Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

His Forbidden Passion
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CLEO was almost sure she’d seen the woman before.

She didn’t know when or where she might have seen her, or if the feeling was real or just imagined. But there was an odd sense of familiarity when she looked at her that refused to go away.

She shook her head rather impatiently. Sometimes she was far too sensitive for her own good. But there was no doubt that the woman had been staring at her ever since she’d joined the queue at the checkout, so perhaps that was why she looked familiar. Perhaps she resembled someone the woman used to know.

There was obviously a perfectly innocent explanation. Just because she didn’t like being stared at didn’t mean the woman meant her any harm. Paying for the milk that had sent her to the store in the first place, Cleo determinedly ignored the persistent scrutiny, and then nearly jumped out of her skin when the woman spoke to her.

‘It’s Ms Novak, isn’t it?’ she asked, blocking Cleo’s way as she would have moved past her. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at last. Your friend said I might find you here.’

Cleo frowned. She could only mean Norah. Which meant the woman must have been to their apartment first. She sighed. What was Norah thinking of, offering her whereabouts to a complete stranger? With all the odd things that happened these days, Cleo would have expected her to have more sense.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, albeit against her better judgement. ‘Should I know you?’

The woman smiled and Cleo realised she was older than she’d appeared from a distance. Cleo had assumed she was in her forties, but now she saw she was at least fifty. The sleek bob of copper hair was deceiving, but the trim figure and slender legs were not.

She wasn’t very tall. She had to tilt her head to meet Cleo’s enquiring gaze. But her make-up was skilful, her clothes obviously expensive, and what she lacked in stature she more than made up for in presence.

‘I apologise,’ she said, her accent vaguely transatlantic, drawing Cleo out of the store by the simple method of continuing to talk to her. The cool air of an autumn evening swirled about them and the woman shivered as if it wasn’t to her liking. ‘Of course,’ she went on, pausing on the forecourt. ‘I should have introduced myself at once. We haven’t met, my dear, but I’m Serena Montoya. Your father’s sister.’

Of all the things she might have said, that had to be the least expected, thought Cleo incredulously. For a moment she could only stare at her in disbelief.

Then, recovering a little, she said with a mixture of shaky amusement and relief, ‘My father didn’t have a sister, Ms Montoya. I’m sorry.’ She started to move away. ‘I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Serena Montoya—if that really was her name—put out scarlet-tipped fingers and caught the sleeve of Cleo’s woollen jacket. ‘Please,’ she pleaded. ‘Listen to me for a moment.’ She sighed and removed her fingers again when Cleo gave her a pointed look. ‘Your father’s name was Robert Montoya—’

‘No.’

‘—and he was born on the island of San Clemente in the Caribbean in 1956.’

‘That’s not true.’ Cleo stared at her impatiently. Then, with a sound of resignation, ‘Well, yes, my father was born on San Clemente, but I’m not absolutely sure of the date, and his name was Henry Novak.’

‘I’m afraid not.’ Grasping Cleo’s wrist, this time with a firmness that wouldn’t be denied, Serena Montoya regarded her with determined eyes. ‘I am not lying to you, Ms Novak. I know you’ve always thought that Lucille and Henry Novak were your parents, but they weren’t.’

Cleo couldn’t believe this was happening. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you insisting that this man, Robert Montoya—your brother—is my father?’

‘Was,’ Serena corrected her regretfully. ‘Robert was your father. He died some years ago.’

Cleo’s voice broke on a sob. ‘It’s a ridiculous assertion and you know it.’

‘It’s true.’ Serena was inflexible. Resisting Cleo’s efforts to pull away, she continued flatly, ‘Believe me, Ms Novak, when my father—your grandfather—told me what had happened, I didn’t want to believe it either.’

‘Now, that I can believe,’ said Cleo a little grimly. ‘Well, don’t worry, Ms Montoya. Obviously your father is suffering from delusions. Unfortunately my real parents were killed in a rail accident six months ago or they would have told you that themselves.’

‘Yes, we know about the accident.’ Serena was full of surprises. ‘That’s when my father first learned where you were living.’ She paused. ‘And he is not delusional. Please, Cleo, come and have a drink with me and let me explain—’

Cleo fell back a step and this time the woman let her go. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘How do you think?’ Serena sounded as if she was getting bored now. ‘It’s Cleopatra, isn’t it?’ And, seeing the unwilling confirmation on Cleo’s face, she added, ‘It was your maternal grandmother’s name, too. She was called Cleopatra Dubois and her daughter, Celeste, was your mother. Celeste Dubois was one of the most beautiful women on the island.’ She gave Cleo a considering look. ‘I hesitate to say it, but you look a lot like her.’

Cleo’s lips tightened. ‘Was she black?’

Serena frowned. ‘Does that matter?’

Cleo shook her head. ‘Only a white person would ask such a question.’ Her lips curled. ‘Yes, it matters.’

‘OK.’ Serena considered. ‘Well, yes, I suppose she was—black. Her skin was—um—coffee coloured. Not black, exactly, but not white either.’

That was enough. Cleo refused to listen to any more. If the description of her so-called ‘mother’ had been meant to disarm her, it had failed abysmally. She was used to vapid flattery. Usually from men, it was true. But she’d had to deal with it all her life.

‘Look, I have to go,’ she said, assuring herself that if there had been any truth in what the woman was saying, she’d have heard about it by now. Her parents had not been liars, whatever Serena Montoya said. And Cleo had loved them far too much to even countenance such a suggestion.

Besides which, she’d been the sole executor of her parents’ estate. And she’d found nothing among their papers to arouse any kind of suspicion in her mind.

Except that photograph, she remembered now, half unwillingly. At the time, she’d thought little of it. It was a picture of her mother with another woman, a woman who she’d realised looked a lot like her. But there’d been nothing on the back of the picture, nothing to say who the woman might be. And Cleo had put it down to her own imagination. There were probably hundreds of people in the world that she bore a resemblance to.

Like Serena Montoya…

But no, she banished that thought, and to her surprise the other woman didn’t try to detain her any longer.

‘All right,’ she said evenly. ‘I realise this has been as much of a shock to you as it was to me.’

You got that right, thought Cleo savagely, but she didn’t voice the thought. Nor was she foolish enough to believe that this was the end of the matter.

‘You need time to assimilate what I’ve told you,’ Serena went on, almost conversationally, drawing velvet-soft leather gloves over her ringed fingers as she spoke. ‘But don’t take too long, will you, my dear? Your grandfather is dying. Are you going to deny him a last chance to meet his only granddaughter?’

Cleo arrived back at the apartment she shared with Norah Jacobs some thirty minutes later.

Actually, it was normally only a five-minute walk from the supermarket to Minster Court, where the apartment was situated. But Cleo had taken a detour through the park to give herself time to think.

At any other time, nothing would have persuaded her to enter the park alone and after dark, but right now she wasn’t thinking very coherently. She’d just been told that her mother and father—the two people in the world she’d always thought she could depend on—had lied about her identity. That far from being alone now, as she’d believed, she had an aunt and a grandfather—and who knew what else?—who were—well, white.

She didn’t want to believe it. She wanted things to go back to the way they were before she’d decided she couldn’t do without milk on her cornflakes in the morning.

If she hadn’t gone to the supermarket…

But that was silly. Sooner or later, the Montoya woman would have caught up with her. And things weren’t going to change any time soon. Not unless Serena Montoya was playing the biggest hoax Cleo had ever heard of.

And why would she do that? What did she have to gain by it? She hadn’t struck Cleo as being the kind of woman who’d put herself out for a complete stranger. Not unless her own father was dying, of course. And he had another agenda she had yet to reveal.

Norah was waiting for her in the rather cramped living room of the apartment. The whole place was pushed for space, but rents in this part of London were prohibitive, and Cleo had jumped at the chance to share expenses with the other girl.

Norah was blonde and pretty and inclined to plumpness. The exact opposite of Cleo in so many ways. But the two girls had been friends since their schooldays and, despite the limitations of their surroundings, they generally got along very well.

Now, however, Norah looked positively anxious. ‘Here you are!’ she exclaimed in relief, as soon as Cleo opened the door. ‘I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been?’ Then, her brows drawing together as Cleo moved into the light of the living room, ‘What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

Cleo shook her head without saying anything. Walking past her friend, she rounded the breakfast bar that separated the tiny kitchen from the rest of the living space and stowed the milk in the fridge.

Then, straightening, she said, ‘Why on earth would you tell a complete stranger where I was?’

‘Oh…’ The colour in Norah’s cheeks deepened. ‘So she found you.’

‘If you mean Serena Montoya, then yes, she did.’

‘Serena Montoya? Is that her name?’ Norah tried to lighten the conversation, but she could tell Cleo wasn’t distracted by her efforts. ‘Well, she said she was your aunt,’ she offered lamely. ‘What was I supposed to say? She didn’t look like a con artist to me.’

‘Like you would know,’ said Cleo drily. Norah’s many unsuccessful attempts to find herself a decent man were legendary. Coming back into the living room, Cleo flung herself onto the sofa, regarding her friend moodily. ‘Honestly, Norah, I thought you had more sense.’

‘So she’s not your aunt?’

‘No, she’s not my aunt,’ stated Cleo with more force than conviction. ‘I mean, didn’t anything about her give you a clue? Be honest, Norah. Do I look like Serena Montoya’s niece?’

‘You could be.’ Norah wasn’t prepared to back down. ‘In fact, although you’re taller than she is, you do have similar features.’ She paused. ‘Montoya. That’s a Spanish name, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know. I believe she lives in the Caribbean, so it could be.’ Cleo was impatient. ‘But my parents were black, Norah. Not Spanish. You know that.’

She hunched her shoulders, reluctant now to remember the rare occasions when she’d questioned her identity herself. She hadn’t looked a lot like her parents, and she had wondered if one or both of them might have Latin blood.

But those questions had aroused such animosity that she’d kept any further doubts to herself. And she refused to believe they’d been lying to her. She’d loved them too much for that.

‘Oh, well…’ Norah was philosophical. ‘So what else did she say? There must be some sort of connection to bring her here.’

‘There is no connection.’ Cleo was exasperated. Then, seeing Norah’s indignation, she went on, ‘All right. She said that Mom and Dad weren’t my real parents. That my biological father’s name was actually Robert Montoya.’ She paused. ‘Her brother.’

‘Oh, my God!’

‘Yeah, right.’ Cleo felt a sudden sense of apprehension at the sudden possibility that it might be true. ‘That’s why I looked a bit—spaced-out when I came in, I suppose. It’s not every day someone tells you you’re not who you’d always thought you were.’

Norah bit her lip. ‘But you think she’s lying?’

‘Damn right!’ Cleo stared at her emotively. ‘Of course she’s lying. How can you ask such a thing? You knew my parents. Did they strike you as the kind of people who’d keep a secret like that?’

‘Well, no.’ Norah sighed. ‘All the same, I have sometimes thought that you didn’t look a lot like them, Cleo. I mean, OK, your skin is darker than mine, but you’re not a blonde, are you? And you’ve got that gorgeous straight black hair.’

‘Don’t go there, Norah.’

Getting to her feet again, Cleo turned abruptly away, heading for the small bedroom that Norah had had decorated for her when she moved in.

She didn’t want to consider that there might be even a grain of truth in what Serena Montoya had said. To do so would tear the whole fabric of her life up to this time apart.

She should have asked more questions, she acknowledged. She should have asked the woman outright what proof she had to substantiate her claim.

Instead, all she’d done was keep on denying something that she now saw in retrospect had to have some meaning. Maybe not the meaning Serena Montoya had put upon it, but a reason why she’d contacted her.

Dominic Montoya was standing staring out of the hotel’s fourteenth-floor windows when Serena strode into the suite. The lights of the capital were spread out below him, a teeming, noisy metropolis, much different from his family’s estate back home.

The door’s automatic closing mechanism prevented Serena from slamming it, but the oath she uttered caused her nephew to turn and regard her with mocking green eyes.

‘It must have gone well,’ he remarked, as Serena charged across the room to where a tray of drinks resided on a bureau. He watched as she splashed vodka and ice into a glass and raised it to her lips before adding, ‘I assume you found her.’

Serena swallowed half her drink before replying. Then, her lips tightening, she said, ‘Yes, I found her.’ Her blue eyes sparkled coldly. ‘But you can go and see her yourself next time.’

Dominic pushed his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans and rocked back on the heels of his leather boots. ‘So there is to be a next time,’ he remarked casually. ‘Have you made that arrangement?’

‘No.’ Serena was stubborn. ‘But one of us will have to bite the bullet, won’t we?’ She shook her head. ‘Your grandfather’s going to have a hissy fit.’

Dominic’s dark brows drew together enquiringly, and Serena thought, not for the first time, what a damnably attractive man he was. A small core of resentment uncurled inside her. Whatever happened, her father would never blame him.

Ever since her brother, Robert, had found the infant, Dominic, wandering the streets of Miami when he was barely three years old, it had always been that way. Dominic was that most fortunate of beings: the favoured grandchild. The only grandchild until now, Serena reflected irritably. Although her brother had married when he was in his early twenties, she never had. She’d had offers, of course, when she was younger. But their mother’s premature death when Serena was in her teens had persuaded her that her father needed her as his hostess, and she’d never looked back.

Now, discovering her brother had had an adulterous affair with Celeste Dubois had really thrown her. She’d always thought they were close. She’d been shattered when he died. But recently, her father had revealed the circumstances of the affair, how he—and he alone—had helped Robert keep the child’s existence a secret.

She shook her head and Dominic thought he could guess what she was thinking. He knew she’d never forgive Robert for deceiving her and Dominic’s adoptive mother, Lily. It was the fact that Lily couldn’t have children that had made his own adoption so much easier.

And he knew how lucky he’d been to find such loving, caring parents. His own biological mother had never wanted him, and she’d been only too happy for someone else to take responsibility for him.

He had once tried to find his mother, when he was a teenager and curious about his roots. But he’d discovered she’d died of an overdose, just weeks after he’d been adopted, and he’d realised again how fortunate he was that Robert had found him.

Perhaps that was why he viewed the present situation with much less anguish than Serena. OK, it had been a shock to all of them, particularly his mother, who, like Serena, had trusted her husband completely.

And it was going to be hard for her. The old man—his grandfather—had a lot to answer for, bringing the girl to their attention all these years after Robert’s death. He must have had an attack of conscience, Dominic decided, brought on by the sudden discovery of prostate cancer earlier in the year.

‘So why is my grandfather going to have a—what was it you said—a hissy fit?’ Dominic questioned now, and Serena turned resentful eyes in his direction.

‘Because she’s the image of her mother,’ she retorted shortly. ‘Or the way she used to look before she died.’ She shook her head. ‘You know, I knew Celeste had had a baby, but I never dreamt it might be Robert’s child.’

‘Obviously, no one did. Except perhaps my grandfather.’

‘Oh, yes, he knew.’ Serena was bitter. ‘But how could Robert do that to Lily? I thought he loved her.’

‘I know he did.’ Dominic’s tone was mild. ‘This woman— Celeste—was probably just a momentary madness.’

‘A momentary sexual madness.’ Serena wasn’t prepared to compromise. ‘Or maybe to prove he wasn’t impotent, hmm?’ She flopped down into one of the tapestry-covered armchairs that flanked the pseudo-marble fireplace. ‘How could he, Dom? Would you do that to a woman you professed to love?’

‘Uh—no.’ Dominic was indignant. ‘But we’re not talking about me, Serena. And your brother’s dead. Someone has to defend him. He wasn’t a bad man, for God’s sake. Can’t you cut him a little slack?’

Serena sighed. ‘It’s not easy.’

‘Anyway, I doubt if Robert would approve of what your father’s doing, if he were alive.’ Dominic was persuasive. ‘And I dare say at the time he thought what he was doing was right.’

‘Getting rid of the evidence, you mean?’

‘Oh, ’Rena…’ Dominic came to squat on his haunches beside her chair. ‘I’m sure he had the child’s best interests at heart. Her mother was dead and I doubt if my mother would have welcomed her into the family then.’

‘I doubt if she would either,’ agreed his aunt forcefully. ‘So what makes you think Lily will feel any differently now?’

Dominic sighed and pushed himself to his feet again. ‘I doubt she will,’ he admitted honestly. ‘But it’s not her call, is it? It’s your father’s decision.’

‘Well, I think the whole thing is disgusting. I don’t know how I kept my temper when that—that ignorant girl refused to believe me.’ She snorted. ‘She has no idea what she’s being offered.’

‘Perhaps she doesn’t care,’ suggested Dominic quietly. ‘So—did you manage to convince her?’

‘I don’t know.’ Serena got up to pour herself another drink and then resumed her seat. ‘She may think about what I’ve said, but I don’t particularly care. She’s not at all what I expected.’

Dominic’s brows rose. ‘Because she looks like the Dubois woman?’ he probed shrewdly, and Serena turned an indignant face up to his.

‘Of course, you would think that,’ she said crossly. ‘You’re a man. Men always made fools of themselves over the Dubois women. Or so I’ve heard.’ She sighed. ‘But all right. Perhaps I am a bit jealous. One thing’s for sure, she doesn’t look a lot like Robert.’

‘Not at all?’

Serena made a frustrated sound. ‘Well, obviously she does a little,’ she admitted. ‘She has his nose and his mouth and his height.’

‘But she’s black?’

‘No.’ Serena shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘Well, not obviously so. She’s just—beautiful. Slim and dark and gorgeous. Just like her mother, as I say.’

Dominic couldn’t suppress a grin. ‘No wonder you didn’t like her,’ he teased and a rueful smile tugged at his aunt’s mouth.

‘Well, she was arrogant,’ she said defensively. ‘Like she was doing me a favour by speaking to me at all.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Dominic was amused. ‘But let’s face it, you are a complete stranger to her. She was probably suspicious of your motives.’

Serena considered. ‘She really believes the Novaks were her parents, you know.’

‘Well, I suppose they were.’ Dominic shrugged. ‘The only parents she’s known, anyway. For the past twenty-odd years, she’s believed she had no other relatives.’

‘Twenty-two years,’ said Serena pedantically. ‘I guess you were about seven or eight when she was born.’

‘There you are, then.’

‘But didn’t she ever have any doubts?’ Serena frowned.

‘Children tend to believe what their parents tell them,’ said Dominic reasonably. ‘Unless they find them out in a lie. And it can’t have been easy for the Novaks either.’

‘They weren’t poor,’ said Serena pointedly. ‘According to Dad, Robert paid them a small fortune to take the baby to England and pass it off as their own.’

‘There are other problems besides financial ones,’ Dominic remarked drily, but Serena wasn’t listening to him.

‘They’d already made arrangements to emigrate,’ she said. ‘And the money must have been a real bonus.’ She grimaced. ‘I suppose the fact that Celeste had died in childbirth made it easier for Robert to escape the consequences of his actions.’

Dominic decided not to pursue the subject. Serena was never going to agree that neither her brother nor the Novaks had had it all their own way.

He doubted his father had found it easy to turn away his own child—his own flesh and blood—even for the sake of his marriage. He must have regretted it sometimes, however much he’d loved his wife.

‘Well, it’s in your hands now, darling,’ declared Serena half maliciously. ‘I’ve done my best and it obviously wasn’t good enough. Let’s hope you have more success.’

CHAPTER TWO

CLEO buttoned the neckline of her leather jacket and wrapped a blue and green striped scarf around her collar.

There was no point in pretending she wasn’t going to be frozen sitting watching a rugby football match. Despite Eric’s promise that they’d be protected by the roof of the stands, there wouldn’t be any heating at all.

Why had she agreed to go with him? she wondered. It wasn’t as if she wanted him to get the wrong impression about their relationship. He was a good friend; a good neighbour. But that was all.

The truth was that since Serena Montoya’s visit, she’d spent every evening on edge, waiting for the doorbell to ring. Although it was three days now since that encounter at the supermarket, she couldn’t believe the woman wouldn’t try to see her again. An evening out, even at a rugby match with Eric Morgan, was better than staying in on her own.

Norah had a date. She wouldn’t be home until much later, whereas Cleo’s job as an infant-school teacher meant she was home most afternoons by five o’clock.

After stepping into short sheepskin-lined boots, she considered the beanie lying on the table beside her. What the woollen hat lacked in style, it more than made up for in warmth and comfort.

But, on the other hand, she didn’t want Eric to think she was a wimp. And wearing a woolly hat was strictly for the birds. All the same…

With a muffled exclamation, she picked up the beanie and jammed it onto her head. She could always say she’d worn it to keep her hair tidy, she thought, viewing her reflection in the mirror without satisfaction. It wasn’t easy to keep the tumbled mass of silky dark hair in check. It was long enough to wear in a braid, but she’d caught it up in a ponytail this evening.

At least no one could say she looked beautiful at present. Quite the contrary, she’d decided firmly. But then she grimaced. She’d told herself she wouldn’t think about what the Montoya woman had said, so where had that come from?

When the doorbell rang at half-past six, she felt none of the apprehension she’d experienced in recent days when anyone came to the apartment. It just meant Eric was a few minutes early, and, as he only lived in the apartment upstairs, he didn’t have far to come.

‘Hang on,’ she called, snatching up her purse and her mobile phone and stuffing them into her pockets. Then, pulling the door open, she carolled, ‘See! I am rea—’

But it wasn’t Eric.

In fact it wasn’t anyone she knew and she felt a moment’s panic. Strange men just didn’t come calling this late in the day. Particularly not tall, dark men, with deep-set eyes and hollow cheek bones, and the kind of dangerous good looks that seldom went with a caring disposition.

He wasn’t a particularly handsome man. His features were too harsh, too masculine, to be described in such modest terms. Nevertheless, he was disturbingly attractive. He disturbed her in a way she recognised as being wholly sexual. And that was not good.

‘Um…’ Her voice failed her for a moment and she saw his eyes—green eyes, she observed—narrow perceptively. Then, clearing her throat, she continued tightly, ‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so.’

His voice was as smooth as molasses and twice as sensual. Cleo’s stomach plunged alarmingly. She wasn’t used to having this kind of reaction to a man and she struggled to compose herself.

He had to be looking for Norah, she thought, though her friend had never mentioned meeting anyone like him. One thing was for sure: she’d never seen him before.

‘You must be Cleopatra,’ he went on, supporting himself with one hand raised against the jamb, and she stiffened.

His action had caused the sides of his dark cashmere overcoat to fall open to reveal an Italian-made suit that had probably cost more than Cleo made in a year at her job. A matching waistcoat was buttoned over a dark blue shirt that looked as if it was made of silk, dark trousers cut lovingly to reveal muscled thighs and long, powerful legs.

Even without the name he’d used causing her a shiver of apprehension, his appearance alone sent a frisson of awareness feathering down her spine.

No one she knew called her Cleopatra. No one except Serena Montoya, of course. Dear heaven, this man must be something to do with her.

‘Who—who are you?’ she got out uneasily, suddenly conscious of her less than glamorous appearance. Snatching off the beanie, she thrust it into her pocket. ‘I—I was just going out.’

‘I had sort of gathered that,’ remarked the man, faint amusement tugging at the corners of his lean mouth. ‘I guess I’ve come at a bad time.’

Cleo pressed her lips together for a moment and then said, ‘If—if Ms Montoya sent you, there wouldn’t be a good time.’ And let him make what he liked of that.

The man’s hand dropped from the frame of the door and he straightened. ‘I have to assume you didn’t like Serena,’ he commented drily, and Cleo made a sound of impatience.

‘I neither like nor dislike her,’ she said, not altogether honestly. ‘And my name’s Cleo. Not Cleopatra.’

‘Ah.’ He glanced up and down the hall before looking at her again. ‘Well, Cleo—whether you like it or not, sooner or later we have to talk.’

‘Why?’

‘I think you know the answer to that as well as I do,’ he replied levelly.

‘Because some old man says I’m his son’s daughter?’ demanded Cleo tersely. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘No.’ The man shook his head. ‘Not just because my grandfather says it’s so—’

‘Your grandfather?’ Cleo felt as if the ground beneath her feet had shifted a little. ‘You—you’re Ms Montoya’s son?’

He laughed then, his lips parting to reveal a row of even white teeth. What else? thought Cleo irritably. The man was far too sure of himself.

Then he sobered, his grin totally disarming her. ‘No,’ he said, and she didn’t know why she wasn’t relieved by his explanation. ‘My name is Dominic Montoya. Serena’s my aunt.’

Cleo swallowed. ‘I see,’ she said. But what did that mean?

‘She’s yours, too,’ he added, unsteadying her still further. ‘Robert was my father, as well.’

Cleo couldn’t speak. This man was her brother? She didn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it.

‘That’s impossible,’ she managed at last, and he pulled a wry face.

‘Yeah, well, that’s the way it is.’ He shrugged dismissively. ‘Get used to it.’

‘It can’t be true—’

‘Cleo?’

She had never been more relieved to hear Eric Morgan’s voice. The young man from the apartment on the floor above was coming down the stairs just along the hall from her door.

‘Is everything OK?’ he asked, coming to join them, and Cleo could tell from his tone that he’d heard at least some of what they’d been saying.

His eyes flickered suspiciously over the man standing by her door, but Cleo had to admit his words had more bluster than substance. In his navy duffel coat and club scarf, Eric was at least half a foot shorter than Dominic Montoya, and in any physical contest she doubted he’d stand a chance. Nevertheless…

‘It’s fine, Eric,’ she said now, grateful for his concern. She gestured towards her visitor. ‘Mr Montoya was just leaving.’

Dominic knew a momentary sense of irritation. Serena had been right, he thought impatiently. Cleopatra—Cleo—whatever she called herself, was arrogant. And stubborn. It would serve her right if he and his aunt abandoned the whole business.

But she was labouring under a misapprehension if she thought his grandfather would give up. Jacob Montoya was not that kind of man.

‘Are you ready, Cleo?’

The little man was annoying, inserting himself between them as if he had a right to be there, and Dominic had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from making a foolish mistake. If he wanted to speak to her again, he had to keep this civil. But the temptation to blow them both off was incredibly appealing.

‘OK,’ he said now, taking a step back from the door, his eyes holding hers with a narrowed insistence. ‘Enjoy your evening—uh—Cleo. We’ll talk again, when you have more time.’

He strode away, descending the stairs without a backward glance, and Cleo expelled a breath that was neither relieved nor convincing. She’d wanted him to go, she told herself. So why did she feel this sense of frustration? Why did she care that she’d been less than polite?

‘You OK, Cleo?’

Eric was obviously aware that something wasn’t quite right, but Cleo was in no mood to explain things to him now.

‘Just a misunderstanding,’ she said, pulling out her woolly hat again and putting it on. ‘Shall we go?’

‘But who was that man?’ Eric asked, as she turned out the light and locked her door. ‘Does he work for the education authority?’

As if, thought Cleo bitterly, and then wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to pass Dominic Montoya off as someone she’d met at work.

But no, she was no good at lying. ‘He’s not important,’ she said, starting down the stairs so that Eric was compelled to follow her. ‘I hope it doesn’t rain. I haven’t brought an umbrella.’

Cleo noticed the car as soon as she came out of school the following afternoon.

It was already getting dark. A slight drizzle was falling and the huge black SUV idling at the kerb just outside the playground entrance did look slightly sinister.

The children had long gone, so she knew she didn’t have to worry about infant predators. Just an adult one, perhaps, with his quarry already in his sights.

Putting up her umbrella, she angled it so that she couldn’t see the SUV any more and, stepping onto the pavement, turned determinedly towards the bus stop. She’d timed her exit to coincide with the bus’s timetable. A woman alone didn’t linger long in this area, particularly after dark.

The SUV was facing in the opposite direction, so she reckoned that if her bus was on time she ought to be able to board it before the car turned round.

But she hadn’t accounted for the fact that the vehicle might simply use its reverse gear. And the road was quiet enough, so it presented no danger.

Even so, the main thoroughfare frequented by the city’s buses was just ahead and she quickened her pace. She didn’t want to run, even though every nerve in her body was urging her to do so.

Then the car stopped just ahead of her, the driver’s door was pushed open and a man got out. A tall man, wearing jeans and a sports jacket over a black T-shirt. He was at once familiar and unfamiliar, and Cleo found she was clutching her shoulder bag to her chest, as if for protection.

‘Hi,’ he said, apparently indifferent to the weather, rain sparkling on his dark hair in the light from the street lamp. He came round the bonnet of the car to block her path. ‘I’m sorry. Did I scare you?’

Cleo expelled a nervous breath. ‘No. Why would you think that?’ she asked sarcastically. ‘I’m often stalked by strange men after school.’

Dominic sighed. ‘I wasn’t stalking you.’

‘What would you call it, then?’

‘I was waiting for you,’ he said mildly. ‘Come on. I’ll give you a lift home.’

‘That’s not necessary.’

‘Dammit, I know it’s not necessary!’ exclaimed Dominic tersely. He blew out a breath, calming himself. ‘OK. What would you rather do? Go to a pub and have a drink? Or come back to the hotel and speak to Serena? It’s all the same to me.’

‘And what if I don’t want to do any of those things?’ Cleo asked, aware that the words sounded childish even to her ears.

‘Oh, please…’ Dominic counted to five before continuing, ‘This isn’t going to go away, Cleo. Your grandfather has terminal cancer. Do you want him to go to his grave knowing his only granddaughter was too stubborn—or too proud—to admit that she might be wrong?’

Cleo met his gaze defiantly for a moment, and then she looked away. ‘No,’ she mumbled reluctantly.

‘So what’s it to be?’

‘What do you mean?’ She was wary.

‘Your place, a bar, or the hotel? It’s your call.’ Dominic glanced about him. ‘Make up your mind. I’m getting wet.’ Cleo hesitated.

If she took him back to the apartment, there was a risk that Norah might come home early. And so far she hadn’t had a chance to tell her friend about his visit the night before.

But equally, she had no desire to go to his hotel room. What if Serena wasn’t there? That troubled her, too, more than she wanted to admit.

‘Um—perhaps we could have a drink,’ she murmured at last, and Dominic breathed a sigh of relief.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘where? Is there somewhere near here?’

‘No, not here,’ said Cleo quickly, and Dominic arched a quizzical brow.

‘No?’

‘You wouldn’t like any of the pubs around here,’ Cleo assured him firmly, looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder again, almost poking him in the eye with her umbrella as she did so.

But she didn’t want to have to explain to any of her colleagues, who might be lurking in the saloon bar of the King’s Head, what she was doing having a drink with a—well, sexy stranger, who was evidently far out of her usual sphere of escorts.

‘Where, then?’

He sounded impatient and Cleo licked dry lips before saying awkwardly, ‘There’s a hotel at the next crossroads. Could we go there?’

‘You tell me.’ Dominic swung open the passenger-side door. ‘D’you want to get in?’

‘Oh—yes. Thanks.’ Cleo closed her umbrella without causing any more damage and climbed into the front of the car.

It smelled deliciously of warmth and leather, and when Dominic got in beside her she detected his shaving lotion also. It wasn’t obvious; just pleasantly subtle. But it created an intimacy around them that caused Cleo to shift a little nervously in her seat.

‘Is something wrong?’

Dominic had noticed and was looking her way now. Cleo managed a convulsive shake of her head.

‘Just getting comfortable,’ she murmured, far too aware of the taut fabric moulding his thigh just inches from her own.

She endeavoured to concentrate on the vehicle. It was superbly sprung, superbly comfortable, and Cleo was half sorry she was only going to enjoy it for such a short time. But perhaps it was just as well. She was far too aware of the man beside her.

Her brother!

But no. There had to be some other explanation. A surreptitious glance in Dominic’s direction assured her that they were nothing alike. They were both dark-haired, of course, but so were at least a third of the population. And he owed the colour of his skin to the heat of a Caribbean sun, whereas she—

‘Is this the place you meant?’

She’d hardly been aware of them moving, let alone that he’d driven in the right direction and was now slowing for the turn into the grounds of the hotel she’d mentioned.

‘Oh—yes,’ she said, recovering herself with an effort. ‘I—er—I can’t stay long. I’ve got a lot of marking to do tonight.’

Dominic didn’t make any comment. Instead, he pulled into a parking bay, shoved open his door again and thrust long legs out of the car. Cleo hurriedly followed suit and he slammed her door behind her, pressing the fob to lock the vehicle.

Cleo had only been in the hotel once before and that had been on the occasion of a friend’s wedding. The reception had been held in the conference room and she remembered lots of seafood, vol-au-vents and cheap champagne.

On reflection, she thought perhaps it hadn’t been the wisest place to bring a man like Dominic Montoya. He was bound to think it was seedy and not up to his usual standard.

In fact, the lobby was encouraging. Someone had placed a large tub of late chrysanthemums on a table in the middle of the floor, and the signs indicating the various public rooms of the hotel were well-lit.

‘Shall we go into the cocktail bar?’ she asked, with a confidence she was far from feeling. ‘I imagine we can get tea or coffee in there.’

‘Tea or coffee?’ Dominic’s lips twitched. ‘Well, yeah, if that’s what you want.’

‘It is.’ Cleo spoke firmly. ‘I don’t drink, Mr Montoya.’

She started across the floor and to her relief he accompanied her. But she couldn’t help being aware of the speculative glances they were attracting from female staff and patrons alike. They were probably wondering what a hunk like him was doing with someone like her, she thought ruefully.

Even in casual clothes, Dominic Montoya exuded an air of power and authority that was hard to ignore. Whereas she, in a dark green sweater, khaki trousers and an orange parka jacket felt—and probably looked—as if she was out of her depth.

Thankfully, the cocktail bar was almost empty at this hour of the afternoon. They had their choice of tables and Cleo chose one that was both clearly visible from the bar and near the exit.

A waitress came at once to take their order, not turning a hair when Dominic requested coffee for two.

‘Is that OK with you?’ he asked, taking the armchair opposite. ‘I can’t say I’m a great fan of tea myself.’

‘Coffee’s fine,’ agreed Cleo tensely. ‘Thank you.’

‘Hey, no problem,’ he responded, picking up a coaster and flicking it absently between his fingers. Long brown fingers, Cleo noticed unwillingly. ‘So…’ He arched his brows enquiringly. ‘Have you thought any more about what I told you?’

Cleo hunched her shoulders. ‘Yes, I’ve thought about it,’ she admitted. She’d literally thought about little else, unfortunately.

‘And?’

‘And I don’t see how what you say can be true,’ she offered carefully.

‘Why not?’

‘Um—’ She moistened dry lips before continuing, ‘If you and I are supposed to be—brother and sister, we don’t look much alike, do we?’

Now, why had she chosen that particular item out of all the things he and his aunt had told her to question first? She was pathetic!

‘Well, that’s easily explained.’ Dominic lay back in his chair, steepling his fingers and regarding her over them with lazy green eyes. ‘I was adopted. Your father’s wife couldn’t have any children.’

‘Will you stop calling him my father?’ exclaimed Cleo fiercely, even while the relief she felt was zinging through her veins. He wasn’t her brother.

But then, what did it matter? She probably wasn’t his adopted sister either.

Probably?

The waitress arrived with the coffee and the few minutes she took unloading her tray gave Cleo time to think. What was she supposed to make of his answer? That his wife’s inability to give him a child was why Robert Montoya had had an affair with Celeste Dubois?

It annoyed her that the woman’s name sprang so easily to mind. She’d only heard it mentioned a couple of times and yet it felt as if it was emblazoned on her soul.

The waitress poured the coffee, and offered cream and sugar. Cleo accepted, but her companion declined. Then the young woman departed again, but not without a calculated backward glance at Dominic. Which he didn’t return, Cleo noted, annoyed at herself for doing so.

Dominic tasted his coffee and then pulled a face. ‘When will the English learn to brew a decent cup?’ he demanded, shaking his head. He intercepted the look she cast him and gave a rueful grin. ‘I bet you could do better than this.’

‘I doubt it.’ Cleo wasn’t prepared to be cajoled into an invitation. She put down her cup. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you think the Novaks aren’t my real parents?’

CHAPTER THREE

‘IN OTHER words, why don’t I cut to the chase?’ suggested Dominic drily, and Cleo nodded.

Serena had been right, he thought resignedly. Ms Novak was one tough lady. And she wasn’t going to be distracted by a few compliments, even if her face had betrayed a very different reaction when she’d discovered they weren’t related after all.

Dominic wasn’t a conceited man, but he hadn’t lived for thirty years without becoming aware that women liked him. And Cleo Novak liked him as a man—if not as her nemesis. He’d bet his life on it.

But that didn’t even figure in the present situation. There were enough women in his life already, and he had no intention of doing to her what his father had done to her mother. Lily Montoya was going to find this very hard as it was without him showing a quite inappropriate interest in the girl.

Nevertheless, she was very attractive…

He expelled an impatient breath and said crisply, ‘OK, why don’t you tell me about yourself? Before we get into the heavy stuff, I’d like to hear about your life with the Novaks.’

‘With my parents, you mean?’

Cleo was stubborn, but he already knew that.

‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘With your parents.’ He paused. ‘What did Henry—what did your father do for a living?’

Cleo hesitated. ‘He did a lot of jobs. He was a taxi driver for a time, and a postman. When he and my mother died, they were working for an old lady in Islington. She let them occupy the basement of her house in exchange for gardening and—well, household duties.’

‘Really?’

Dominic frowned. So what had happened to the not inconsiderable sum of money his father had given them? Evidently Cleo had had a good education, so that was something. But it sounded as if her adoptive father hadn’t stuck at any job for very long.

Still, that wasn’t his concern. ‘But you didn’t live with them?’ he prompted and, after a moment, Cleo fixed him with a defiant look.

‘Is this important?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you want to know so much about me? I thought you had all the answers.’

‘Hardly.’ Dominic’s tone was rueful. ‘Well, OK, we’ll leave it there for now—’

‘For now?’

‘Yeah, for now,’ he said, his tone hardening. He paused. ‘I suppose I should tell you how you came to be living with the Novaks, shouldn’t I?’

Cleo gave a dismissive shrug. ‘If you must.’

‘Oh, I must,’ he told her a little harshly. ‘Because whatever spin you choose to put upon it, you are Robert Montoya’s daughter, and I can prove it.’

‘How?’

Cleo sounded suspicious now and Dominic decided that was better than indifferent. She was regarding him with dark, enquiring eyes and, for the first time, he saw a trace of his father in her cold defiance.

Putting a hand into his inner pocket, he pulled out a folded sheet of worn parchment and handed it to her. Half guessing what it might be, Cleo opened it out with trembling fingers.

And found herself looking at a birth certificate, with Robert Montoya’s name securely in the place where a father’s name should be.

Without bothering to check the mother’s name, or the identity of the infant concerned, she thrust the sheet back at him. ‘This isn’t mine,’ she declared tremulously. ‘My birth certificate is with the papers my parents left.’

‘Your second birth certificate,’ Dominic amended flatly. ‘My father bribed the authorities in San Clemente to produce another certificate with the Novaks’ name on it.’ He patted the paper he was holding with the back of his hand. ‘But this is the original, believe me.’

Cleo felt as if she couldn’t breathe. ‘You’re lying!’

‘I don’t lie,’ said Dominic bleakly. ‘Unlike your father, I’m afraid.’

Cleo shook her head. ‘How do I know that’s not the so-called second certificate?’ she protested. ‘Perhaps your father lied to you, too.’

Dominic didn’t argue with her. He just looked at her from beneath lowered lids, thick black lashes providing a stunning frame for his clear green eyes.

And for the first time, Cleo began to worry about the consequences of her actions. What if he and his aunt were telling the truth? If they were, it followed that the Novaks had lied to her all these years. And that scenario was very hard to stomach.

Then he said quietly, ‘There is such a thing as DNA, you know.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she muttered at last, and saw a trace of compassion in his face.

‘Why don’t you take a proper look at this?’ Dominic suggested, handing her the birth certificate again. ‘Celeste insisted on having you registered before she died.’

Cleo swallowed and reluctantly looked at the sheet of parchment he’d given her. There was Robert Montoya’s name, and her own, Cleopatra. She had been born in San Clemente, but her birth had been registered in Nassau, New Providence, both islands in the Bahamas.

Smoothing the sheet with quivering fingers, she said, ‘If this is real, why did your father send me away?’

‘It’s—complicated.’ Dominic sighed. ‘Initially, I don’t suppose he intended to. Celeste would never have let him take you away. But…’ He paused. ‘Celeste died, and that changed everything. And there was no way Robert Montoya could have claimed you as his when his own wife was incapable of having children.’

‘But she adopted you,’ protested Cleo painfully, and Dominic felt a useless pang of anger towards the man who’d raised him.

‘I was—different.’

‘Not black, you mean?’

Cleo was very touchy and Dominic couldn’t say he blamed her.

‘No,’ he said at last, although her mother’s identity had played an important part in Robert’s decision. He sighed. ‘Celeste Dubois had worked for my father. She was an extremely efficient housekeeper and when she discovered she was pregnant—’

‘Yes, I get the picture.’ Cleo’s lips were trembling now. She made a gesture of contempt. ‘It wouldn’t do for the household staff to get above themselves. What a delightful family you have, Mr Montoya.’

‘They’re your family, too,’ he said wryly. ‘And my name is Dominic. It’s a little foolish to call me Mr Montoya in the circumstances, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Cleo wearily. ‘I just wish—’ She shook her head. ‘I just wish it would all go away.’

‘Well, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.’

‘Why? Because my grandfather is dying?’ She sniffed back a sob. ‘Why should I do anything for a man who didn’t even acknowledge my existence for the first twenty-two years of my life?’

‘You don’t actually know how he felt.’ Dominic had noticed the way she’d said ‘my’ grandfather and not ‘your’. ‘It wasn’t the old man’s decision to send you to London with the Novaks.’

‘But he apparently went along with it.’

‘Mmm.’ Dominic conceded the point. ‘But what’s done is done. It’s too late to worry about it now.’

Cleo sniffed again. ‘Is that supposed to console me?’

‘It’s a fact.’ Dominic spoke without emphasis. ‘It may please you to know that he’s going to get quite a shock when he sees you.’

‘Why? He knows who my parents were.’

Dominic groaned. ‘Will you stop beating yourself up over who your parents were? They don’t matter. Well, only in directly. I meant—’ He broke off and then continued doggedly, ‘You’re a beautiful woman, Cleo. I’m sure many men have told you that. But I doubt if the old man has considered the effect you’re going to have on island society.’

Cleo gave him a disbelieving look. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Don’t I?’

She hesitated. ‘So—are you saying I have that effect on you, too?’ she asked tightly, a faint trace of mockery in her voice.

Dominic sighed. ‘I guess I’m as susceptible to beauty as the next man,’ he conceded wryly. ‘But I don’t think your grandfather would approve of any relationship between us.’ He grimaced. ‘He doesn’t approve of the way I live my life as it is.’

Cleo bent her head, suddenly despairing. She had never felt more gauche or so completely out of her depth in her life.

She should have known he wouldn’t find her attractive. Despite what he’d said, she was convinced he was only being polite. Besides, a man like him was almost bound to have a girlfriend—girlfriends! He was far too charismatic for it not to be so.

But she couldn’t help wondering what kind of woman he liked.

One thing was certain, she thought a little bitterly. He wouldn’t choose someone like her, someone who hadn’t even known who their real parents were until today.

‘So—do you believe me?’

Cleo didn’t lift her head. ‘About what?’

He blew out a breath. ‘Don’t mess with me, Cleo. You know what I’m talking about.’ He paused. ‘I want to know how you feel.’

‘Like you care,’ she muttered, and Dominic had to stifle an oath.

‘I care,’ he said roughly. ‘I know this has been tough on you. But believe me, there was no other way to deal with it.’

She moved her head in a gesture of denial. Then, unable to hide the break in her voice, she mumbled, ‘I still can’t believe it. Someone should have told me before now.’

‘I agree.’

She cast a fleeting glance up at him. ‘But you didn’t think it was your place to do it?’

‘Hey, I didn’t know myself until a couple of weeks ago!’ exclaimed Dominic defensively. ‘Nor did Serena. She is seriously—peeved, believe me.’

Cleo sensed the word he’d intended to use was not as polite as ‘peeved’ but he controlled his anger.

‘Are you seriously—peeved?’ she asked, again without looking at him, and Dominic wondered what she expected him to say.

‘Only with the situation,’ he assured her, aware of a feeling of frustration that had nothing to do with her. ‘I guess the Novaks had been told to keep your identity a secret. Maybe they would have told you—eventually. But they didn’t get a chance.’

Cleo heaved a sigh, and when she turned her face up to his he saw the sparkle of tears overspilling her beautiful eyes.

‘I’ve been such a fool,’ she said tremulously. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just—too much to take in all at once.’

‘I can see that.’

In spite of himself, Dominic felt his senses stir. She was so confused; so vulnerable. His grandfather should never have gifted him with this task.

‘Hey,’ he said gruffly, as the tears continued to flow. Leaning towards her, he used his thumb to brush the drops away. ‘Don’t cry.’

He was hardly aware of how sensual his action had been until he felt the heat of her tears against the pad of his thumb.

Fortunately, at this hour of an October afternoon, the subdued lights in the lounge created an oasis of intimacy around their table, and no one had seen what he’d done.

Or, perhaps, not so fortunately, thought Dominic, hastily dragging his hand away. But not before her eyes had met his in a look of total understanding.

And he knew that she knew that for a brief moment of madness he had wanted her. Wholly and completely. He’d wanted to penetrate the burning core of her and assuage the incredible hard-on he’d developed in the melting heart of her oh-so-tempting body.

Christ and all His saints!

Unable to sit still with such thoughts for company, Dominic got abruptly to his feet. He buttoned his jacket over the revealing bulge in his trousers, hoping against hope that she hadn’t seen it. For pity’s sake, what in hell was wrong with him?

The waitress, ever-vigilant, came to see if there was anything else she could get him. Yeah, thought Dominic grimly, a stiff whisky. But he was driving, so he shook his head.

‘Just the bill,’ he said, pulling out his wallet and handing over a couple of twenties. ‘Keep the change,’ he added, as she started to protest it was too much.

Then, turning back to Cleo, he said, ‘If you’re ready, I’ll take you home.’

Cleo swallowed, her tears evaporating as she became aware, in some shameful corner of her mind, that she was to blame for his sudden agitation. She wasn’t proud of her reaction, but she was only human, after all. And she couldn’t deny the warm feeling that was swelling inside her.

Whether he liked it or not, Dominic wasn’t indifferent to her.

But she couldn’t—shouldn’t—allow it to go on.

‘I’ll get the bus,’ she said, making a thing of pouring herself more coffee. ‘I’m not finished. Thank you all the same.’

She could hear Dominic breathing as he stood beside her. And the very fact that she could hear his infuriated response should have warned her she was treading on thin ice.

But she certainly wasn’t prepared for him to bend down and pour the contents of her cup into the coffee pot. Then, slamming the cup back onto the saucer, he said, ‘You’re finished. Let’s go.’

The waitress was still hovering and Cleo knew she couldn’t cause a scene. Apart from anything else, she might want to visit the hotel again, whereas Dominic, she was sure, was never likely to darken its doors again.

Gathering her bag, she forced a smile for the waitress’s benefit, and then, pressing her lips together, preceded Dominic from the room.

They crossed the reception hall in silence, but when they emerged into the damp evening air Cleo stopped dead in her tracks.

‘I meant what I said,’ she declared stiffly. ‘I would prefer to get the bus.’

‘And I’ve said I’ll take you home,’ said Dominic, brooking no argument. His hand in the small of her back was anything but romantic. ‘Move, Cleo. You know where I parked.’

She decided there was no point in fighting with him. Besides, the buses were usually full at this hour of the evening, and why look a gift horse in the mouth? If he insisted on driving her home, why not let him? It was obvious from his expression that he had nothing else on his mind.

Dominic, meanwhile, was struggling to come to terms with what had happened in the bar. For goodness’ sake, what was there about Cleo Novak that caused every sexual pheromone in his body to go on high alert?

It was pathetic, he thought irritably. He wasn’t a kid to get a hard-on every time a beautiful woman flirted with him.

But, as they neared the SUV and he used the remote to unlock the doors, he had to admit she intrigued him. Dammit, when had the touch of a woman’s skin ever had that effect on him?

Never.

Cleo didn’t wait for him to open the door for her. Sliding inside, she settled her bag on her lap, and pressed her knees tightly together. But a pulse was palpitating insistently inside her head and it was mirrored by the sensual heat she could feel between her legs.

Drawing a breath, she tried to concentrate on the car park outside the windows of the vehicle. Several people were leaving as they were, but others were just arriving.

Staff, maybe, she reflected, aware that she didn’t really care. She just wanted to be home, safe inside the locked door of the apartment. She didn’t want to think about Dominic, or her grandfather, or how she felt about the couple she’d always believed were her parents. She just wanted to get into bed and bury her head under the covers.

‘I assume this road will take us to Notting Hill,’ Dominic said after a moment, and she was forced to pay attention to her surroundings.

‘Yes,’ she muttered. ‘But you can drop me in Cheyney Walk, if you like.’

‘I think I can find Minster Court,’ he said coolly and she remembered that he’d been there before. ‘You’d better give me your cellphone number. If you do intend to obey your grandfather’s wishes and come to San Clemente, there are arrangements to be made, right?’

Cleo’s throat dried. Of course. They expected her to go to San Clemente. But how could she do that? She didn’t even know where it was.

She’d been silent for too long, and with a harsh exclamation Dominic said, ‘About what happened at the pub…’

‘Your ruining my coffee, you mean?’ she countered, grateful for the reprieve, but he wasn’t amused by her attempt at distraction.

‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Forget about the damn coffee. You know what I’m talking about.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes.’ His strong fingers tightened on the wheel and she couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to have those long fingers gripping her just as tightly. ‘It was a mistake, right? I never should have touched you. And I want you to know, it’ll never happen again.’

‘All right.’

Cleo made her voice sound indifferent and he cast a frustrated glance in her direction.

‘I mean it,’ he persisted. ‘I want you to know, I’m not that kind of man.’

‘But you think I’m that kind of woman, hmm?’ she suggested contemptuously, and he groaned.

‘Of course not—’

‘Well, forget it—Dominic. You’re my brother, remember?’

Dominic wished to hell he were her brother. Her real brother, that was. Then he wouldn’t be having this crisis of conscience.

‘I haven’t forgotten.’ His tone was carefully controlled. ‘Now, do you have that number? By my estimation, we should leave within the week. Do you have a passport?’

Cleo caught her breath. ‘I can’t leave within a week,’ she protested. ‘I have a job.’

‘Ask for leave of absence,’ said Dominic impatiently. ‘Tell them it’s a family emergency.’

Cleo gasped. ‘Like they’re going to believe that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why do you think? They know I just…buried…my parents six months ago.’

Dominic felt a reluctant sense of compassion. ‘Well, I guess you’re going to have to tell them the truth,’ he murmured drily, and she gave him an indignant look.

‘I can’t do that.’ She turned her head to stare out of the window again. ‘My God, how am I supposed to convince Mr Rodgers of something that I hardly believe myself?’

Dominic frowned. ‘How about telling them that you’ve just discovered you’ve got a grandfather living in San Clemente? I assume they know that the Novaks came from the Caribbean?’

Cleo’s lips quivered. ‘You think it’s so easy, don’t you? But this is my life, my career; the way I earn my living. I can’t just screw it up on a whim.’

Dominic bit back the urge to tell her that, unless he was very much mistaken, earning a living was going to be so much less of a challenge in the future. Jacob Montoya was a very wealthy man and he’d already hinted to Dominic that he wanted to try and make amends for his son’s failings.

But when Cleo continued to look doubtful, he had to say something.

‘You could always offer a few weeks’ salary in lieu of leave of absence,’ he murmured quietly, and Cleo’s eyes widened in alarm.

‘I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t afford to do that.’ In the light from the street lamps outside, Dominic was almost sure her colour deepened. ‘Besides, what would people think?’

‘Does that matter?’

‘Of course it matters.’ Cleo was indignant. ‘I need this job, Mr Montoya. I don’t want anyone to assume I have independent means because I don’t.’

Dominic sighed. ‘I don’t think money’s going to be a problem for you in the future,’ he said drily. ‘Jacob—Jacob Montoya, that is, your grandfather—is a wealthy man—’

‘And you think I’d take money from him.’ Cleo was appalled. ‘I don’t want his money. I don’t really want to have anything to do with him. It’s only because he’s—’

‘Dying?’ suggested Dominic helpfully, and she gave him a brooding look.

Then, when he said nothing more, she murmured unhappily, ‘I suppose if I told Mr Rodgers—he’s the head teacher—that I needed the time off on compassionate grounds, he might agree.’ She bit her lip. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, it’s worth a try,’ observed Dominic, deciding to reserve any stronger reaction until later. One way or another, she was going to be on that flight to San Clemente. He hadn’t come this far to back off now.

‘Mmm.’

She still sounded uncertain and Dominic was almost sorry when he saw the turn into Minster Court ahead of them.

There was so much more he should have said, he thought impatiently. Not least that her welcome might not be all that she expected. His own adoptive mother still lived at Magnolia Hill, the Montoyas’ estate on the east side of the island, and she was totally opposed to his grandfather’s decision to bring his son’s daughter back to the island.

The fact that the girl was Lily’s late husband’s daughter had come as a terrible shock to her. She’d had no idea that the reason Celeste’s baby had been spirited so hastily to England had been to prevent her from finding out the truth. Celeste’s death had sealed her lips once and for all.

But it was all out in the open now, and Dominic didn’t envy any of them having to deal with the fallout.

‘You can stop here,’ Cleo said suddenly, and Dominic realised they were outside the old Victorian block in which her apartment was situated.

And, when he did so, she pulled a pen and a scrap of paper from her bag and scribbled her mobile-phone number on it.

‘There you are,’ she said. And then, although she didn’t really want to pursue it, she added, ‘Shouldn’t I have some way of getting in touch with you? Just in case I can’t get the time off.’

Dominic’s jaw hardened. But he had to answer her. ‘We’re staying at the Piccadilly Freemont,’ he said flatly. ‘But I’ll be in touch myself in a day or so.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Cleo’s lips twisted. ‘If I speak to your aunt, I won’t say anything to embarrass you.’

‘I doubt you could,’ retorted Dominic shortly, thrusting open the car door.

However, before he could alight, Cleo’s hand on his sleeve arrested him. ‘Stay here,’ she said, the determined pressure of her fingers penetrating his jacket and feeling ridiculously like a hot brand on his forearm. ‘I don’t need an escort into my own house.’

‘OK.’ He slammed the door shut again and forced a mocking smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow evening.’

‘If you like.’

Cleo pushed open the door and slid out of the car, looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder before slamming the door behind her.

Then, reluctantly aware of how vulnerable she suddenly seemed, Dominic jerked the car into gear and pulled away.

But he knew the frustration he was feeling was unlikely to be expunged by relating his conversation with Cleo to Serena. When he reached the hotel, he eschewed that responsibility and headed rather aggressively into the bar.

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