yelled, and it felt good.

‘Cara, I’m sorry I’m late but …’ The men crowding around her suddenly parted to reveal the unbelievably attractive lone wolf from the table. Lean and broad-shouldered, all hard muscle and sinew, he was a head taller than the drunk pestering her and he had the entire mean, brooding hungry look going on, boosted by the combustible gleam in his narrowed eyes.

Izzy couldn’t tear her gaze away from his face and she wanted to touch him so much it hurt, which was crazy. She was gazing with helpless admiration at the long curling ebony lashes that framed those spectacular eyes when with zero warning he fitted his mouth to hers as though he’d done it a hundred times before and kissed her hard, full on the mouth.

It was only when he lifted his mouth that he even appeared to notice the other men.

‘Is there a problem?’ No longer languid and warm, his deep voice was layered with icy hauteur.

Problem? she thought, swallowing a bubble of hysteria. Did standing there staring or not being able to breathe count? His kiss had tasted of whisky, she thought as she ran her tongue across the outline of her own trembling mouth. The younger men almost fell over themselves to assure the stranger that there was no problem at all as they vanished like mist.

‘You looked like you were about to deck him. You’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you?’

Izzy unclenched her fist. ‘That was very resourceful of you, but I didn’t need saving.’ I’m feisty!

This close, the raw maleness that had given her a hormone rush from across the room was a million times more intense.

‘No …?’ His shoulders lifted in an expressive shrug as he stared at her, dragging his hand back and forth across the dark stubble shadowing his square jaw. His eyes slid to the glass in her hand. ‘You were planning to drown your sorrows?’ His mouth curled into a self-derisive sneer as he added softly, ‘Stare into the bottom of a glass and feel sorry for yourself?’

Izzy looked at the glass in her hand … Was she?

‘I wish you more luck than me.’

Was he saying he was drunk? He didn’t look drunk. He didn’t sound drunk. In fact his rich, gravelly, slightly accented voice was delicious—he was delicious.

Her heart raced; the sexual tension between them was like a wall cutting them off from the rest of the room. The reckless exhilaration fizzing through her bloodstream made her feel dizzy.

‘I don’t want a drink any more,’ Izzy said breathlessly, at the same time wondering what she was doing.

Whatever it was it felt good.

His dark eyes didn’t leave hers for a moment. ‘You don’t? What do you want?’ His brow furrowed. ‘How remiss of me. I’m—’

‘No!’ Izzy reached up and pressed a warning finger to his lips. Once there she found herself tracing the firm outline, fascinated by the texture and warmth of his skin. ‘I don’t need to know your name. I need—’

He caught her hand and held it by his face and slurred throatily, ‘What do you need, cara?’ His thumb stroked a line down her cheek as he bent in close and whispered, ‘Tell me …’

His gravelly accented drawl made her insides dissolve.

‘I’ve had a very bad day and I don’t want to think about it. I need …’ She paused. Life-changing revelations or not, twenty years of sensible caution did not give up without a fight. The man could be a homicidal maniac … he could … he could … he could …

Izzy closed her eyes and opened them again. She needed not to think, she needed to feel … his skin. Desire washed over her like a flash fire, dragging the breath from her lungs and making her skin prickle.

‘I think I need you.’ Is this really me saying that?

‘Think?’

‘I need you.’

It was definitely her leaving a bar with an enigmatic, beautiful stranger.

CHAPTER ONE

IZZY hurried up the aisle, her heels clicking on the marble floor as she went. She pretended to be unaware of the scattering of nudges and not so discreet whispered comments that followed her progress. She pretended extremely well—she’d had practice.

It would have been nice to think people were riveted by her stunning fashion sense, but the reality was that, while the misty blue silk chiffon dress did bring out the blue in her blue-grey eyes and made her rich chestnut hair look more auburn than brown, it was a little too snug across her post-baby bust. And besides, the church was filled with a lot of women who were better dressed and, in her opinion, better looking—short and skinny with freckles was an acquired taste.

But the attention she garnered had nothing to do with the way she looked and everything to do with her being there at all, because everyone there knew that Izzy was not a real Fitzgerald!

Two years ago when Izzy had first arrived in the small Cumbrian market town, her appearance had attracted much more attention, but happily she was yesterday’s news. The pregnant illegitimate daughter that Michael Fitzgerald had not known he had was a scandal still, but no longer one that was likely to steal the show. And things were improving.

Izzy’s expression softened as her thoughts caused her glance to drift to where her father sat talking to his brother, the father of the bride. The two men with their leonine heads of grey-streaked strawberry-blond hair were alike enough to have passed for twins, though Jake Fitzgerald was older by three years.

As if feeling her gaze Michael turned his head and winked at her and Izzy grinned back. Her father was a remarkable man. How many men receiving a letter telling them that they had a daughter from an affair twenty years ago would have reacted the way he had?

Not many, she suspected. But Michael hadn’t even wanted the DNA test! In fact the entire family had been great and instead of treating her like a cuckoo in the nest they had opened their collective arms and drawn her into the protective inner family circle.

She had been a stranger to these people, yet when she had been at her most vulnerable they had been there for her. After a lifetime of believing it was a weakness to rely on other people Izzy had initially found it difficult to accept their help, but their warmth had thawed her natural diffidence. Asking for help was still not her first instinct, in fact she hated it, but she was learning that sometimes there was no choice but to grit your teeth and swallow your pride. A lot of things changed when you had a baby.

Izzy’s attention suddenly turned to her auburn-headed young half-brother, handsome in his morning suit and deep in conversation with someone sitting next to the aisle in the row behind. He really needed to take his seat. ‘Rory, come on. She’s here.’

Rory straightened up with a grin. ‘Chill, Izzy. Anyone would think you were the one getting married.’

‘Cold day in hell,’ Izzy murmured without heat. Good luck to Rachel and her Ben, but, though having a baby had changed her view on some things, her certainty that marriage was not for her remained unshakeable. She had read the statistics and in her view you’d have to be a gambler or a hopeless romantic to take those sorts of risks and she wasn’t either.

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in soul mates, but in her view if two people were meant to be together they shouldn’t need a piece of paper to keep them that way.

‘Don’t worry, your Prince Charming is out there somewhere, Izzy—always supposing you don’t take the treat-them-mean-keep-them-keen thing too far.’

‘I don’t!’

Unable to defend herself further because an expectant hush had fallen, Izzy slid into her own seat and waited as the other seated occupants passed her daughter along the row, like a smiling parcel. Lily landed in her lap happy and smiling.

Izzy glowed with pride as she received a gummy grin. Her daughter really was the most perfect baby.

Beside her, Rory’s mother, Michelle Fitzgerald, looked amused as Lily made a bid for the blue feather fascinator it had taken Izzy half an hour to attach attractively in the chestnut brown hair she had pinned up in a simple twist. But even with a dozen hairpins the artistic loose tendrils had been joined by numerous wispy strands despite a double dose of hairspray. Her hair just had a mind of its own.

‘Rory!’ Michelle snapped, turning her attention to her son, who had still not taken his seat.

‘All right, Ma,’ he soothed with an eye roll as he dropped down into the pew next to Izzy.

‘Rory, perhaps we should swap?’ Izzy suggested as she abandoned her attempt to secure her headgear to the slippery surface of her shiny hair. Instead she shoved it in her pocket and offered a toy duck to Lily to distract her. ‘In case Lily kicks off and I have to make a quick exit.’

She would have hated her small daughter to ruin the bride’s big moment and, though she was for the most part a sunny baby, Lily was capable of some seismic meltdowns when thwarted.

According to Michelle it was just a phase all babies went through, and as much as Izzy respected the older woman’s knowledge of all things baby she privately wondered if it was possible her daughter had inherited her volatile temperament from her father.

But that was one thing Izzy would never know, because although she knew every angle and shadow, every curve and plane of his face, as page after page in her sketchbooks filled with his likeness attested, Izzy didn’t know the name of the man who had fathered her child.

She had not thought seriously about the day when Lily asked about her father—nothing beyond its inevitability. Maybe she would get her sketchbooks out on that day and show her daughter. Would she say, ‘This is how he looked. He was possibly the most handsome man ever to draw breath … oh, and he smelt good too …’ Who knew? Since Lily’s birth Izzy had adopted a one-day-at-a-time approach to life.

In the meantime she viewed the sketches as a cathartic coping mechanism. Her sketches were her therapy and one day presumably she would draw him out of her system.

‘Sure, if you like.’ Rory stood up, ducking his head in an attempt to appear inconspicuous, hard when you were a lanky six four. ‘You two haven’t met, have you?’ he added, turning as he spoke to let Izzy shuffle along the wooden pew. ‘Izzy, this is Roman Petrelli. He’s here to buy some horses … Dad hopes. Do you remember Gianni arranged for that placement for me with Roman’s Paris office last summer? Roman, this is my sister Izzy.’

Last summer she had been knee deep in nappies and night feeds and pretty much everything else had passed her by, but she did find it easy to place the handsome half-Italian Gianni among the plethora of Fitzgerald cousins. And there were a lot of cousins—her father was one of nine siblings.

‘Hello.’ A distracted smile curving her lips, she turned her head, following the direction of Rory’s introductory nod, and her eyes connected, her smile wobbled and vanished.

She had walked right past him. How did that happen?

He was not the sort of man that under normal circumstances would be overlooked—Izzy hadn’t the first time she had seen him.

Now he was here the breath left her lungs in a silent hiss of shock.

‘Hello.’

The voice awoke dormant memories and sent a flash of heat through her body. Incapable of speech, she nodded and thought, He really does have the longest eyelashes I have ever seen. And there was no discernible recognition in the pitch-dark eyes those lashes framed.

This wasn’t happening.

But it was! It was him—the man she had spent that night with.

Two years later and Izzy had rationalised the reckless impulse that had made her act so totally out of character. There was probably some psychological term for what she’d done when she’d been half out of her head with grief, exhaustion and shock, but Izzy had not continued to analyse it, she had simply drawn a line under it.

You could only beat yourself up so much and, as she had felt no desire since that night to rip off any man’s clothes and ravish him, there had been no lasting consequences to her actions—except one, which she could never regret.

How could she regret something that had given her not just her much-loved daughter but a new and wonderfully supportive family? There was a strong possibility that, if she hadn’t found herself alone, pregnant and very aware how fragile life was, the letter sent by the father she had never met might have stayed where she had initially thrown it—in the bin.

Tapping into reserves of self-control she didn’t even know she possessed, the silly smile still pasted on her face, Izzy broke free of the pitch-black mesmerising stare and turned away. Outwardly calm, at least to the casual observer, her body was gripped by a succession of deep internal tremors as she hugged her daughter.

Her shoulder blades ached with tension as she buried her face in Lily’s soft dusky curls. People often remarked on her vibrant colouring, marvelling at the peachy glow of her skin and her liquid dark eyes. The less tactful asked outright if she looked like her father.

Izzy never reacted to the question and her silence had given rise to a great deal of speculation. There were currently several theories in circulation about Lily’s father, which ranged from him being a dead war hero to him being a married politician. But whatever people thought, the generally held opinion was that Izzy was the innocent party, the girl who had been abandoned, because apparently she came across as a nice girl.

The irony was not lost on her and Izzy detested the undeserved victim status that had been thrust on her, but, short of publicly announcing that she was actually a shameless trollop, what choice did she have?

It was actually a relief when someone chose to take her to task about her single-parent status. Just the previous evening Michael’s great-aunt Maeve had exclaimed, ‘A child needs two parents, young lady.’

‘In a perfect world, yes, but the world isn’t perfect and neither am I.’

Izzy’s quietly dignified response had taken the wind out of the old lady’s sails, but she had made a quick recovery. ‘In my day a girl like you wouldn’t be wandering around as bold as brass like she has nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘She doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of, Aunt Maeve.’ It was her father who came to Izzy’s rescue, putting an arm around her and drawing her in close.

‘Don’t you go looking at me like that, Michael. One of the few good things about being old is being as rude as I like—would you deprive me of one of my last pleasures?’ She held out her empty glass and glanced at the whisky bottle on the dresser. ‘So, girl, who is the father?’

Izzy had not satisfied the old lady’s curiosity. She hadn’t told anyone the identity of the father—how could she?

Izzy’s blue eyes were shadowed with shamed anguish as she responded to Lily’s cry of protest and loosened her grip just as the organist pulled out all the stops. Izzy knew better than most what it was like to grow up without a father and it was something she had always vowed not to do to a child of hers should she ever have one.

With the rest of the congregation Izzy rose to her feet. Were his eyes trained on the exposed nape of her neck or was it her guilty conscience that made her skin prickle and tingle? Tingle the way his long fingers had once made her—she pushed the thought away and took a deep breath. With Lily on one hip, she stared blankly at the service sheet clutched in her free hand, knowing she was a whisper away from tipping over into outright gibbering panic.

She had to stay calm.

She had to think.

The father of her baby was sitting behind her. What was she meant to do now?

Take a leaf out of her mother’s book and write him a letter?

Casually drop into the conversation, Oh, by the way, this is your daughter? Now that would be a real ice breaker, but could it be listed under small talk?

She choked on a bubble of hysterical laughter, the sound drowned out by the hymn being sung.

Realistically Izzy knew, always had known, that should this unlikely event occur she had to accept the real possibility that he might not even remember that night two years ago. So maybe doing nothing was a possibility? Just wait and if he said nothing leave it …?

She reluctantly discarded the tempting idea. This was Lily’s father. What had Rory called him … Roman? At least she had a name now and knew that he was Italian, although she’d already had an idea about his nationality. During their night together he had whispered wonderful things to her in throes of passion; she might not have understood the things he had said, but she had recognised the language.

She remembered everything.

She tried to push away the hot, erotic images crowding in—she had to focus.

On what, Izzy—your impending public humiliation?

Her chin lifted. She would take what was coming, but not Lily. She would protect Lily.

Lily, who looked so like her father, which was good news for her because she’d grow up to be the female version of him—stunning—but bad news because surely everyone seeing them together would know.

And he’d seen Lily.

He had to know!

Was he sitting there in shock?

No point speculating; she just had to stay calm and play this by ear. A wedding was hardly the place to introduce a man to his daughter.

Was there a good place?

He might be here with his girlfriend or wife even …! Feeling sick now, Izzy closed her eyes and tried to remember who had been sitting next to him, but couldn’t.

Could things get any worse? She’d slept with a stranger and got pregnant—please let him not have been married!

A question that might have been better asked before you ripped off his shirt.

Ignoring the sly insert of her conscience or what was left of it, Izzy touched a protective hand to her nape.

Nothing in his expression had suggested he even recognised her. Was it really possible he didn’t remember their night together? Or maybe he might have developed a convenient amnesia to avoid embarrassment. If so should she play along with it? Everything in Izzy rebelled against the idea.

Why was she torturing herself? He might feel even worse and as embarrassed about that night as she was, sitting there now wondering if she was a potential bunny boiler about to mess up his life.

If so he’d feel relieved when he realised she didn’t want anything from him. Rich men could be pretty protective of their wealth and she could recall now the word billionaire coming into the conversation when the family had discussed Rory’s good fortune at securing a placement within the Petrelli company.

Great, she couldn’t have had a one-night stand with a teacher or a plumber. No, she had to pick out a billionaire Italian!

At the end of the ceremony Izzy got to her feet when everyone else did, clutching her daughter to her chest. She slung a furtive look over her shoulders but chickened out at the last minute and tucked herself in between Rory and Emma in the slow-moving file of guests leaving the church, doing her best to be invisible. When she finally worked up the courage to look again Roman Petrelli was gone, the occupants of the pew behind having already vacated their seats.

She touched Rory’s sleeve. Her half-brother turned his head. ‘Your friend … is he?’

‘Friend …? I do have more than one …?’

‘Duh!’ Emma, who was eavesdropping, inserted with a roll of her eyes. ‘Who do you think she’s talking about? The utterly gorgeous hunk, Roman, of course! Such a sexy name, but not as sexy as the man himself. Did you get a look at his eyes?’ She pressed a hand to her heart and sighed dramatically. ‘You know, I could really do with a walk on the wild side.’

‘Izzy isn’t as shallow as you,’ her brother retorted, adding, ‘Could you do with a hand there, Izzy?’

‘Thanks.’ Izzy slanted a grateful smile at her half-brother as she relinquished a squirming Lily to him. ‘She wants to get down and she’s really strong.’

‘Me, shallow—I like that,’ Emma interrupted, adding with a warm look at Lily, who was pulling her uncle’s nose, ‘All the Fitzgerald women are strong.’ She sent a conspiratorial grin to Izzy. ‘The only place Rory is Roman Petrelli’s friend,’ Emma confided, directing a sisterly smile of sweet malice at her brother, ‘is in his dreams. Rory only asked for him to be invited because he wants to suck up. Do you really think he’s going to give a geek like you a job, Rory?’

‘I’m a geek with a mind like a steel trap and great charm—why wouldn’t the man give me a job?’

‘As if!’

‘Let’s put it this way, little sister, I’m more likely to get a job off him than you are a night of passion.’

‘Wanna bet?’ Emma drawled, her eyes sparkling challenge.

‘Like taking money off a baby.’

Izzy shook her head to clear the images flying around like a swarm of wasps in her brain. Images that involved her lovely innocent half-sister and a predatory Roman Petrelli. The sick feeling they left in the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with jealousy, she told herself in response to the nip of guilt. She was simply looking out for her sister.

Emma was only eighteen and was not nearly as sophisticated as she liked to pretend, and Roman Petrelli was … an image of him lying on the bed, the toned musculature of his bronzed torso delineated by a sheen of sweat, flashed into her head and the word that came to her was … perfect.

‘Please,’ she reproached. Her laughter sounded forced to her own ears but the squabbling siblings didn’t seem to notice. They just grinned and continued the argument until they got outside into the fresh air and the stakes in their bet had reached the extreme scale of silly.

‘Let me have Lily,’ Emma begged as they stepped aside to join the other guests in the sun.

‘No, better not, Emma—she’ll ruin your hair, and that dress …’ Izzy pointed out, holding out her arms to take her daughter.

‘Good point!’ agreed Emma. ‘I must look beautiful for Roman … How old do you think he is?’

‘Too old for you,’ retorted her brother austerely. ‘And actually, Em, we’re both out of luck. He’s not coming to the reception so neither of us will be able to use our lethal charm.’

The reprieve might be temporary but the relief was so intense Izzy laughed out loud, drawing a questioning look from her siblings.

‘Don’t look now—Aunt Maeve is heading this way.’ Not a lie as such, more an inspired distraction, and it worked perfectly. At the mention of their elderly relative the sister and brother act adopted the attitude of sprinters under starter’s orders.

‘Just us again,’ Izzy said, rubbing her nose against Lily’s button nose and breathing in the sweet baby fragrance of her shampoo.

A wave of love so intense that she could hardly breathe closed Izzy’s throat as she whispered softly, ‘I’ll never let anything hurt you. I love you, Lily baba.’

Izzy had known she had been loved, even though her mother had never said the words and not encouraged Izzy to be sentimental. A mother herself now, Izzy found it sad, but was relieved that her own fears that she might struggle to express her feelings had been unfounded. Since the first moment she had held her baby in her arms they were words she couldn’t stop saying.

CHAPTER TWO

ROMAN’s intention when he’d walked into the church had been to skip the wedding reception—the deal for the new stallion had been done with Michael Fitzgerald and there was no longer a need to hang around. But his plans had now changed.

The adrenaline that had been dumped in his bloodstream when he’d recognised the slim woman walking up the aisle was still making him buzz, and, conscious of the fine tremor in his fingers, he pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his well-cut trousers.

She had been sitting right in front of him and all he’d had to do was reach out and he could have touched her. He knew who she was now, she had a name, and this time she wouldn’t be able to vanish. Anticipation made him feel more alive than he had in …?

With a frown he blocked the thought. He’d been given a second chance on life and admitting he was bored seemed terminally ungrateful.

And in truth he wasn’t bored. The mystery woman who was no longer a mystery represented a challenge—unfinished business.

Challenge, he decided, was the operative word. It wasn’t as if she had occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of everything else since their night together, but her unexpected reappearance had resurrected the frustration her vanishing act had inflicted two years earlier. But he’d had more to worry about at the time than a one-night stand slipping away. Maybe his overreaction had been in part bruised ego or maybe she had become the focus for all his frustration at the time?

But then what man wouldn’t feel frustrated when, having discovered the girl who ticked just about every erotic fantasy box he had, and some he didn’t know he had, vanished off the face of the earth leaving nothing but the elusive fragrance of her warm skin on the bed sheets?

Roman had felt robbed and cheated. It had not even crossed his mind that he would not be able to persuade her to spend the rest of the day in bed with him. The idea that she wouldn’t be there when he returned with coffee and croissants had not occurred to him.

Conscious of the heavy heat in his groin, he waited for her to appear again, his impatience growing until he began to wonder if he had imagined the whole thing.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

There had been a couple of occasions when he had thought he had caught sight of her in the distance only to get closer and discover that the rich chestnut hair and slim petite curves belonged to someone else, someone who didn’t have a mouth that invited sin.

This time, though, it was different; she was no figment of his imagination and she had recognised him. Admittedly her reaction had not quite been the one he normally got from women—none, as far as he could recall, had ever looked as if they wanted to crawl under a pew.

She had blushed … actually blushed! His expressive lips quirked into a sardonic grin as he remembered her total lack of inhibition, her throaty little gasps and greedy clever hands. His mystery woman was the last person he would have imagined capable of blushing!

But the blush was in keeping with the entire freshly scrubbed, wholesome, sexy thing she had going on. Roman shrugged, closing off this line of speculation. He didn’t care if she led a double life; he just wanted her, wanted to see her soft creamy body in his bed, feel her hands on him and feel her under him. He half resented wanting her, recognising that not having her could transform her from a missed opportunity to a mild obsession.

But something about her reaction still nagged at him. Why had bumping into an ex-lover thrown her into such a state of obvious confusion?

Unless she had a jealous partner around—even sitting next to her?

Who had been sitting next to her?

Roman, who was famed for his powers of observation, scrunched his brow in concentration as he tried to recall, but came up empty. He could remember the nape of her neck pretty well and the fall of the wisps of her hair around her face. The truth was he hadn’t been thinking straight in the church and he’d needed the fresh air and distance to get his brain back in gear and his hormones on a leash.

Was she concerned he would not be discreet?

If so she needn’t have worried. The only thing that Roman was interested in was having her in his bed again, not advertising the fact. Would the reality live up to his dreams or would he be disappointed? The anticipation of having his sexual curiosity satisfied on this point sent his level of arousal up another painful notch.

Roman continued his vigil of the guests from under the canopy of a leafy oak tree a safe distance away from his fellow guests clustered now in laughing groups around the newly married couple. His new vantage point gave him a clear view of the stragglers emerging from the church.

His tension and frustration grew with each passing moment, until Roman began to think somehow she had escaped him again. But then he saw her emerge.

Lust slammed through his body with the force of a sledgehammer. Watching her with the intensity of a hawk observing its prey, Roman felt his anger surge along with his appetite for her as he recalled the morning after their night together …

He had been so eager to get back into bed with her after his quick trip to the coffee shop that he had left his discarded clothes in a trail from the front door to the bedroom, only to find the bed empty and the sheets still warm—he had just missed her!

No woman had ever rejected him and now twice within the space of twenty-four hours a woman had walked out on him. Literally speaking he’d done the walking on the first occasion, and bizarrely it had been this second act of rejection that had got to him more. It had propelled him out into a city of millions of people to find her, which was either a measure of the sexual spell this woman had cast over him or a measure of his emotional stability at the time.

But he hadn’t been insane when he’d walked into the crowded bar that night and the last thing he had been looking for was sex. His hand slid to his leg as he again thought back to the events of that night. He’d been licking his wounds and feeling pathetically sorry for himself.

Oh, God, yes, he had been pretty mad at the world, life and women as he’d sat at that table with a drink in front of him. He’d lost count of how many drinks had gone before it, when she had walked in.

He had sworn off women, but he’d noticed her, as had half the men in the room. He had drunk too much, but hadn’t been drunk enough not to appreciate the shapely length of her slim toned thighs and the lush curves of her pert bottom in the dark pencil skirt she had worn. As he’d watched her move across the room he’d tugged the tie around his neck loose and thought, One door closes and another opens. Love had no longer been an integral part of his plan for the future, but he’d realised there was still sex.

It had been a cheering thought, one that might make a man get out of bed in the morning. For the months of his illness and subsequent chemo his libido had lain dormant, he hadn’t even thought about sex, but things had woken up dramatically—he had wanted her from the moment he saw her.

She had great legs and a great body—slim and supple; that much he could tell even though she’d had more clothes on than ninety per cent of the women in the room. The skirt she had worn reached her knee and her elegant cream silk blouse had been more office wear than nightclub, yet she had exuded some innate sensuality—he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her.

Their night together had been incredible and the fact that he had experienced more pleasure making love to a woman he felt nothing for than any before or since had proved to him that emotional involvement did not enhance sex. His recent disastrous engagement only illustrated that it was actually an encumbrance.

Roman had never managed to recreate anything approaching the hot, sizzling sex he had enjoyed with his mystery woman. And he hadn’t had sex for … not since … His brows lifted in surprise—he hadn’t realised it had been that long!

He’d just been too busy with work lately to notice. The six months he had taken off on medical advice as he’d gone through his treatment had always seemed excessive and had necessitated him delegating areas of responsibility.

He had adopted a less hands-on approach that should have given him more time to enjoy his life—a healthier work-leisure balance. In reality he’d found himself unable to let go. Spare time was for people who didn’t enjoy work or people with families and that was never going to be him.

On an intellectual level he knew that not being able to father a child did not make him any less a man, but it was not something a man felt on an intellectual level. When Roman had been given the news he had felt it in an icy fist in his gut, and even worse had been the prospect of telling his fiancée at that time, Lauren.

His lips twisted into a sardonic grimace as he played the scene over again in his head. Her understanding and support at the time had made him feel he might have misjudged her, but later he had discovered that not having children did not fill her with nearly the same sort of horror as the thought of how much weight she might put on during pregnancy.

Roman clenched his jaw and pushed away the thoughts—they belonged in another lifetime. His hungry gaze riveted on Izzy Fitzgerald again. She belonged in another lifetime too, but the memory of their night together had not faded, instead it had become something of a standard that he had measured every sexual encounter against since, and none had come near … Would the memory have exerted the same sort of fascination if he had known her name back then? He didn’t have a clue, but he knew that he wanted her. He didn’t waste time trying to figure out why. Time-wasting was anathema to Roman, who knew better than most what a precious commodity it was.

He could see the dark hair of the baby in her arms. Was it hers?

Roman did not do single mothers. Call him a cynic, but he could never quite believe that they were not out to bag a father for their child. Besides, he would be expected to pretend an interest in their kid and that just wasn’t his thing. The fact was there were a lot of women who didn’t come with the added complication of a child—so why complicate life?

But if Izzy Fitzgerald had a kid, would that be a deal breaker?

He smiled to himself as he watched her move, the wind plastering the blue dress she wore against the slender line of her legs. His temperature climbed several degrees as he remembered those legs wrapped around him, her nails digging into his shoulders, the expression of fierce concentration on her face as she fought her way towards climax.

He expelled a deep sigh. Dio, there were definitely exceptions to every rule. Did she have a husband? His brows twitched into a heavy frown; some rules he would not break.

But, God, it was going to kill him to walk away from this.

She had been the best sex he had ever had.

Izzy was about to get into one of the waiting cars that were lined up to whisk them to the reception when she realised that she didn’t have her handbag; her keys and phone were in it.

‘Damn, I think I left it in the church.’

Emma, who was standing with a shoe in one hand while she rubbed the toes of her shoeless foot with the other, looked up. ‘Have you lost something, Izzy?’

‘My bag—I think I left it in the church.’

Michelle, who was already in the car, leaned out with her arms outstretched. ‘Give me Lily while you go and get it. You only have yourself to blame, Emma. I told you those heels were too high.’

‘Thanks,’ Izzy said, handing her daughter over to the willing hands. ‘Don’t wait for me.’ Izzy blew a kiss to her daughter and mouthed, ‘I’ll catch up,’ through the closed window.

Michelle nodded, and her father, who was strapping Lily into a baby seat, waved. Izzy grinned in response before she began to retrace her steps back to the church. The hotel where the reception was being held was only a gentle stroll down the village high street and it wouldn’t take her long to meet up with the rest of the family.

Izzy pushed open the lychgate and ran on into the churchyard, which was totally deserted but for a solitary figure, the vicar, who was making his way on foot to the reception. She exchanged a few words with him before she went back inside the church, the quiet of the building acting as a balm to her frayed nerves.

The prospect of contacting Lily’s father and telling him she existed filled her with total dread, and then … then what? How would he react? How did she want him to react? Izzy clenched her hands into fists and wished fiercely that she had never learnt of his identity, that he had remained some dark dream, and felt immediately guilty for being so selfish. Of all people she should know that it was wrong to deprive a child of all knowledge of her father.

She breathed a slow deep breath. She’d do the right thing—whatever that was—but not today. Today she would party, dance and enjoy herself.

Izzy laughed, the sound echoing back at her as she thought, Who am I fooling? She could almost feel the draft from the proverbial sword hanging by a thread above her head.

Her handbag was not on the pew where she thought she had left it, but a quick frantic search revealed it on the floor where it had fallen and, other than a dusty footprint, it was none the worse for wear.

She dusted it off and once outside opened it to check the contents. She was just refastening the pretty pearl-encrusted clasp when a prickling on the back of her neck made her pause, and slowly she turned, lifting a hand to shade her eyes from the sun.

Somehow she wasn’t surprised at all to see Roman Petrelli standing only a few feet away.

Her heart was thudding like a sledgehammer against her ribs as she straightened her slender shoulders and lifted her chin. That fictional sword suddenly felt very real indeed!

Her earlier glimpse of him had left her with the impression of extreme elegance and raw male power, and now she could see that he possessed both those qualities in abundance. She could also see just how breathtakingly handsome his classically cut clean-shaven features were.

Of course, she already knew he was good-looking. That night in the bar he had been elegant, but crumpled in a dark, brooding way, his jaw shadowed and his hair worn a lot shorter then, sticking up in spiky tufts.

Izzy had no idea what demons he had been struggling to contain, but she had seen it in his taut body language and the vulnerability she had sensed was there behind the hard reckless glow in his eyes.

She recognised it was possible that she had been imagining something that had never been there, because she had needed an excuse for jumping into bed with him. But Izzy liked to think that she had been drawn to him, had felt that weird connection to him, because she had been fighting her own demons too.

There was no trace of vulnerability, hidden or otherwise, in the man who stood before her now. Here was a man definitely in control, a man who did not inspire any stirrings of empathy.

His eyes were sensuous, but cynical and hard. There was a hint of cruelty in the sculpted curve of his lips and she felt a shudder run down her spine. The only emotion this impeccably dressed, effortlessly elegant stranger inspired in Izzy was a deep unease that bordered antipathy. Her skin prickled with it.

‘It was a lovely wedding,’ she heard herself say inanely.

Roman studied her, searching for signs of the forthright, bold woman who had delighted him in bed with her directness. Many women had thrown themselves at him, but she had been different, or so it had seemed to him. She had seduced him, not just with her delicious body, but with her generosity and a rare utter lack of self-consciousness.

His jaw tightened and he realised that she could not even meet his eyes. He felt a stab of disappointment.

‘We have been introduced—you probably don’t remember. I’m Izzy.’ She thought of holding out her hand but changed her mind and rubbed it up and down her thigh, the friction creating a static charge that made the fabric cling. Forget touching him, just being this close to him was painfully uncomfortable and her skin tingled with awareness, the muscles in her stomach quivering like an overstrung violin. Touching … no, not a good idea!

His sensually moulded lips thinned. How long would she continue with this little charade that they were strangers?

‘I remember.’

The throaty comment was open to interpretation, but Izzy, struggling to stay in control, chose to treat it at face value. ‘I believe Rory worked for you. He really enjoyed it.’ Her jittery glance encompassed the empty churchyard; anything that meant she could legitimately not look at him was good. ‘Everyone’s made their way to the hotel.’ Good manners made her add, ‘Do you know the way? Can I help you?’

‘I really hope so, Izzy, or is that Isabel?’

Her eyes flew to his face. She moistened her lips nervously with her tongue, struggling against the sensation that she was sinking beneath a wave of sexual awareness that was wrapping itself around her like an invisible straightjacket.

Breaking contact with his sardonic glittering stare, she conjured up a smile of sorts. ‘Nobody calls me that.’ She made a show of looking around. ‘It’s Izzy. Looks like we’re the last … or are you not going to the reception?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Wild horses would not keep me away.’

‘Really … oh, well, it’s not far. Do you need a car?’

Without meaning to she dropped her glance to his leg. She remembered the red livid scars she had seen gouged into the muscles of his thigh during their night together. She had been conscious of a slight limp when he had approached her in the bar, but had dismissed it until she had seen the cause. The scarred tissue had shocked her, causing her sensitive stomach to quiver in reaction to the obvious pain they represented.

‘Thank you, but I think I can make it under my own steam,’ he said. Instantly he was catapulted into the past as he remembered her gasp when she had first seen the scars that night two years ago.

Survivor’s scars, he called them. They were not pretty now, but two years ago they had been relatively fresh; the livid purple puckered tracks gouged in his flesh had been the thing of horror movies. In his head he had anticipated her revulsion to them and had schooled himself not to care. It had only been his desire to see her that had stopped him turning off the light.

He had offered but she’d refused. She had lain on the bed where he had left her as he had removed his clothes. She had been laughing throatily after the shoe he had flung over his shoulder had hit a mirror, cracking it in a zigzag from top to bottom.

But when she had seen his scars she had stopped laughing and he had tensed. Pity as a reaction was even less attractive to him than repugnance.

Holding his eyes, she had flipped sinuously over onto her stomach and grabbed his wrist. Shaking her head, she had pulled his hand away from the lamp.

She had looked at the ugly red line that began high on his thigh and ended a few inches above his knee and asked, ‘Does it hurt?’ adding huskily when he shook his head, ‘Can I touch …?’

‘Touch?’

Roman had taken an involuntary step back. He had always taken his body, the perfect symmetry of his strong limbs and his naturally athletic physique, for granted, but all that had changed overnight. His body had betrayed him and become the enemy and though not a vain man he accepted that others would be repelled by his scars. For him they were a constant reminder not to take anything for granted—ever.

‘Why would you want to? Morbid curiosity?’

Her astonishment had been too spontaneous to be feigned. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘I am normally considered to be above average in the brains department.’

Her slow wicked smile had made the lust in his belly grip hard. ‘I’m not that interested in your brains.’

Her blouse, unbuttoned to the waist, had billowed out as she’d pulled herself up onto her knees. He had been unable to take his eyes off her, the tantalising shadows of her nipples through the lace of the bra that matched her pants, as with sinuous grace she had risen from the bed and come to stand beside him. Barefooted she had come up to his shoulder. ‘Are you hiding any more of those?’

He had been unprepared and shocked when she had reached out again and touched him, lightly running a finger down the raised scar tissue.

He had caught her wrist, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice as he’d asked, ‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘No.’ Tilting her head to look at him, she’d pulled her hand from his grip. ‘Not nearly enough. I want to touch all of you,’ she’d whispered. ‘I don’t want to miss any place out.’

Roman felt lust clutch hard and low in his belly and was dragged back to the here and now. A faint growl worked its way upwards from his chest before he managed to push the images away.

‘We could always walk together.’ Of all the things they could do together, walking was not high on his list, but he was not about to let her escape.

‘Actually I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

He felt his exasperation climb. Dismay was not a response Roman was accustomed to from attractive young women, and he suspected the novelty value would wear off quickly.

‘And you think I can’t keep up?’ He might not be taking the lead on any climbs, but his limp only manifested itself now when he was extremely fatigued.

‘No, of course …’ She took a deep breath and sighed. ‘Fine.’ Said with all the enthusiasm of someone who had just agreed to give up her place on the last lifeboat.

Roman was torn between amusement and annoyance at the grudging concession. His annoyance would have been a lot greater had he not known that she was as aware of the chemistry spark between them as he was, but for some reason she was reluctant to acknowledge it …

He was confident that whatever the reason for fighting the attraction she would lose the battle, and he relished the prospect of seeing the confident bold woman he knew was there under her diffident, fresh-faced exterior.

‘A pleasant stroll down a leafy village road on a sunny day—what could be nicer?’ murmured Roman as he fell in beside her, matching his stride to hers.

‘The inn is fourteenth-century.’

‘Is the tour commentary optional?’

She slid him a sideways look of dislike. He had no manners at all but a great profile. Her glance drifted lower. Actually he had a great everything. ‘I thought you might be interested. My mistake.’

‘I’m fine with the charming company and the leisurely stroll,’ he murmured, adding drily, ‘Very leisurely stroll.’

Izzy compressed her lips, and, to squash any suspicion he might have that she wanted to prolong this walk, lengthened her stride. It was a struggle, despite his comments to the contrary, to believe that his mangled leg did not give him pain, but he showed no sign of difficulty in matching her pace.

As they continued down the steep, winding village street a silence developed … not of the comfortable variety. In the end and despite the risk of drawing another of his rude comments, Izzy cleared her throat. She had to do something to drown out the silent tension.

‘It was a lovely service … Rachel looked beautiful, didn’t she?’

Roman, who thought one bride in a meringue dress looked much like any other, gave a non-committal grunt. The main event had not been what he was watching, or thinking about. ‘Her father is Michael’s brother?’

Izzy, happy to discuss this safe subject, nodded. ‘Yes, they moved to Cumbria about twenty years ago. They bought neighbouring farms and married sisters.’ Both brothers still retained the Irish accent that Izzy found so attractive.

‘So the bride is your cousin?’

‘No … well, sort of, I suppose. Michelle isn’t my mother—I’m not a real Fitzgerald.’ Not something she normally said, actually not something she ever said except to herself, but he made her nervous and she babbled when she was nervous. He made her a lot of other things but Izzy didn’t want to go there.

Roman registered that this was an odd thing to say, but as his interest in the Fitzgerald family and how she fitted into it was at best minimal he did not react to the information. Instead he suddenly stopped in his tracks. While it had been entertaining to a point he was tired of this fencing.

‘How long are you going to carry on pretending we are strangers?’

Izzy took another few steps before she slowed and turned to face him, her face flaming. His elevated brow and his dark eyes mocked her.

‘I didn’t even know your name until five minutes ago. We are strangers.’

‘Strangers who have had sex,’ Roman retorted, his impatience wearing paper thin. Her innocent wide-eyed routine was beginning to irritate him. ‘Was the child yours?’ He had a vague recollection of dark curls and a pink dress, so presumably a girl, but he had been concentrating on the woman holding her and the way her already beautiful face had been transformed when she had smiled at the kid.

He’d said yours not mine. So maybe he hadn’t guessed that Lily was his daughter. Feeling her panic subside from red alert to amber and fighting the lingering urge to run, Izzy veiled her eyes with her silky lashes as she fought to regain her composure.

‘Yes, she is.’

‘Are you married?’

Izzy was too startled to respond to his abrupt question. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘I’d prefer you answered my question.’

There didn’t seem much point lying. ‘No, I’m not married,’ she admitted.

He tipped his head, some of the tension in his expression fading as his eyes continued to sweep her face. ‘And you’re not with anyone?’

Izzy framed a cold smile in response to his continued abrupt questioning style. She was suddenly conscious of being very hot. The silk chiffon dress clung uncomfortably to her skin and beneath it her bra chafed her nipples.

‘Is this you making small talk or is there a reason for this interrogation?’ It was hard to tell if he knew how rude he was being.

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

She gave a small smile. ‘You noticed.’

He clenched his teeth in a white smile that left his spectacular eyes cold. ‘I can do small talk. I can even tell you you’re the most beautiful woman here today.’

Izzy was desensitised to insults after being the focus of gossip for so long, but compliments always threw her off balance, even one delivered in such an oddly dispassionate way. Or maybe it was the person doing the delivering.

She moved her head sharply to one side, causing the loose tendrils of her hair to move over her face, partly to hide the juvenile blush she felt burning. She looked at him through her lashes and achieved a negligent shrug that managed to deliver a level of indifference she was a million miles from feeling.

‘You could? But your innate honesty prevents it?’ she suggested.

‘I could, but—’ He shook his head and his hooded gaze skimmed the pure lines of her oval face, lingering on her soft full mouth, taking pleasure from her beauty on a purely aesthetic level. His pleasure tipped over into the carnal as the image of those cool lips moving over his body sent his level of arousal up several painful notches.

‘After that build-up this should be good.’ Her amused smile faded as their glances locked. The rampant, hungry gleam in his eyes made her painfully conscious of the ache between her thighs.

‘It will be,’ he promised modestly, adding in a low throaty drawl that made her heart kick heavily against her ribcage, ‘I thought you’d prefer a more direct approach.’

She had been very direct the last time they’d met, and it had saved a lot of time. He really wanted that bold seductive witch back. What would it take to cut through this act? ‘Maybe,’ he mused, appearing to consider the question, ‘I haven’t been direct enough.’

Before she could digest his comment, let alone respond to it, he was right there beside her before she was even conscious of him moving. Then without a word he framed her face with one hand, fitting his thumb to the angle of her jaw, and tipped her face up to him. His other hand moved over the curve of her bottom, his fingers splayed across the firm contours as he dragged her closer to him, then in one smooth, seamless motion he fitted his mouth to hers.

Izzy froze at the contact, her body stiffening in tingling shock. Then as his tongue insinuated itself between her lips, forcing them apart, a low tremulous moan was wrenched from deep inside her. He was hard and hot and she closed her eyes, stopped fighting and grabbed for him, her hands circling his neck as she opened her mouth, inviting him to deepen the slow, sensual exploration.

The devastating kiss seemed to go on for ever, or was it seconds? Izzy had no idea. When he released her her head was spinning and she was shaking and struggling for breath. Blinking, she took a shaky step back, falling inelegantly off one heel in her agitation.

‘No!’ she cried, avoiding the steadying hand he had extended as she regained her balance—her pride and dignity would take a lot longer. What was it about this man that seemed to awake her inner cheap tart?

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