Читать книгу Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor / The Bridesmaid's Secret - Margaret Way - Страница 10

IT WAS more like a fairy tale than real life. She was living a glittering lifestyle, like the most impossible of dreams. She had to remind herself every day that she couldn’t allow such a life to seduce her. Not that there was any real chance of that. Zara was the heiress. She most assuredly wasn’t. The practice of medicine would be her role in life. But for now she was enjoying herself immensely—just as Corin had wanted her to. Days, weeks, months simply flew by in a whirl of pleasure and excitement. She was learning a new way of life, acquiring much knowledge along the way.

She loved London—perhaps not the climate, not after the blue and gold of Queensland, but she worked around that like everyone else. London was one of the great cities of the world. It embraced her. It allowed her to trace its illustrious history, to see its magnificent historic buildings, the art galleries, the wonderful antiques shops, markets, to shop at the legendary Harrods, visit the beautiful parks. She was doubly blessed by being billeted in very swish Holland Park, just west of Notting Hill. More than anything she loved living in Corin’s elegant apartment, with its French Art Deco furniture and a basic colour scheme of brown, bronze and white enlivened by cinnamon and gold. It was definitely a male sanctum, but it welcomed her.

Though fourteen thousand miles separated them, she somehow felt Corin very close. That could have had a lot to do with the fact that she was sleeping in his huge Art Deco bed!

Zara was largely responsible for the lovely time she was having. She had quickly found Zara was the most beautiful, gracious creature on earth. And the kindest. A true lady. Miranda knew from the photographs of their mother—Corin had one lovely silver framed study he kept on his desk—Zara was fashioned in her mother’s image, but she did see a lot of Corin in her. The sharpness of intellect, the generosity of spirit, the sense of humour that happily they all shared. Just like Corin, there was something utterly irresistible about Zara. Yet Miranda sensed a deep sadness that lay in Zara’s heart. From time to time it was reflected in her huge dark eyes. Zara had some pretty serious stuff stacked away in the background.

Over the months Zara had taken the place of the big sister Miranda had never had. She had been so lonely for siblings that had never arrived. How could they? Her real mother, Leila, had fled, desperate to get away from her parents and her child. She now claimed she couldn’t bear children. Maybe, just maybe, it was true. Leila would surely have wanted to cement her new position by producing a male child? It was possible it was Dalton Rylance who didn’t want or need any more children. He had Corin and his daughter, even if she so painfully brought to mind his first wife. Was his cold disregard a by-product of his guilt? Miranda found herself both fascinated and repelled by the whole story.

Kathryn Rylance had died when she’d crashed her car. Had it been an accident? She would never dare ask. But surely such a loving mother would never have deliberately left her children? Not to such a father. Or the covetous young woman waiting in the wings. The potential stepmother. There could have been a single moment when Kathryn had become careless and lost control of the wheel. She could have been blinded by tears. Miranda realised she wouldn’t be the only one to ponder such things. There were the grieving grandparents, the De Laceys, and Kathryn’s clever, perceptive children, her close friends. Talk must have been rife!

But no one knew what really happened. Nor would they ever.

Often she wanted to break her own silence and confide in Zara, but she had given her promise to Corin. He would decide when it was time. In the meantime, Zara was always on hand with support and advice. She took Miranda everywhere—parties, functions, art showings—and introduced her to many highly placed people who seemed to like her. She was now included in many invitations. Zara arranged weekend trips to Paris, the fabulous City of Light, where they crammed in as much sightseeing as they could. All for her benefit, of course. Zara had visited the city many times before.

Back in London they lunched together whenever Zara could make it from work, went shopping together, loving every moment of it. But Zara never interfered or asked too many questions. It was as if she knew Miranda wasn’t too sure of the answers. The great thing was they had become the best of friends. Miranda valued that friendship greatly. For a young woman with a billionaire father Zara was remarkably down to earth. But Miranda, acutely attuned to Corin and now to his sister, knew Zara wasn’t happy at heart. It wasn’t as if she brooded or was subject to mood swings, nothing like that, but Miranda felt right in her judgement. Beautiful, privileged Zara, for all the money behind her and a long list of admirers, wasn’t happy or fulfilled. A melancholy lay behind the melting dark eyes that those who looked beyond the superficial clearly saw.

Miranda had written to Peter well in advance of her arrival. He had been thrilled to know she was coming. He thoroughly agreed with Corin, whom he referred to as his saviour, a gap year was an excellent idea.

“You don’t want to end up a burnt-out old wreck like me.”

These days they met up frequently for coffee and conversation, took in a concert or a movie. On good days, like today, when the sun was shining, they packed a picnic lunch and sat on the grass in either Hyde Park or St James’s, with its wonderful views of Buckingham Palace in one direction and Whitehall in the other. There was just so much history to this great city! Currently Peter’s teacher had entered him in a big European competition and convinced Peter if he worked hard and continued to show progress he would make his mark in the world of music.

“You’re in your element at last, aren’t you?” Miranda said, glancing over at her friend with affection. Peter had made a complete recovery now that he had been granted his wish to pursue a musical career.

“Absolutely!” Peter lolled on the green grass, tucking into a ham and salad roll. “I’ve never felt so at home in my life. I love London. All the action is here. And there’s no culture gap to contend with. Even the family has settled, knowing I’m making a success of myself over here. Life’s strange, isn’t it? I wouldn’t be here except for Corin. My parents actually listened to him. But then he has enormous presence and—what?—he’s not even thirty.”

“Twenty-eight.” Miranda took the last bite out of her crunchy apple.

“Still in love with him?” Peter leaned on an elbow to peer into her face.

“Why ever would you say that?” She feigned nonchalance though her heart had started to hammer. Was she that transparent?

“Come off it, Miri,” he scoffed gently. “I’m super-observant when it comes to you. Heck, I don’t blame you. I could fall in love with him myself and I’m not gay. Corin has more going for him than the law should allow. It’s a wonder some determined young woman hasn’t snaffled him up.”

Carefully Miranda wiped her hands, putting the apple core into a disposable bag. “There is one determined young woman on the scene. But no announcements as yet. Annette Atwood. You know the family?”

“Of course!” Peter nodded. His best feature, his mane of thick golden-brown hair, gleamed in the sun. He was growing it artistically long, as Miranda had suggested. The look suited him and added a certain panache. “Dad’s a big-time lawyer turned property developer?”

“That’s the one.”

“Think they’ll make a go of it?” Peter asked, sensitive to how Miranda might feel about that.

“Corin has never come close to telling me about his love life,” Miranda returned very dryly.

“What about your love life?” He turned questioning blue eyes on her. Corin’s sister, who was a really lovely person and a great beauty in the classic style, was making it her business to introduce Miri to a lot of high-flying guys.

But Miranda smiled as though she didn’t have a care in the world. “I have a powerful reason to stay on course, Peter. So do you. We have careers lined up.”

“That we do. I’ve often wondered where your driving interest in medicine and medical research came from, Miri. Your background isn’t like mine, with so many doctors in it. They say genius is random. Dad says it has to be in your genes.”

“Then it must be a very long way back.” She laughed. “I come from a line of small farmers.”

“So it’s just as they say. Genius is random.”

“And we’re both geniuses!” She lightly punched his arm. “Better get going. Haven’t you got a master class at three-thirty?”

Peter started. “Hell, I almost forget. It’s so lovely being with you, Miri.” He stood up, all of six-four, dusting his jeans off. “So, what are you going to do about your birthday? It’s coming up. I suppose Zara will have something arranged?”

“No, no!” She shook her head vigorously. “Zara doesn’t know anything about it. And you are not to tell her. I don’t want any fuss. No presents, except a little one from my best mate—and that’s you!”

“But you should celebrate!” he insisted. “You’re only twenty-one once.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Of course it is! What say we get dressed up and have dinner at some posh hotel? I have money. The parents are very generous these days.”

Miranda handed over the picnic basket, then took his arm. “That will suit me just fine.”

Peter felt so happy he could have shouted with joy.

The best laid plans could always go awry, and circumstance forced them to move her birthday date forward to mid-week. Peter had been selected at short notice to replace the cellist in a highly regarded quartet, who had fallen ill. With a new member on board, intensive rehearsals would have to take place all over the weekend.

“No worries, Peter,” she reassured him, thrilled he was getting such a lucky break. “New horizons are opening up for you. Wednesday evening will be fine.”

And so it eventually turned out that Miranda’s early twenty-first birthday dinner with the young man who would become her life-long friend proved a special treat.

The following day Zara and three of her colleagues, all foreign-exchange traders, led by her boss, Sir Marcus Boyle, were to fly off to Berlin for a series of top-level business meetings.

Zara eased her tall, elegant body into the jacket of her Armani suit, picked up her briefcase, then walked to the front door that led onto its own private patch of emerald-green lawn and blossoming flowerbeds. Miranda was holding the door open for her, waving acknowledgement to the London taxi driver who had just arrived to take Zara to Heathrow. At twenty-six, Zara was very good indeed at her job. Miranda had learned that from one of her colleagues at a recent party.

“Tremendous flair. Not afraid of taking risks. She’s a star turn. In the genes, I suppose, as a Rylance. Rival banks regularly try to lure our Zara away. So far no luck!”

“I’ll be back Tuesday.” Zara smiled at the girl she had come to regard as the nearest thing she would ever have to a younger sister. “Be good. Don’t accept any solo invitations from Eddie Walton. He’s really keen on you, but he’s too old and too much the playboy. As I told you, he was involved in a rather high-profile scandal not all that long back. Likes the ladies, does our Viscount Edward.”

“Don’t worry, I can look after myself,” Miranda assured her. “Besides, I’m immune to Eddie’s mature charms. Though he does have them.”

“That he does,” Zara agreed wryly. “Well, look after yourself, Miri.” Zara bent to give the petite Miranda a real kiss on the cheek. “You don’t mind watering the plants, do you? There are rather a lot of them.”

“It’ll be a pleasure.”

“Thank you,” Zara said gratefully. “Oh, yes, that reminds me. You’re set for the charity do Wednesday evening?”

“Looking forward to it.” Miranda gave Zara a final hug. “Go on, now. The taxi is waiting. Have a safe trip and wow them in Berlin.”

Zara’s answer came in a fluent flow of German that sounded perfect to Miranda’s ears. She continued to stand on the doorstep of the handsome pristine white terrace house, watching until the taxi had disappeared.

You’ll be alone, all alone, on your twenty-first birthday, girl.

Not that she minded being alone—she was fully aware how blessed she was being taken on by Corin and Zara—but it was her twenty-first birthday after all. She hadn’t dared tell Zara about it. Zara would have done her utmost to organise something—even try to get out of the scheduled Berlin meetings.

With a little sigh, she shut the glass door of the big beautiful house and leaned against it.

Be happy, Miranda. It’s not so terrible, is it, to be alone on your birthday?

Of a sudden her eyes filled with emotional tears. She blinked them back, feeling ashamed of herself. She had been handed a marvellous London sojourn on a plate. Trips to Paris. A luxurious lifestyle. The ease and affection of Zara’s company. Most young women could only dream of being offered such an experience.

Buck up!

She breathed deeply. Corin knew it was her birthday tomorrow. No card had arrived. Maybe he thought a card might have alerted Zara? Flowers perhaps tomorrow? A possibility. She made a real effort to brighten up, wondering if she would ever find anyone in the world to fall in love with after Corin Rylance.

It was after midnight before she finished reading the latest novel by a writer she always enjoyed, Laura Lippman. She set the book down on the bedside table before turning off the light. The beautifully laundered sheets and pillowcases had a lovely fragrance of mimosa. Zara would have asked for it especially, as a reminder of home. Mimosa, or wattle to Australians, the national flower.

With practice Miranda had mastered the knack of putting herself into some lovely serene place to enable her to drift off to sleep. These places were always near water—the ocean, a lake, a river—with lots of blue and gold, a background of leafy trees, spring green…

She didn’t know how long she had been asleep, but she awoke with a great start and a swiftly muffled cry of fright in her throat. There were movements—soft, muted sounds—coming from upstairs in the house. She sat up, straining her ears, while the atmosphere in the apartment settled like a heavy blanket around her. She knew perfectly well she had set the state-of-the-art security system just as Zara had shown her. Who or what could have de-activated it? Should she ring the security people? Hastily she turned on a bedside lamp, checking the time: 1:30 a.m. She had never been more aware of how exposed a lone woman could be. She said a quick prayer—not at all convinced there was really someone up there to hear her, but prepared to give it a shot.

Stacks of valuable things were in the house. Paintings, antiques, silver, Oriental porcelain, rugs. Heart thudding, she slid out of bed, pulling on the turquoise silk kimono Zara had insisted on buying for her.

“It exactly matches your eyes, Miri. You must have it!”

She took several deep breaths. Held them. An exercise in slowing her heart-rate. Then very quietly she let herself out of the apartment into the staircase hall that connected the apartment to the house proper. For the first time since arriving in London she felt very much alone. The area lay in intense darkness. She reached out her fingers, seeking the bank of switches. She pressed one and a single low-level light came on, gleaming against the teal-blue-painted wall with its collection of miniatures in gilded frames. Now she could find her way up the curving internal staircase. A good twenty-four oak steps. Before leaving the apartment she had taken the precaution of arming herself with one of Corin’s golf clubs, which for some reason she had kept handy: an iron, a lethal weapon. God forbid she would have to use it. Maybe wave it about threateningly. Her mobile was in the pocket of her embroidered silk robe. She could ring the police.

Why don’t you do it now?

What if it’s Leila with Corin’s father?

She very nearly went into a panic at the idea. Surely Zara would have told her of their impending arrival in London?

That was if Zara even knew they were coming.

A whole world of problems opened up. Corin had been adamant Leila favoured the great hotels of the world when she was traveling, even though her husband maintained residences in various capital cities. Besides, Zara was in residence, and there was no love lost between Zara, her father and his second wife. None of them would have wanted to come into contact.

What a dysfunctional family! Leila the stepmother was at the root of it all. Leila, her birth mother. She had a hard time with that. If Leila ever laid eyes on her what reaction would she get? She had to closely resemble someone, in her colouring alone. Probably Leila would deny she had a daughter with her last breath.

Silently she edged up the staircase to the first landing, her bare feet making no sound. Halfway up she fancied she could smell coffee.

Of course she could smell coffee. The marvellous aroma was unmistakable. What sort of burglar would make himself coffee? It had to be some member of the family. A distant member, perhaps? One of the male cousins? That playboy, Greg? Just as she was hesitating, full of uncertainty, she heard footsteps in the long, spacious entrance hall with its marble tiling. Light, but simply not light enough to be a woman’s. It was a male. Intruder or relation?

Her stomach contracted and her head went into a spin. Adrenalin pumped into her blood, otherwise she thought she wouldn’t have been able to go a step further. As it was, she continued upwards. Someone was punching numbers into the security system. Why? They were already in. Or were they leaving? She felt a sharp ache at her temples, swayed a little, dropped the golf club.

You idiot!

If one accepted Murphy’s Law, if anything could go wrong, it would. She did. The club landed with a clatter, the stick pinging off the shining brass balustrade of the wrought-iron staircase. A thousand miserable damns! She backed down a step or two, in a great hurry to retrieve the golf club. The noise of its falling would have alerted the intruder. Silence now roared at her.

Breathe in and out. Slow your pulse.

She readied herself. She didn’t rate herself as fearless, but if something bad was about to overtake her she wouldn’t let it pass without a fight.

Only, like a benediction came a voice. A deep, vibrant, sophisticated male voice. She would recognise it anywhere in the world. Probably even if she were out moon-walking.

“Miranda, is that you?”

Louder footsteps struck the marble tiles. She stood electrified. Panic thinly plastered over with stoicism gave way to an excitement so thrilling it was impossible to contain it.

It’s me…it’s me…it’s me! She wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

Corin! Was that a birthday present or what?

“God, I thought I was being as quiet as the proverbial mouse,” he called down to her.

“I’m here.” She was practically whispering now, her mouth had gone so dry. Corin was here. She’d had only a forlorn hope he would even remember her birth date. But he was here! She didn’t think she could climb the rest of the stairs, she was starting to shake so much. She had to take a moment to settle, to compose herself.

Corin!

This was the nearest she had ever come to euphoria. It was making her quite woozy.

“Where are you? On the stairs?” His footsteps were moving closer. “I’m sorry I woke you.” His tone held both concern and apology. “I thought you’d be fast asleep.”

Pull yourself together, silly. Think of your next move. No way can you act the gauche girl.

Only she couldn’t seem to get her head around the fact Corin was here in the house. There had been no advance warning. Just his electrifying presence. Had Zara known, she would have told her. So that meant Zara didn’t know either. She felt so unnerved, so totally off balance, she was almost ready to scuttle back down the stairs. She knew she looked perfectly presentable, with the kimono tied tightly around her, but the shock and wonder of his arrival was so enormously extravagant it was emotional agony.

All at once her knees gave way. She collapsed in a silken huddle on the step.

Corin appeared, taking in her small crumpled figure. “Oh, for God’s sake, Miranda!” He hurried down to her, bringing with him the force field that always zoomed in on her. He was wearing evening dress. Black trousers, white pin-tucked shirt. The black bow tie was undone and left dangling. “I can’t apologise enough!” He spoke very gently, getting an arm around her and lifting her to her feet. “I frightened you?”

“I have to say you did.” From chills of fright, she was now bathed in the glorious heat of contact. It seared her lightly clad body that was pressed so alarmingly close to his. “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?” She ventured to lift her head, staring into his brilliant dark eyes.

“But that would have spoilt the surprise. Though I was taking a risk, wasn’t I?” His expression went wry. “Surely that’s one of my golf irons on the step?”

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use it.” She stayed within the curve of his arm and shoulder, for the moment physically unable to stand straight. The warmth and scent of him was the most powerful aphrodisiac.

“Oh, poor you!” he groaned. Still with his arm around her, he steered them up the rest of the stairs and from there along the corridor into the entrance hall. Once there, he dropped a kiss on the top of her silver-gilt curls. “A very happy birthday, Miranda. I can say that, as it’s gone twelve.”

“Thank you.” The thrill of his presence was so keen it was like exquisite little pinpricks all over her skin. Plus there was the fear she would betray herself. “But you surely didn’t fly into London to say that?” She managed to make it sound as though she was well aware he hadn’t.

“Why not? You’re twenty-one only once in your life.” His dark eyes moved slowly, steadfastly over her. “You look well.” Marvellously pretty would have said it better. Not a skerrick of make-up on her heart-shaped face, her mouth a delectable rose, and the lovely blue-green of the silk kimono matching her eyes, turning them to jewels. The silver-gilt curls still clung to her head, but he thought they were a little longer and expertly styled. Zara would know all the right places to take her. “I’ve made coffee. Would you like a cup, or do you want to go back to sleep?”

“Won’t the coffee keep you awake?” She could only stand, staring at him. His white dress shirt was a wonderful foil for his deep tan.

“Who cares?” he said lightly, finding himself with a battle on his hands. He wanted to reach for her and draw her back into his arms. She fitted perfectly. At least take her hand. Frustrating, then, to have so many obstacles in the way. “I feel like one. Come along. You weren’t really going to hit me with that golf club, were you?”

“I was going to ring the police.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t.” He led the way into the large, beautifully designed kitchen. She and Zara had had many a meal here. Often she had done the cooking.

“You’re so much better than I am!” Zara had declared.

True. Only unlike Zara she’d had years of helping prepare meals, in the end taking over the job completely for her mother, who had morphed into her grandmother.

God rest her loving soul.

“They wouldn’t have been too happy, coming out this time of night—and for what?” Corin was saying, pulling her out of her thoughts. “It’s all my fault. I take full responsibility. It’s just that I remember you once told me you were out like a light as soon as your head hit the pillow.”

“That’s when I was studying hard,” she admitted with a faint smile. “These days I’m doing little but enjoying myself. I’ve got used to the sounds of the house as well, and Zara is in Berlin.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So she did know you were coming?”

“No, she didn’t.” He glanced across at her, a delicate figurine wrapped in turquoise silk. She had no idea how alluring she was. Which was just as well. “I told you. It had to be a surprise. I knew about the Berlin meetings, however. She’ll be back Tuesday anyway.”

“Yes.”

“So sit down.”

This was one of those kitchens that didn’t look like a kitchen. It looked more like an exceptionally inviting living area, big sparkling chandelier and all. The space was so large it could easily accommodate the marble-topped carved wood table, painted the same off-white as all the cabinetry and surrounded by six comfortable be-cushioned chairs.

She took one, conscious he was looking at her. She glanced up. Their eyes met. Married. Or was she imagining it?

“Hello!” he said, very gently.

Whatever it was, she could hardly speak for the force of her emotions. “And greetings to you.” Even her voice shook, as though she had lost much of her habitual control. There was something in his tone; in the depths of his brilliant dark eyes.

Eyes say more than words ever can.

What were hers saying? That she wanted to leap up, go to him, hug him, tell him she had missed him dreadfully, for all the wonderful times she’d been having.

Common sense won over. This was Corin Rylance. Dalton Rylance’s son and heir. A family worth billions. These were important people who mattered. Corin was way out of her league. For all she knew he could be about to tell her he was getting engaged when he went home. To the Atwood woman.

“What am I thinking of?” he asked himself with a quick frown. “Champagne is more in order than coffee. There’s a bottle of Dom in the fridge. I think we might crack it. What do you say?”

“I guess it should be champagne,” she agreed. She sounded so polite! No easy feat, when the level of excitement was rising at an alarming rate. She saw it as a flame that if only lightly fanned could turn into a dangerous blaze. Formality seemed as good as any defence mechanism.

Keep your deeper emotions out of it.

Sound advice.

“Twenty-one and don’t you forget it,” Corin said.

“So where have you been?” She inspected his tall elegant frame. “The evening clothes?” He looked so wonderful it made her feel strangely fretful, her legs restless.

“I spent the evening with old friends. I actually arrived in London from Rome late yesterday. Needed to catch up on my sleep. Had a business meeting this morning that lasted until lunch. I let Zara get away on her trip to Germany so I could move in.”

She thought of something to distract her attention away from him. “Let me get the glasses.” She rose swiftly on her small bare feet. “Zara and I often eat in here. In fact, we’ve had many an enjoyable late-night supper.”

“She tells me you get on wonderfully well together.” He lowered his handsome dark head to look into the well-stocked refrigerator.

“She’s my honorary big sister.”

He turned back, champagne bottle in hand, black eyes glittery. “Just don’t make me your big brother.”

She was surprised by his tone. “Why not?”

“I don’t feel like your big brother.”

His body language confirmed it. She felt a rush of emotion that was the equivalent to a huge jolt of adrenalin.

How can he possibly look at you like that if he doesn’t like you?

Get real! Don’t you mean he’s attracted?

In the past few months, with all the socialising she had been doing, she had been made aware men found her very attractive. Viscount Walton, the famous ladies’ man, for one. Now, for the first time, was there a tension and an intimacy between them? Maybe it was the lateness of the hour? The months of separation? All she knew was there was a star-bright, bursting sensation in her chest, as if sparkling, spinning, Catherine wheels were going off.

So what role does he want?

Don’t invite disaster.

She tried to ignore her voices, reaching up to grasp two beautiful crystal flutes. They were kept on the shelf above other crystal wine glasses of varying sizes. Sheer nerves and a surfeit of emotion made her fingers uncharacteristically clumsy. To her utter embarrassment, the flute she had just barely grasped fell from her hand onto the tiled floor. The long stem remained intact, but the bowl shattered into glittering fragments that covered a surprisingly wide area.

“Oh, no! Sorry, sorry—I’m so sorry.” She apologised over and over. Emotion was her undoing. “How could I have been so clumsy?”

Corin moved in very quickly. “Stand right where you are,” he instructed. “The glass has gone everywhere. Amazing how it can do that! You’d think the chandelier had fallen.”

“I’ll replace it.”

Corin sounded totally indifferent to the damage. “Forget it, Miranda. It’s only a glass.”

“A very expensive glass.” Her voice conveyed her distress and agitation.

“I said forget it,” he responded rather tersely, as though her evident upset was getting to him. “Rather a broken glass than you cut your pretty feet. No slippers?”

“Extra quiet on the stairs,” she explained shakily. “You could have been a burglar. Anyway, I’m fine. I’ll get the broom.” She unfroze, determined to sweep up the fragments, only Corin shocked her by reaching out for her and lifting her clean off her feet.

“I said stay put.”

Her breathing had escalated to such a pitch it was darn nearly a whistle. “No need to turn cranky.”

“I’m not cranky.” He laughed.

“All the same, I was clumsy.”

“You and clumsy don’t go together.”

It was precisely then that the silk sash of her kimono slid out of its knot and unfurled, making its sinuous way to the tiles, thus exposing Miranda’s flimsy nightgown: fine white cotton caught by a deep V of crocheted lace that was threaded with blue satin ribbon. She had never felt so naked in her life.

“You can’t hold me.” Her nerves were coiled so tight they were about to snap.

“Does holding you change things, Miranda?” The amusement had gone out of his voice. It was oddly taut, as were the muscles in his lean, powerful body. Even his eyes were filled with a daunting yet exciting masculine intensity.

“I mean I must be h-heavy.”

“You’re a featherweight.” He hoisted her higher, to prove his point, carrying her back to the table. “There—you can relax now!” He set her atop it, with a big blue pottery bowl filled with fat, juicy lemons just to her right. “Stay there. That’s an order. I’ve opened the champagne. We’re going to have a glass or two each. It’s your birthday. I’m not going to allow anything to spoil it.”

With his height, he reached easily into the top shelf, taking down two exquisite flutes while glass crunched beneath his gleaming black dress shoes. “Right! I’d better sweep this little lot up.”

The odd tension between them resonated in the large room. She watched him sweep up the glass with a few swift, efficient movements, then push it into a pile, clearly sticking to his plan of pouring the champagne. That done, he handed her a frosted flute, his strong, elegant fingers closing momentarily around hers.

The pleasure was so sharp it was a wonder she didn’t cry out.

“Congratulations, Miranda, on your twenty-first!” He toasted her. “May you have a long, happy, healthy and fulfilled life.”

“And may I always know you and Zara,” she returned emotionally. “The two of you have come to mean the world to this orphan.”

“Listen to you!” he said gently. “Drink up. This is a great year.”

She savoured the fine vintage wine, first in her mouth, experiencing the burst of delicious bubbles, then in the flavour, letting the wine run down her throat in a cold rivulet until the flute was empty. “Beautiful!” she breathed, her tongue retaining the cold, crisp after-taste.

“Then how come there’s a little heartbreak in your voice?” he asked, finding her far more of an intoxicant than the most superb wine.

“I don’t know, Corin. The significance of the moment?”

So many unsaid things were suddenly between them.

And then his hand came out. He touched the satin texture of her cheek.

She couldn’t help it. She moaned. “I feel like I’ve known you all my life.”

“So look at me.”

She obeyed, looking directly into his brilliant eyes. Dark as they were, they couldn’t hide the gleaming sensuality.

No distance at all now divided them. Both seemed possessed by the moment. “It’s your birthday, so I believe I should be allowed to kiss you,” he murmured, already dipping his head. “One kiss. That’s all. On this very special occasion we might find it permissible to go out on a limb.” He managed to speak lightly, affectionately, even, but in reality he was driven by pure desire that had to find at least some degree of release. Time to confront the repressed knowledge that his desire for her had begun the moment he had first laid eyes on her years before.

He wanted to run an urgent hand down the column of her throat to her delicate breasts. To his captive eyes they resembled pink-tipped white roses, not long out of bud. He wanted to feel her heartbeat beneath his palm. If only she were older, more experienced, more along the way with her ambitions, he would kiss her and caress her before carrying her to bed.

But this was Miranda. He couldn’t allow his control to slip. He had vowed to look after her and her interests. She was young, when his experience of life and living had gone far beyond even his own age group.

From long practice Corin reined himself back to a pace he thought they both could handle. He set down his wine glass before taking hers out of her hand.

“Happy birthday, Miranda.” His voice was low, and to Miranda’s ears heart-stoppingly deep and romantic. Even before he touched her she felt as if she was being possessed. Gently he took her face between his hands, inhaling her sweet fragrance.

There can be no future in this.

Her warning voice tolled like a bell.

All you stand to gain is heartbreak.

At that moment she couldn’t bring herself to care. She had to seize this one breathless instant. One kiss, then everything would go back to normal. They would return to their respective roles.

It doesn’t work that way.

“Come here,” he whispered.

All there was was a deep hunger. She moved her upper body into him, her spine curved, while he held her face and kissed her as if he had never in his life known a woman he wanted to kiss more. He kissed her not like Corin her mentor. He kissed her like the most ardent lover. It was a brilliant, beautiful, incredibly real kiss, as if for those short moments out of time he was declaring love for her. This was no quick flare of pleasure-seeking. None of the male’s driving sex urge was on display. All control wasn’t lost. The kiss was contained. A decision acted upon. But deeply, deeply erotic for all that.

One of you will get hurt. It won’t be him. It will be you.

Corin found he had to pull his mouth away. Even with his exercising of strict control, the level of excitement had surged so high he thought it would take a long time to subside. “Has no one told you how beautiful you are, Miranda?” He gazed down on her face. It looked dreamy, almost somnolent, as though she had been transported to another place.

It took her long moments to answer. “If they have, I haven’t taken much notice.”

As an answer it was very revealing. Careful now, Corin thought. He would do nothing to threaten her well being. One kiss had proved more than enough to handle, luring him on while staying his hand. He moved his body back a little, deliberately lightening his tone. “Zara has mentioned many times how charming people find you. There’s some old roué—what’s his name? Walton?”

Her heart was racing so hard and fast it was moving the lace at her breast. “Eddie is quite a player.” With an effort she summoned up a smile. She had taken their kiss in her stride, hadn’t she? There was wisdom in caution. “There are many women in his life.”

“But he wants to spend time with you?”

“Maybe he does. But I’m not anyone’s passing fancy, Corin. I avoid danger and damage.”

“Good.” He turned away from temptation. “One more glass, then I must let you go back to bed. I need to turn in myself. We’re off to Venice in the morning.”

She was so startled she gave a little cry. “What did you say?”

Venice? Magic in the air.

She wished she was sitting in a chair, so she could ease back into it for support. As it was, she thought she might topple off the table.

“Venice. Probably the most fascinating city ever built by man,” he said, busy refilling their sparkling flutes. “I have us booked into a first-class hotel. Tons of atmosphere. It’s on the site of the orphanage church where Vivaldi probably dreamed up the Four Seasons. I think you’ll love it. It’s the quintessential Venetian luxury hotel and its position is superb. Our respective suites overlook the Lagoon, and it’s only a few minutes’ walk from the Piazza San Marco. It’ll be a great experience for you. You’re just the sort of young woman to fully appreciate it. The heart of a pure romantic beats beneath this Bachelor of Science.”

She was perilously close to bursting into tears. “Corin, you don’t have to do all this for me.”

“What have I done for you really?” He held her with his compelling eyes.

“What no one else has done! You overwhelm me.”

“What? Feisty little you?” he scoffed. “The teenager who launched herself into my lap? If that wasn’t initiative, what is? Risky too, as you very well knew. Here—drink this down, then off to bed. A cab will be here at eight sharp to take us to the airport. Ninety minutes or so on we take off to Marco Polo International. We return to London Monday afternoon. I’ll wait to see Zara when she comes back, then I’ll be heading home for a few days before I head off to meet up with my father in China. Business, needless to say.”

“This is like a fairy tale,” Miranda breathed, accepting the crystal flute from him with visions of the legendary Serenissima she had seen only in books and films rising before her eyes.

“Well, your life hasn’t exactly been a fairy tale up to date. This is by way of balance. Besides, even if we’re not related by blood we do have a strong connection.”

A shadow crossed her small heart-shaped face. “I want to tell Zara,” she confessed. “We’ve become close. I don’t like keeping my true identity from her.”

“Only there might be quite a price to pay,” he offered rather tensely. “For the moment anyway. I know how you feel. I don’t keep secrets from my sister. I love her. After our mother was killed we were so alone, except for one another and our grandparents when we were allowed to see them. Dad did his best to isolate us, but he didn’t succeed. A life of wealth and privilege doesn’t guarantee happiness, that’s for sure. The occasion will present itself. You just have to be patient.”

“Until the timing fits in with your agenda, Corin?” There was just the tiniest hint of challenge in her tone.

“Trust me,” he urged. “Right at the moment I’m most concerned with protecting you from what could be a very unpleasant experience.”

“You feel contempt for Leila, don’t you?” she said, sadly aware this woman was her mother.

He gave a nonchalant shrug, but the expression on his handsome face had darkened. “Leila is a very destructive woman. My father can’t see it, but Leila’s whole being is centred on self. Valiant as you are, clever as you are, you’d be no match for her. You see life very differently from your mother, Miranda. You want to serve. Leila only wants to take.”

“Does she want to take you?” The instant it was out of her mouth she felt a great spasm of shock. Why had she broached such a highly dangerous and emotive subject? Could it have been acute feminine intuition at work? There was such a thing. Corin’s father was still a very handsome man. But Corin was young. He was much closer in age to Leila than his father. And Corin was blindingly sexy.

“Only you could get away with saying that.” He turned her face to him, fingers closing around her pointed chin.

“So forgive me.” She was actually appalled at herself. “But you make her sound such a rapacious woman.”

His hand dropped. “She makes my father happy. Zara and I might wish she had never come into our lives, but she did. My father is a business giant, a brilliantly clever man, but in some respects he’s completely under Leila’s domination.”

“And this is the woman who bore me?” she said, a dismal note in her voice.

“You are you,” he replied with strong emphasis. “All your admirable characteristics come from a different source.”

“Oh, I hope so,” she gasped. “My grandparents were fine people. They formed me. But then they would have done their best to form Leila. Perhaps my father, whoever he may be, made some sort of a contribution?” she suggested with some irony. “There are many mysteries in life, aren’t there? A lot of them I would think unsolved.”

His expression had turned brooding. “I agree. It’s possible that whoever your father was he didn’t know Leila was pregnant.”

“So where did she get the money to run away? My grandparents didn’t have anything. She didn’t rob a bank. Someone gave it to her.”

“Someone who might have been appalled by the whole situation. It could be a real grief, Miranda. Anyway, we won’t talk about it any more. It’s your birthday.”

“Do you think Leila will remember?” she asked with a twist of bitterness.

“If she does she won’t flail herself.” His answer was full of contempt. “Promise me you’ll put Leila out of your mind. I’m planning a long festive weekend. Promise?”

She threw up her shining head. “I promise,” she said.

“Then drink up and we’ll go to bed.”

If only! If only! If only!