“You’re a provocative little package of dynamite, Serena Fleming.”

Nic looked at her with burning eyes as he continued, “Can I take it you’ll be staying the night? You’re not going to make some excuse about having to go home to your sister and niece?”

“They’re away for the night.”

“Aha! So you came here planning to seduce me.” He grinned, triumph dancing in his eyes. “Got you!”

“Is that what it’s all about to you, Nic? Winning? Am I just another notch on your bedpost?”

“Another notch?” he repeated incredulously. “There’s never been a notch like you in my entire life. You can take that as gospel!”

in

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The Billionaire Bridegroom
Emma Darcy

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

WOW! Definitely a million-dollar property! Real class, Serena Fleming decided appreciatively, driving the van past perfectly manicured lawns to the architect designed house owned by one of her sister’s clients, Angelina Gifford. Michelle’s Pet Grooming Salon drew quite a few wealthy people who used the mobile service provided, but Serena was more impressed with this place than any other she had visited in the course of picking up pampered dogs and cats.

Michelle had told her the land in this area had only been released for development four years ago. The Giffords had certainly bought a prime piece of real estate—three acres sited on top of a hill overlooking Terrigal Beach and a vast stretch of ocean. There were no formal gardens, just a few artistically placed palm trees—big fat pineapple-shaped palms with a mass of fronds growing out of the top. Must have cost a fortune to transport and plant them, all fully grown, but then quite clearly the whole place had to have cost a fortune.

The fabulous view was cut off as the van drew level with the house which seemed to have walled courtyards on this western side. All the windows would face north and east, Serena thought. Still, even the wall arrangement was interesting, painted in dark blue with a rich cream trim, suggesting sea and sand.

She brought the van to a halt adjacent to the front door, cut the engine and hopped out, curious to meet the man who had designed all this. Nic Moretti was his name, a highly successful architect, also the brother of Angelina Gifford, whose husband had whisked her off for a trip overseas. The talented Nic had been left in charge of the house and Angelina’s adored dog, Cleo, who was due for a clip and shampoo this morning.

No doubt it was convenient for him to stay here. According to the local newspaper, his design had just won the contract to build a people’s park with various pavilions on crown land overlooking Brisbane Water. Easy for him to supervise the work from such a close vantage point, a mere half hour drive to the location of the proposed park.

Serena rang the doorbell and waited. And waited. She glanced at her watch. It was now ten minutes past the nine o’clock appointment. She rang the doorbell again, with considerably more vigour.

In her other life as a hair stylist in a very fashionable Sydney salon, it was always rich people who disregarded time, expecting to be fitted in whenever they arrived. Here she was on the Central Coast, a good hour and a half north of Sydney, but it was obviously no different, she thought on a disgruntled sigh. The wealthy expected others to wait on them. In fact, they expected the whole world to revolve around them.

Like her ex-fiancé…

Serena was scowling over the memory of what Lyall Duncan had expected of her when the door she faced was abruptly flung open.

‘Yes?’ a big brute of a man snapped.

Serena’s jaw dropped. His thick black hair was rumpled. His unshaven jaw bristled with aggression. His muscular and very male physique was barely clothed by a pair of exotic—or was it erotic?—silk boxer shorts. And if she wasn’t mistaken—no, don’t look there! She wrenched her gaze up from the distracting bulge near his groin, took a deep breath and glared straight back at glowering dark eyes framed by ridiculously long thick eyelashes that were totally wasted on a man.

Italian heritage, of course. What else could it be with names like Nic and Angelina Moretti?

‘I’m Serena from Michelle’s Pet Grooming Salon,’ she announced.

He frowned at her, the dark eyes sharper now as he scrutinised her face; blue eyes, pert nose, full-lipped mouth, slight cleft in her chin, wisps of blond hair escaping from the fat plait that gathered in the rest of it. His gaze dropped to the midriff top that outlined her somewhat perky breasts and the denim shorts that left her long shapely legs on full display, making Serena suddenly self-conscious of being almost as naked as he was, though definitely more decently dressed.

‘Do I know you?’ he barked.

He’d probably been a Doberman pinscher in another life, Serena was thinking, just before the shock of recognition kicked her heart.

‘No!’ she answered with panicky speed, not wanting him to make the link that had suddenly shot through her mind.

It had been a month ago. A whole rotten month of working fiercely at putting the still very raw experience in the irretrievable past; breaking off her engagement to Lyall, leaving her job, leaving Sydney, taking wound-licking refuge with her sister. To be suddenly faced with the architect of those decisions…

She could feel her forehead going clammy, the blood draining from her face as her mind screamed at the unfairness of it all. Her hands clenched, fighting the urge to lash out at him. A persistent thread of common sense argued it wasn’t Nic Moretti’s fault. He’d simply been the instrument who’d drawn out the true picture of her future if she went ahead with her fairy-tale marriage—Cinderella winning the Prince!

He was the man Lyall had been talking to that night, the man who’d expressed surprise at the high-flying property dealer, Lyall Duncan, for choosing to marry down, taking a lowly hairdresser as his wife. And Serena had overheard Lyall’s reply—the reply that had ripped the rose-coloured spectacles off her face and shattered all her illusions. This man had heard it, too, and the humiliation of it forced her into a defensive pretence.

‘Since I don’t know you…’ she half lied in desperate defence.

‘Nic Moretti,’ he rumbled at her.

‘…I don’t see how you can know me,’ she concluded emphatically.

He’d seen her at Lyall’s party but they hadn’t been introduced, and she’d been all glammed up for the occasion, not in her au naturel state as she was this morning. Surely he wouldn’t make the connection. The environment was completely different. Yet despite her denial of any previous encounter with him, he was still frowning, trying to place her.

‘I’m here to collect Cleo,’ she stated briskly, hating this nasty coincidence and wanting to get away as fast as possible.

‘Cleo,’ he repeated in a disconnected fashion.

‘The dog,’ she grated out.

The expression on his rugged handsome face underwent a quick and violent change, the brooding search for her identity clicking straight into totally fed up frustration. ‘You mean the monster,’ he flashed at her derisively.

The blood that had drained from her face, surged to her head again, making Serena see red. It was impossible to resist giving this snobby man a dose of the condescension he ladled out himself.

‘I would hardly characterise a sweet little Australian silky terrier as a monster,’ she said loftily.

‘Sweet!’ He thrust out a brawny forearm marked with long and rather deep scratches. ‘Look what she did to me!’

‘Mmm…’ Serena felt no sympathy, silently applauding the terrier for doing the clawing this man very likely deserved. ‘Raises the question…what did you do to her?’

‘Nothing. I was simply trying to rescue the wretched creature,’ he declared in exasperation.

‘From what?’

He grimaced, not caring for this cross-examination. ‘A friend of mine put her on the slippery dip out at the swimming pool. She skidded down it into the water, looking very panicky. I swam over to lift her out and…’

‘Dogs can swim, you know.’

‘I know,’ he growled. ‘It was a reflex action on my part.’

‘And clawing you would be a reflex action on her part. Not being able to get any purchase on the slippery dip would have terrified her.’

Another grimace at being put on the spot. ‘It was only meant as a bit of fun.’

Serena raised her eyebrows, not letting him off the hook. ‘Some people have strange ideas of what is fun with animals.’

‘I tried to save her, remember?’ He glared at the implication of cruelty. ‘And let me tell you she wasn’t the one left bleeding everywhere.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Though I think you should rearrange your thoughts on just who is the monster here. Take a good long look at whom you choose to mix with and how they treat what they consider lesser beings.’

The advice tripped off her tongue, pure bile on her part. He didn’t like it, either, but Serena didn’t care. It was about time someone got under his silver-spoonfed, beautifully tanned, privileged skin. She was still burning over the way Lyall had discussed her with this man, telling him the kind of wife he wanted, the kind of wife he expected to get by taking on a non-competitive little hairdresser who’d be so grateful to be married to him, she’d be a perfectly compliant home-maker and never question anything he did. Definitely placing her as a lesser being.

But perhaps she’d gone too far on the critical front. Nic Moretti did, after all, represent one of her sister’s regular clients who didn’t care what it cost to keep her dog beautifully groomed—a client Michelle wouldn’t like to lose. Never mind that the super-duper architect made Serena bristle from head to toe. Business was business. She stretched her mouth into an appeasing smile.

‘Mrs. Gifford made a booking for Cleo at the salon this morning. If you’ll fetch her for me…’

‘The salon,’ he repeated grimly. ‘Do you cut claws there or do I have to take her to the vet?’

‘We do trim pets’ nails.’

‘Then please do it while you’ve got her in your custody,’ he growled. ‘Have you got a leash for her?’

Serena raised her eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t Cleo have her own?’

‘I’m not going near that dog until its claws are clipped.’

‘Fine! I’ll get one from the van.’

Unbelievable that a man of his size should be cowed by a miniature dog! Serena shook her head over the absurdity as she collected a leash and a bag of crispy bacon from the van. The latter was always a useful bribe if a dog baulked at doing what she wanted it to do. The need to show some superiority over Nic Moretti, even if it was only with a small silky terrier, burned through Serena’s heart.

He waited for her by the front door, still scowling over their exchange. Or maybe he had a hangover. Clearly the ringing of the doorbell had got him out of bed and he wasn’t ready to face the rest of the day yet. Serena gave him a sunny smile designed to reproach his ill humour.

‘Do you want to lead me to Cleo or shall I wait here until you shoo her out of the house?’

His eyes glinted savagely at the latter suggestion, conscious of retaining some semblance of dignity, even in his boxer shorts. ‘You can have the fun of catching her,’ he said, waving Serena into the house.

‘No problem,’ she tossed at him, taking secret satisfaction in the tightening of his jaw.

Though her pulse did skip a little as she passed him by. Nic Moretti had the kind of aggressive masculinity that would threaten any woman’s peace of mind. Serena tried telling herself he was probably gay. Many artistic men were. In fact, he had the mean, moody and magnificent look projected by the pin-up models in the gay calendars her former employer had lusted over in his hairdressing salon.

Mentally she could hear Ty raving on, ‘Great pecs, washboard stomach, thighs to die for…’

The old patter dried up as the view in front of her claimed her interest. The foyer was like the apron of a stage, polished boards underfoot, fabulous urns dressing its wings. Two steps led down to a huge open living area where practically every piece of furniture was an ultra-modern objet d’art. Mind-boggling stuff.

Beyond it all was a wall of glass which led her gaze outside to a vast patio shaded by sails, and a luxurious spa from which a water slide—the infamous slippery dip—led to a glorious swimming pool on a lower level. She didn’t see a kennel anywhere, nor the dog she’d come to collect.

She threw an inquiring glance back over her shoulder to the man in charge, only to find his gaze fastened on her derrière. Her heart skipped several beats. Nic Moretti couldn’t be gay. Only heterosexual men were fascinated by the jutting contours of the well-rounded backside that had frequently embarrassed Serena by drawing wolf-whistles.

It wasn’t really voluptuous. Her muscle tone was good, no dimple of cellulite anywhere. She simply had a bottom that stuck out more than most, or was more emphasised by the pit in her back. Of course, wearing shorts probably did draw more attention to it, but she saw no reason to hide the shape of her body anyway. At least the denim didn’t invite the pinching she had sometimes been subjected to in the streets of Sydney while waiting for a pedestrian traffic light to change to green.

It was just her bad luck that Lyall Duncan was a bottom man, finding that particular piece of female equipment sexier than big breasts or long legs or whatever else men fancied in a woman. More to the point, he’d told Nic Moretti so, the memory of which instantly turned up Serena’s heat level. Was he recognising this feature of her?

‘Where might I find Cleo?’ she rapped out, snapping his attention back to the business in hand.

His gaze lifted but the dark frown returned, as though he was pulling his wandering mind back from a place he found particularly vexatious. ‘I don’t know,’ he said testily. ‘I’ve only just rolled out of bed…’

‘What do we have here?’ another voice inquired, a female voice lifted in a supercilious upper class drawl.

Serena’s hackles rose again. Her head whipped around. The newcomer on the scene was drifting into the open living area from what had to be a bedroom wing. She was wearing a slinky thigh-length silk and lace negligee in an oyster shade, one arm up, lazily ruffling long tawny hair. An amused little smile sat on a face that could have graced the cover of a fashion magazine, as could the rest of her, the tall slender figure being of model proportions.

‘Ah…Justine…’ Nic Moretti said in deep relief.

Perfect name for her, Serena thought caustically.

‘…have you seen Cleo? This…uh…lady…has come to collect her for some grooming.’

He’d forgotten her name. Typical! Not important enough on his social scale to remember. Which was just as well, given other memories he might be nursing.

‘Grooming!’ Justine rolled her eyes. Green eyes. ‘Pity she hasn’t come to put the monster down. You should have let the wretched little beast drown yesterday, Nic.’

‘Angelina would never forgive me if I let any harm come to her pet, Justine,’ he reproved in a tight tone.

‘It’s obviously spoiled rotten,’ came the sneering response.

‘Nevertheless…’

‘You’ll find it shut up in the laundry,’ she informed with towering distaste. ‘I don’t know how you could have slept through all its yap-yap-yapping outside the bedroom door last night. It was driving me mad. And the little bitch was so rabid, I had to pick it up by its collar and carry it away from me.’

Half choking it to death, Serena thought venomously.

‘You should have woken me. Let me deal with it,’ Nic grated out, undoubtedly aware of the cruelty to animals tag which was fast gathering more momentum.

Great company he kept! Hot body, cold mean heart. Serena viewed Justine from a mountain of contempt as she carried on like a spoiled rich bitch who expected to always be the centre of attention.

‘Leaving me alone while you nurse-maided a dog? No thanks.’ Her eyelids lowered in flirtatious play. ‘Much better to have no distractions, wasn’t it, darling?’

A clearing of throat behind Serena suggested some embarrassment. ‘The laundry,’ Nic Moretti growled, stepping up to her side and gesturing her to follow him. ‘It’s this way.’

‘Watch the mess!’ Justine warned. ‘There’s bound to be some. I threw in a leftover chicken leg to stop the yapping.’

‘A chicken leg!’ Serena stopped and glared at the self-serving woman. ‘Cooked chicken bones splinter. They could stick in the dog’s throat.’

‘Let’s go!’ Nic muttered urgently.

He was right. This was no time to be instructing anyone. Besides which, Justine would probably rejoice if Cleo was dead. At least Nic Moretti had an anxious air about him as he led the way through a space age stainless steel kitchen.

‘Cleo!’ he called commandingly, striding across a mud room area containing boot racks and rows of hooks for hats, coats and umbrellas. Any thought of his own injury from Cleo’s claws was apparently obliterated by the fear of injury to his sister’s pet.

A shrill barking instantly started up, relieving his obvious body tension before he reached the door behind which the dog was imprisoned. He flung it open and the little silky terrier charged out between his legs, flying past Serena before she could react, shooting through the kitchen like a missile, clearly intent on escaping from any form of captivity.

‘Bloody hell!’ Nic breathed, glancing inside the laundry.

A determined dog was capable of creating a lot of damage. Serena didn’t feel the need to comment on this. It was her job to catch Cleo who was now in the living room, barking hysterically, probably at the sight of the woman who had so callously mistreated her.

‘Oh, you horrible little monster!’ Justine shrieked.

Serena pelted through the kitchen just in time to see a vicious kick aimed at the silky terrier who was darting away from it. ‘Cleo,’ she called in a singsong tone, dropping to her knees to give herself less threatening height and tossing a piece of crispy bacon onto the floor between her and the dog.

Cleo stopped the frenetic activity, sniffed, came forward cautiously and snaffled the bacon. Serena tossed out another piece closer to herself. Then another and another as the dog responded warily to the trail being laid. Finally she snatched a piece held in Serena’s fingers and paused long enough to submit to a calming scratch behind the ears. The fragile little body under its long hair was trembling—evidence of the trauma it had been through.

Serena stroked and scratched, telling Cleo in a soft indulgent tone how beautiful and clever she was until the dog was happy enough to rise up on its hind legs and lick her face.

‘Oh, yuk!’ Justine remarked in disgust, just as Serena scooped the dog into her arms, holding it securely against her shoulder while she rose from her kneeling position.

‘Shut up, Justine!’ Nic shot at her.

The classically oval jaw dropped in shock.

‘Just let the lady do her job,’ he expounded with no less irritation at his girlfriend’s total lack of any sensitivity to the situation.

Serena almost liked him at that moment. However, she headed straight for the front door without any comment. Nic Moretti followed her right out to the van.

‘What door do you want opened?’ he asked solicitously.

‘The driver’s side. I’ll put her on the passenger seat beside me so I can pat her. There’s a dog harness attached to the safety belt so she won’t be a problem when I’m driving.’

He opened the door and watched as Serena settled Cleo into the harness. ‘She seems to be okay,’ he said half anxiously.

‘Fighting fit,’ Serena answered dryly.

‘I don’t think Justine is used to dogs.’

‘Maybe you should growl at her more often.’ This terse piece of advice took him aback. Serena was past dealing in diplomacy. She reached out and pulled her door shut, then spoke to him through the opened window. ‘Normally I would deliver Cleo back at one o’clock. How does that sit with you?’

‘Fine!’ He was frowning again.

‘Will your girlfriend still be here?’

The dark eyes suddenly took on a rivetting intensity. His mouth thinned into a grim set of determination. ‘No, she won’t,’ he stated categorically.

The decision gave Serena a highly pleasant sense of satisfaction. ‘Then I’ll see you at one o’clock.’

CHAPTER TWO

NIC MORETTI watched the van until it turned onto the public road, chagrined by the way the sassy little piece behind the driver’s wheel had got under his skin, yet unable to dismiss the truths she had flung in his face. A pet groomer…obviously caring more about the canine breed than she did for people. Though he had to concede he hadn’t cut too impressive a figure this morning. Justine even less so.

Which brought him to the sobering conclusion that the scorn in those vivid blue eyes had been justified and maybe it was time he took stock of what he was doing, shrugging off stuff he didn’t like for the sake of cruising along in the social swim, doing his balancing act with people on the grounds that no one was perfect and if they were good for something, what did it matter if they fell short in other areas?

Judgment day…

He shook his head over the irony of that being delivered to him by a pet groomer who’d descended on him out of nowhere. Damned if he could even remember the name she had given! Michelle had been printed on the van she drove but he was sure it wasn’t that.

And it still niggled him that he had seen her before somewhere. Though it seemed highly unlikely, given her job and location on the Central Coast. Sydney was his usual stamping ground. Besides, how could he forget that pert mouth and even perter bottom? Both of them were challenges he rather fancied coming to grips with.

He smiled self-mockingly at this last thought.

The hangover from last night’s party was obviously affecting his brain. What could he possibly have in common with a pet groomer, except the welfare of Cleo for the duration of Angelina’s overseas trip? Better get his mind geared to deal with Justine who was turning into a royal pain over his sister’s beloved Cleo. Worse than that, in fact. There was a cruel streak in her treatment of the dog and Nic didn’t like it. He wouldn’t invite her here again.

He frowned over the memory of her laughing as she’d tossed her hapless victim onto the slippery dip yesterday. ‘Here’s company for you, Nic!’ A great joke, laughing at the dog’s frantic attempts to fight its way back up to the spa level against the inevitable skid into the pool. Unkind laughter.

He’d been annoyed by the whole episode, especially the painful scratches which had led him to transfer his annoyance to Cleo. Wrong! He could see that now. The pet groomer had straightened him out on quite a few areas that needed his attention. For one thing, dog-minding was not a breeze. It obviously required some expertise he didn’t have.

Having resolved to take more positive action on that front, he went inside to face the problem he now had with Justine. She was in the kitchen, watching coffee brew in the percolator. While her attention was still engaged on getting a shot of caffeine, he viewed her with more critically assessing eyes.

Did he want their affair to continue? They’d been reasonably compatible both sexually and socially, but the relationship had been more about superficial fun than deep and meaningful. He had the very definite feeling that the fun had just run out.

She turned around, probably having heard the front door shut and looking to check where he was. ‘Ah! You’ve seen them off,’ she said, rolling her eyes at the fuss of it all. ‘Blissful peace for a while!’

‘Cleo will be returned at one o’clock,’ he informed her as he strolled into the kitchen and headed for the refrigerator. A couple of glasses of iced water should help clear the hangover.

‘It is ridiculous to have our lives ruled by a dog!’ Justine declared in exasperation. ‘Why don’t you put her in one of those boarding kennels, Nic? It would save all this aggravation and you’d be free to…’

‘Out of the question,’ he cut her off.

She swung on him, hands on hips. ‘Why is it out of the question?’

‘I promised Angelina I’d take care of Cleo.’

‘Boarding kennels are better equipped to look after that dog than you are.’

She was probably right, but that wasn’t the point, Nic thought as he downed the first glass of water. Besides, he intended to learn how to handle Cleo better.

‘Your sister need never know,’ Justine argued.

‘I would know. A promise is a promise.’

‘What people don’t know won’t hurt them.’

He cocked a mocking eyebrow at her as he reached for the jug again. ‘One of the principles by which you live?’

‘It avoids trouble.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Seems to me you get double the trouble when people find out what you’ve tried to hide from them.’ He poured more water from the jug and drank again, wondering how many deceptions Justine had played with him.

She threw out her hands in frustrated appeal. ‘You can’t want to be tied to that cantankerous little bitch for the next two months.’

‘I’ll learn to get along with Cleo,’ he answered blandly.

‘Well, I won’t!’ she hurled at him, eyes flashing fury at his stubborn resistance to her plan. ‘I’m not spending another night with that damned dog yapping its head off.’

‘Then I suggest you pack up and leave, Justine, because the dog will be staying. With me.’

She looked gob-smacked.

He set the empty glass down on the kitchen bench. ‘Best be gone before one o’clock,’ he advised coldly. ‘Please excuse me while I clean up the mess in the laundry which doesn’t happen to have a doggy door for Cleo to go outside.’

He was at the doorway to the mud room before Justine caught her breath. ‘You want me to go?’ It was an incredulous squawk.

He paused to look back at her, feeling not one whit of warmth to soften his decision. ‘What we have here, Justine, is an incompatible situation.’

‘You’d put that miserable little dog ahead of me?’

‘Perhaps the dog will be less miserable with you gone.’

‘Oh!’ She stamped her foot.

Nic sensed a wild tantrum teetering on the edge of exploding from her. He didn’t wait for it. If she followed him to the laundry, he’d hand her a bucket and suggest she clean up the result of her action in carelessly shutting Cleo in an inescapable place. That would undoubtedly send her packing in no time flat.

The pet groomer would have no problem with it but Justine…no way would she get down on her knees for a dog. Nor get her hands dirty. In fact, she obviously wanted to be treated like a pampered pet herself. Nic decided he didn’t really care for that in a woman, certainly not in any long-term sense.

He wasn’t followed.

By the time he had the laundry back in a tidy and pristine state, Justine had dressed, packed, and gone without favouring him with a farewell. The front door had been slammed shut on her way out, transmitting her pique at coming off second best to Cleo, and the engine of her SAAB convertible had roared down the driveway, punctuating her departure and displeasure.

Nic poured himself a coffee from the brew that had been left simmering and reflected that he could have appealed for understanding, maybe shifted Justine’s attitude a little. Cleo wasn’t just a pet to Angelina, more a surrogate child on whom she poured out all the frustrated love she couldn’t give to a baby.

After years of trying to get pregnant, it had been a terrible grief to her when medical tests had revealed her husband’s sperm count was so low it would be a miracle if she ever conceived. Poor Ward had been devastated, too, even going so far as to offer Angelina a divorce, knowing how set she was on having a family.

That wasn’t an option to his sister. She and Ward really did love each other. Their marriage seemed to have grown even stronger since the pressure to have a child had been erased. Ward had brought home the puppy for Angelina, a loveable little bundle of silky fur, and they both treated it like the queen of Egypt, nothing too good for their adored Cleo.

To put it in an impersonal boarding kennel… Nic shook his head. Angelina would never forgive him. And she’d know about it. Cleo was booked into the pet grooming salon every Monday morning. He’d forgotten about that earlier today but he knew it was written on Angelina’s list of instructions. If the appointments weren’t kept, no doubt Michelle would reveal that fact to his sister on her return.

Besides, as he’d told Justine, a promise was a promise. If she couldn’t respect that, he was definitely better off having no further involvement with her, even if it meant being celibate for a couple of months. He couldn’t overlook the cruel streak in her, either. The thought of it dampened any desire for more of Justine Knox. Good riddance, he thought, downing the last of the coffee.

A shower, a shave, a couple of hours’ work in the room he’d designated as his office for the duration of his stay here, and he’d feel much more on top of everything when the pet groomer returned with Cleo at one o’clock.

‘Aren’t you beautiful now!’ Michelle crowed indulgently as she ruffled Cleo’s silver-grey silky hair with her fingers while giving it a last blast from the dryer. ‘You look good, you smell good and you feel good.’

The dog’s big brown eyes clung soulfully to Michelle who invariably talked nonstop to each pet as she gave them whatever treatment was scheduled. Cleo had been given the lot this morning; nail trim, hair-clip, ears and eyes cleaned, shampoo, conditioner and blow-dry.

Serena reflected this was very little different to a hairdressing salon. Michelle even played background music, always soft romantic tracks to soothe any savage hearts, and she charged similar fees. Of course, it wasn’t as upmarket, no stylish fittings or decorator items, just plain workbenches, open shelves, and a tiled floor that made cleaning easy.

The best thing about it, Serena decided, was the pets didn’t talk back, dumping all their problems or complaints on the stylist who was expected to dish out unlimited sympathy even when it was obvious there were two sides to be considered. Not that that was the case with Cleo who was clearly an innocent victim, yet the darling little silky terrier hadn’t even raised a bark since Serena had rescued her from the dark brute and his evil witch-woman.

‘You can put on her pink ribbon, Serena,’ Michelle instructed, having finished with Cleo and about to pick up another dog waiting for his turn to be pampered, a Maltese terrier who’d sat tamely in line like all the other pets in the salon, content to watch Michelle do her thing.

‘I’m not sure Nic Moretti is going to appreciate the pink ribbon,’ Serena dryly commented as she cut off an appropriate length from the roll Michelle kept on a shelf.

It earned the look of unshakeable authority. ‘No pet leaves this salon without wearing a ribbon. It’s the finishing touch. Cleo knows it and expects it. She’ll be upset if you don’t give it to her. You can tell Angelina’s brother that from me. He has to consider the dog’s sense of rightness or he’s going to have a traumatised pet on his hands.’

When it came to dog handling her sister was a genius. Serena accepted her advice without question. But would Nic Moretti? Confronting him again stirred mixed feelings. The fear of being recognised as Lyall Duncan’s belittling choice of wife had been somewhat allayed. It seemed unlikely that he would make the connection now, given the distraction of her current job. Besides, it would be interesting to see if he had got rid of his penthouse pet in the interests of properly safeguarding his sister’s.

Smiling at Cleo as she tied the ribbon around her neck, she softly crooned, ‘Pretty pink bow.’

The dog sprang up from the bench top and licked her chin. Starved for praise and affection, Serena concluded, and decided to add a bit more advice to her sister’s when she spoke to Nic Moretti again. Her smile widened to a grin. Teach the brute a few lessons that would hopefully stick in his arrogant craw.

‘I’m off now,’ she called out to Michelle.

‘Okay. Don’t forget to pick up Muffy at Erina on the way back.’

‘Will do.’

It was twenty minutes to one o’clock. As Serena took Cleo out to the van, she thought how good it was to be out of the city. Although Michelle’s five acre property at Holgate wasn’t exactly country, it was big enough to give a sense of real space and freedom while still being located close to the large populated areas of Gosford, Erina, Wamberal and Terrigal.

The salon was a large two-roomed shed behind the house and the parking area that served it took up quite a bit of room, but there was still plenty of land for Michelle’s seven-year-old daughter to keep a pony which she rode every day after she came home from school. All in all, Serena thought her widowed older sister had done a fantastic job of setting up a business she could run while looking after Erin. Though she did seemed to have settled too much into the life of a single parent. Did the idea of getting involved in another relationship make her feel too vulnerable?

At thirty-two, Michelle was only four years older than herself, still very attractive with lovely glossy brown hair, big hazel eyes, a young pretty face and a whip-lean figure from all the physical work she did. Maybe her manless state was due to not having much opportunity to get out and meet people. Which could certainly be fixed now that Serena was here to mind her niece whenever her sister would like to go out.

On the other hand, not having a man in one’s life was a lot less complicated. Maybe both she and her sister were better off on their own.

Serena pondered this dark thought as she settled Cleo in the van, then took off for the return trip to the Gifford house. Without a doubt she was starting to enjoy this complete change of lifestyle; not having to put on full make-up every day, not having to construct a hairstyle that fitted the out-there image of Ty’s salon, not having to worry about wearing right up-to-date fashionable clothes, nor compete on any social scene. Lyall hadn’t wanted her to compete with him but he’d certainly wanted her to shine amongst other women.

From now on, she simply wanted to be her own person. No putting on a show for anybody. And that included Nic Moretti. Wealth and success and good looks in a man were attractive attributes, but she wasn’t about to let them influence her into not looking for what the man was like inside. Nor was she about to change herself to please him, just because he was attractive.

Well, not exactly attractive.

More loaded with sex appeal.

A woman would have to be dead not to notice.

But snobbery was not sexy at all, Serena strongly reminded herself, so she was not about to be softened up by Nic Moretti’s sex appeal. In fact, it would be fun to get under his skin again, have those dark eyes burning intensely at her, make him see her as a person he couldn’t dismiss out of hand.

Sweet revenge for how he’d spoken about her to Lyall.

Yes.

This was one man who definitely needed to be taught a few lessons.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS just on one o’clock when Serena rang the doorbell of the Gifford home. Perfect punctuality, she thought, and wondered if Nic Moretti would keep her waiting again. He had been told when she’d return. It was a matter of courtesy and respect to answer her call with reasonable promptness. No excuse not to.

She was constructing a few pertinent remarks about the value of her time when the door opened and there was the man facing her, all polished up and instantly sending a quiver through her heart. His black hair was shiny, his gorgeously fringed chocolate eyes were shiny, his jaw was shiny, even his tanned skin was shiny. The guy was a star in any woman’s language.

He wore sparkling white shorts and a navy and white sports shirt and a smile that was whiter than both of them. Positively dazzling. ‘Hello again,’ he said pleasantly, causing Serena to swallow the bile she’d been building up against him.

‘Hi!’ she croaked, cravenly wishing she had put some effort into her own appearance. Too late now. Frantically regathering her scattered wits, she made the totally unbrilliant statement, ‘Here’s Cleo.’

He smiled down at the dog. ‘And looking very…feminine.’

As opposed to her?

No, no, he was referring to the pink bow.

Get a grip, girl!

‘I take it you’ve clipped her claws?’ he asked.

‘As much as they can be without making her bleed,’ Serena managed to answer sensibly.

Her own blood was tingling as though it had been subjected to an electric charge. It was embarrassing to find herself so taken by him this time around. Hating the feeling of being at a disavantage, she seized on the action of detaching the leash from Cleo’s collar. Retreat was the better part of valour in these tricky circumstances and the dog was now his responsibility, not hers.

Her fingers fumbled over the catch and the little silky terrier wriggled with impatience, anticipating the moment of freedom. Finally the deed was done, release completed, and Serena straightened up from her crouch, feeling flushed and fluttery, making the quite unnecessary declaration, ‘She’s all yours!’

Whereupon Cleo shot into the house, barking like a maniac.

Nic Moretti grimaced a kind of helpless appeal. ‘What’s got into her now?’

Here was opportunity handed to her on a plate and Serena found she couldn’t resist asking, ‘Is your girlfriend still here?’

‘No. She left some hours ago,’ he replied, frowning over the noisy racket inside the house.

‘Well, I’d say Cleo is checking everywhere for her presence.’

The frown deepened. ‘I think I might need some help. Would you mind coming in for a few minutes?’

He stepped back, waving her forward.

Serena hesitated, not liking the sense of having her services taken for granted just because she’d helped beyond the call of duty this morning. Being used by this man did not appeal to her. She wasn’t his dogs-body and she certainly didn’t intend to give him any cause to see her in that role.

She folded her arms in strongly negative body language. ‘Mr. Moretti…’

‘Nic.’ A quick apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name this morning.’

‘Serena.’ Which shouldn’t ring any bells because Ty had decided Rene was a more fashionable name for her and Lyall had always used it, having first met her at Ty’s salon where he regularly had his hair cut, styled and streaked to complement his yuppie image. ‘Serena Fleming,’ she added so she wasn’t just a one name person. ‘And I have to pick up another pet…’

‘Please…’ He was distracted by the shrill yapping, now in the living room behind him. It stopped abruptly, just as he glanced back at the dog. ‘Oh, my God!’

He was off at a fast stride, leaving Serena standing at the door. Curiosity got the better of her earlier inclination to get out of here and away from an attraction that made her feel uncomfortable. Besides which, he had invited her in. She stepped into the foyer. On the polished floorboards of the living-room floor, precisely where the evil witch-woman had aimed a kick at Cleo this morning, was a large spreading puddle.

The dog stood back from it, wagging her tail triumphantly. Serena rolled her eyes, thinking she should have walked Cleo on the lawn before ringing the doorbell. From the kitchen came the sound of taps running full blast. Nic Moretti reappeared with a bucket and sponge.

‘Why would she do that?’ he demanded in exasperation. ‘She knows where the doggy door is and has been trained to use it.’

‘Primal instinct can be stronger than any training,’ Serena dryly observed. ‘Cleo has just reclaimed her territory from the enemy.’

‘The enemy?’ He looked totally lost.

‘I’d say that’s where your girlfriend’s scent was the strongest. It’s now been effectively killed.’

‘Right!’ He gritted his teeth, bent down and proceeded to sponge up the puddle.

His thighs bulged with muscular strength. His shorts tightened across a very sexy butt. From her elevated position in the stepped up foyer, Serena couldn’t help smiling at the view of this magnificent male, almost on his hands and knees, performing a menial task that a woman was usually expected to do. Her feeling of inferiority evaporated.

‘See what I mean?’ he grumbled. ‘I have a problem.’

‘It is easily fixable,’ Serena blithely assured him. ‘You’re doing a good job there.’

‘This is only one thing.’ He looked up, caught her amused smile and huffed his frustration at the position he was in. ‘Obviously I need a dog psychologist to explain why Cleo is running amok.’

‘Well, you can always contact the television show, Harry’s Practice, and see if you can line up a visit.’

‘From everything you’ve said, you’re the person I want,’ he declared, dropping the sponge into the bucket and straightening up to his full height to eye her with commanding intensity.

Serena couldn’t deny a little thrill at his wanting her, even if it was only in an advisory capacity. Which would put her on top in this relationship. The boss. A very tempting situation. Except she couldn’t bring herself to pretend she was something she wasn’t.

‘I’m not a qualified dog psychologist.’

‘But you know how dogs think. And react,’ he bored in.

‘More or less,’ she replied offhandedly, half turning towards the front door as she realised he was grasping at what he saw as the easy option. He didn’t want her. He wanted to make use of her, which placed her as his servant, and she was not about to become his willing slave. ‘I really do have to go now,’ she tossed at him. ‘Muffy’s owner is expecting me to…’

‘Wait! I’ll pay you.’

Typical, thinking money could buy him anything. Serena steeled herself against giving in. ‘I have a schedule to keep. If you’ll excuse me…’

‘When do you finish work today?’ he shot at her.

That gave her pause for second thoughts. She eyed him consideringly. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘If you could give me the benefit of your expertise for an hour or so…’

‘You’re asking for a consultation?’

He seized the idea of a professional appointment. ‘Yes. I’ll pay whatever fee you nominate.’

An edge of desperation had crept into his voice. Serena did some swift calculation. An hour’s work on a client’s hair in Ty’s salon would usually cost well over a hundred dollars. But she had been an expert stylist with years of training behind her. As far as canine behavioural science was concerned, she was strictly an amateur. But Nic Moretti didn’t know that and being cheap did not engender respect.

‘Seventy dollars an hour,’ she decided.

‘Fine!’ He didn’t even blink at the fee. ‘Can you come this evening?’

A bit of power dressing was called for in these circumstances. Not to mention a shower, shampoo and blow-dry in order to look properly professional. ‘Does seven-thirty suit?’

‘Great!’ he said with a huge air of relief.

The guy had to be really desperate, Serena thought, feeling positively uplifted at the idea of being the font of all wisdom to him. And she’d better arm herself with a stack of practical wisdom from Michelle this afternoon so he’d think the consultation was worth every cent of that outrageous fee.

Flashing him a brilliant smile to assure him all was well between them, she raised her hand in a farewell salute. ‘Must be off. I’ll be back at seven-thirty.’

Deal closed.

Very much in her favour.

More sweet satisfaction.

Nic watched her jaunty walk to the front door, his gaze automatically fastening on the sexy roll of the delectable twin globes of her highly female bottom, pouched pertly in the tight denim shorts. He grinned in the triumphant belief he’d just won this round with the cheeky Miss Serena Fleming. Her brain was his to pick tonight and maybe—just maybe—she’d unbend enough to let him explore the possibility of enjoying more of her than the workings of her mind.

She pulled the front door shut behind her, cutting off the visual pleasure of her back view. Nic, however, had no problem recalling it. Her front view, as well, the firm roundness of her breasts, emphasised by her folded arms as she’d stood her ground and denied him any more of her time. No favours from Miss Fleming.

It was quite clear she disapproved of him—not the usual response he got from women—and despite his putting his best foot forward to make up for this morning’s fiasco, she hadn’t intended to budge from her stance. Not until he’d offered payment for her expertise. He suspected she’d done him in the eye there, too, demanding top dollar. Probably thought he wouldn’t agree to it.

The money was irrelevant.

He’d picked up her challenge and forced her to come to his party. The sense of winning put Nic in such a good mood, he even grinned down at the troublesome terrier who had brought him no pleasure at all to this date. ‘You might be good for something after all, Cleo,’ he said whimsically.

The stumpy tail wagged eager agreement.

Then Nic remembered having to clean up the puddle and he wagged an admonishing finger at the dog. ‘But you certainly don’t deserve that pretty pink bow. What self-respecting female would let her bladder loose in the wrong place?’

The accusing tone instantly broke their brief understanding. A series of hostile barks reminded Nic that hostility bred hostility and he couldn’t blame the dog for wanting to get rid of Justine’s smell. ‘Okay, okay,’ he soothed, copying the soft, singsong lilt Serena had used to calm the beast. ‘You probably did me a favour there, too, bringing out the worst of her character for me to see. Let’s call it quits on Justine.’

Back to tail wagging.

‘It’s time for lunch now.’ If any of his friends ever heard him talking to a dog like this, he’d never hear the end of it. However, it was definitely a winning ploy, so he continued in the same soppy vein. ‘Would you like some more chicken?’

Chicken, according to Angelina, was a magic word that could winkle her darling pet out of any bad mood. It hadn’t produced the desired result while Justine had been present, but right now it worked like a charm. Cleo literally bounced out to the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator, yipping impatiently for her treat.

Nic obliged, carefully deboning the chicken as he filled her food dish. She wolfed it all down, moved on to her water dish, took a long drink, then happily trotted off to her miniature trampoline in the living room, hopped onto it, scratched it into shape, curled herself down and closed her eyes in sleepy contentment.

Nic shook his head in bemusement. Maybe he didn’t need Serena Fleming’s advice after all. Maybe he’d only needed to get rid of Justine. On the other hand, one little success did not guarantee peaceful coexistence for two months. And something had to be done about the barking at night.

He knew Angelina and Ward let Cleo sleep on their bed. They actually laughed about it burrowing up between them. No way was he about to start sleeping with a dog, waking up to a lick on the face. Devotion to duty only went so far. And if he managed to get Serena Fleming into bed with him, he certainly didn’t want a jealous dog leaping into the fray.

Wondering if he could persuade the feisty little blonde into being his playmate for the next two months, Nic went back to the refrigerator to see what he could rustle up for his own lunch. His appetite for tasty morsels had been aroused. He spotted a bottle of Chardonnay and thought he might begin tonight’s consultation by offering a glass of wine—a friendly, hospitable thing to do.

The idea of killing two birds with one stone had fast-growing appeal.

A desirable woman in his bed.

An expert dog-handler on tap.

Definitely a challenge worth winning.

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