Читать книгу One Night with a Gorgeous Greek - Люси Монро, Sarah Morgan, Люси Монро - Страница 11

‘SHE what? Which hospital?’ Abandoning his date in the middle of dinner, Damon pocketed his phone and strode out to the limo, his security team clearing the throng of journalists who haunted his every move. ‘How badly is she hurt?’

‘The hospital wouldn’t give details, sir.’ Franco, his driver, manoeuvred skilfully through the heavy London traffic. ‘Just told me it was a head injury, but they’re keeping her in overnight so it must be bad.’

Undoing his bow tie with a few flicks of his fingers, Damon leaned back against the seat of the car and attempted to rein in his frustration.

Why the hell had she left the building? He’d left precise instructions that she should stay in the apartment. Instructions she’d apparently ignored.

The girl was an utter disaster.

Part of him was tempted to leave her to suffer for her own stupidity but another part was acutely aware that she was on her own in hospital and no one knew how to contact her father.

A thought suddenly occurred to him. ‘Ring the press anonymously, Franco. Make sure they know she’s in hospital.’

His driver glanced in the rearview mirror. ‘They put her there, boss.’

‘I don’t mean the tabloids, I mean broadcast media. Ring the news desk. Tell them that Miss Prince has been badly injured in an accident and we don’t know how long she’ll be in hospital. Keep it vague and worrying. I want the story on the next news headlines. With pictures, to make sure they know which hospital.’

Surely hearing news that his only daughter was in hospital should flush Peter Prince out from hiding?

Optimistic that this latest development could be turned to his advantage, Damon forced himself to relax as they negotiated traffic but his underlying concern for his sister was growing with every hour she failed to make contact.

Arianna had been six years old when their parents had died. Landed with the towering responsibility of caring for her, Damon had grown up overnight. He’d understood that she was now his responsibility. That it was his job to prevent his little sister from being hurt. What he hadn’t realised it was that the biggest threat to her happiness would come from Arianna herself.

What if she did something stupid like marrying the guy?

Fifteen minutes later his limousine pulled up in the ambulance bay of the large city hospital and Damon sprang from the car and strode into the emergency department, relieved to be able to focus on something other than the dubious life choices made by his sister.

The hospital was heaving but the crowd of people at the desk took one look at him and parted like the Red Sea.

The receptionist immediately sat up straight and smoothed her hair. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for a friend of mine.’ Damon bestowed his most winning smile on the dazzled woman. ‘Polly Prince. She was knocked out and brought in by ambulance. I expect she’s on a trolley somewhere.’

‘Prince—Prince—’ Her expression glazed, the girl finally dragged her eyes from his face and checked the records. ‘Cubicle One. But you can’t—’

‘Is that left or right?’ Well aware of the effect he had on women, Damon wasn’t afraid to use it to his advantage when it suited him. ‘I’m so grateful for your help.’

‘Left through the double doors,’ she said breathlessly. ‘The doctor is with her.’

‘Efaristo. Thank you.’ Flashing her a smile, he strode through the doors before anyone had time to challenge him and found himself in a cubicle, empty except for a doctor who looked as though she were about to explode.

Damon felt a flash of empathy. ‘Don’t tell me. You just had an encounter with Polly and now you need to go to anger management classes.’ In one glance he took in the empty trolley and the bloodstained bandage. ‘Where is she?’

‘She just discharged herself against medical advice. We wanted to admit her for twenty-four hours observation but she says she can’t possibly stay because she has things she has to do. She’s certainly a strong minded young woman.’

Damon thought back to that day at the school when Polly had stuck out her chin and resolutely refused to explain her outrageous behaviour to anyone. Strong-minded was a polite description. ‘Why did she discharge herself?’

‘She said she had too much to do, but what she should be doing is lying down and resting. She’s had a nasty bang on the head.’ Clearly annoyed, the doctor slipped her stethoscope back into her pocket. ‘She mentioned a trip to Paris and a meeting with an important client. We couldn’t get her to let go of her phone. It was welded to her hand right the way through my examination.’ The doctor relented. ‘I have to admit her dedication impressed me.’

Struggling to reconcile the word ‘dedication’ with Polly, Damon wondered if he and the doctor were talking about the same person. ‘So you’re saying that you advised her to stay in, but she walked out?’

‘That’s right. She’ll probably be all right at home as long as she isn’t on her own. Just make sure you know what to look out for and you can bring her back in if anything about her condition unsettles you.’

Damon didn’t waste time correcting the doctor’s assumption that he’d be spending the night with Polly. Instead he scanned the exits. ‘Which way did she go?’

‘She went out of the ambulance entrance. She said she had a lift home.’ Puzzled, the doctor looked at him. ‘I assumed that was why you were here?’

But Damon was already on his way out of the door, his phone in his hand as he instructed his driver to bring the car round. ‘Have you seen Polly Prince?’

‘No.’

Damon swore fluently and then looked around him. Even this late in the evening the hospital was buzzing with activity. There was no sign of Polly. ‘Which is the nearest underground station?’

‘I believe it’s Monument, boss.’

Following a hunch, Damon slid into the car. ‘Let’s go. Take the most obvious pedestrian route.’

Within two minutes he saw her, walking with her head down and her shoulders hunched, looking as though she were going to collapse at any minute.

‘Pull over.’ Damon sprang from the car and was next to her in three strides. ‘Theé mou, do you have a death wish? First you leave the office when I warn you about the mob, and then you discharge yourself from hospital against doctor’s orders. What is wrong with you? Why do you have this urge to do the opposite of what you’re told?’

‘Damon?’ Bemused, she turned her head and he saw the bloody streaks in her blonde hair and the purple shadow darkening one side of her face.

‘Maledizione. They hit you?’

Looking distinctly disorientated, she glanced from him to the limousine and then back again. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were on a date.’

‘I was told you’d had an accident.’

‘But what is that to do with you?’

‘Naturally I immediately went to the hospital.’

‘Why “naturally”? Why would you even care that I was in hospital? You’re not my next of kin.’

Frustrated that she would question what had been a natural decision to him, Damon raked his hand through his hair. ‘Your father is absent and clearly you couldn’t be left to cope with something like that alone.’

‘I deal with things on my own all the time. And, frankly, from the way you’ve been speaking to me all day I was under the distinct impression that given half a chance you’d put me in the hospital yourself. Are you telling me that you abandoned your date because you heard I was hurt?’

‘I didn’t “abandon” her,’ Damon breathed. ‘I arranged for her to be driven home.’

‘But you deprived her of the pleasure of your company and the promise of bedroom athletics. Wow.’ Her mouth tilted into a crooked smile. ‘Poor her.’

Ignoring her flippant tone, Damon lifted a hand and touched the side of her head. ‘What the hell happened?’

‘They jostled me and I lost my balance and fell into a camera. It had hard edges. But I’m fine. It was kind of you to check on me, but I can get myself home.’ She tried to dodge past him and he caught her arms in tight grip. Her body brushed against his and the subtle scent of her perfume wound itself around his senses.

He gritted his teeth, wondering why control was such an effort when he was with her. ‘You cannot travel on the underground and you’re not supposed to be sleeping alone tonight.’

‘Are you volunteering to sleep with me?’ She gave an awkward laugh. ‘I wish you could see your face. Relax. I know you’d rather cuddle up with a bed bug than have me in your sheets.’

Damon, who had a disturbingly clear idea of what he’d do to her if she were in his sheets, ignored that comment. ‘Why did you discharge yourself?’

‘I have to go to Paris tomorrow and I still have some ideas to finish off.’

‘Obviously you won’t now be going to Paris in the morning.’ Damon drew her towards him as a group of passers-by jostled them.

‘Yes, I will.’

‘If your father were here, he’d stop you going.’

She didn’t look at him. ‘No, he wouldn’t. I make my own decisions about what I do, and I’m going to Paris.’ Twisting herself out of his grip, she turned and carried on walking towards the underground station.

Never having encountered anyone quite as stubborn as Polly, Damon stood for a moment, his emotions veering between exasperation and concern. Clearly she wasn’t prepared to listen to reason so what was he supposed to do? Fling her over his shoulder?

Noticing two men staring hard at her legs, Damon decided that wasn’t a bad idea. In four strides he caught up with her. ‘Why is it so important that you get to Paris tomorrow? Are you sleeping with the client or something?’

A choked sound came from her throat and she stopped dead. ‘You really do have a high opinion of me, don’t you?’

Heat crawled up the back of his neck. ‘I know Gérard. Like most Frenchmen, he appreciates a beautiful woman. And you are arriving nine hours before your meeting.’

‘Which naturally means I’m leaving plenty of time for afternoon sex before we move from bedroom to boardroom, is that it?’ Ignoring the flow of people around them, she fixed those blue eyes on him. ‘Make up your mind. This morning you told me I looked like a flamingo and now you think I’ve turned into a femme fatale? Or does a bruised head suddenly make you feel all protective and macho or something?’

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling and Damon certainly didn’t need her to question behaviour that he was already questioning himself. ‘I’m just asking myself what makes this meeting so important that you’d discharge yourself from hospital against medical advice.’

‘Everybody’s jobs are under threat. He’s a new client and I work in the service industry!’ Hauling her bag more firmly onto her shoulder, she glared at a man who brushed past her. ‘And before you make another insensitive remark, not that sort of service industry.’ She turned away again but this time Damon shot out a hand and halted her escape.

‘You are intentionally misunderstanding everything I say to you.’

‘There is another interpretation for the phrase “you look like a flamingo”?’

‘I was commenting on the inappropriateness of your dress. I never said you weren’t beautiful.’ The words launched themselves from some unidentified part of his brain and his own shock mirrored the confusion he saw in her eyes. He released her immediately, disconcerted by the lethal sexual charge that seemed to power every contact, no matter how small. ‘Look—you can’t be on your own tonight and any minute now the press waiting in the hospital will realised you’ve legged it out of the back door. Get in the car before you’re mobbed for a second time.’

‘I don’t need a lift. And I have to go back to my house to get my things for the meeting tomorrow.’

‘I’m trying to help you.’

‘And I’m trying to tell you that I don’t need help. I handle things myself. I always have.’

‘Well, tonight I’m handling them.’ Damon held out his hand. ‘Give me your keys. Franco will drop us and then go on to your house to get whatever it is you need. You can make him a list in the car. I’ll decide if you’re well enough to go to Paris in the morning. Until then you’ll stay in the penthouse. If you’d done that the first time you wouldn’t be in this mess now.’

There was a stunned silence and then she gave a strangled laugh. ‘Do you always take control?’

‘When the situation demands it, yes.’

‘So you’re inviting me to stay at your place?’ Her eyes glinted a beautiful sapphire blue. ‘Aren’t you afraid I’ll throw a wild party? Sully the place with my wanton ways? You know me—I can’t resist any opportunity to indulge in men and alcohol.’

He ignored her reference to the incident at school. ‘Hopefully a bang on the head will quell your intrinsic desire to cause havoc. I’ll take the risk.’ Even as he said the words, part of him was wondering what the hell he was doing creating a situation where they’d be in close contact.

‘I appreciate the gesture, but I’m fine. I’m used to looking out for myself.’ She added that last observation in a gruff little voice that made him wonder exactly what role her father had played in her life.

Damon was about to probe further when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. ‘We have company. Let’s move.’

With that, Damon scooped her up and deposited her in the back seat of the limo, slamming the door shut just seconds before the press pack descended. ‘Drive.’

Polly had conflicting emotions as she stepped out of the car in the underground car park of the Doukakis Tower. Smarting at being literally dumped in the car, but relieved at having escaped the hungry press pack, she eyed the high security steel doors that had closed behind them. ‘The place is like a fortress.’

‘It can be a fortress when it needs to be.’ Without looking at her, Damon strode towards the elevator, his footsteps echoing on the concrete.

Polly followed more slowly, and not just because her whole body was starting to ache from her fall.

What was the matter with him now?

It was obvious that he was angry but she had no idea why.

Having locked her safely in the car, he’d proceeded to converse in Greek with his driver, leaving her to stare out of the tinted glass and stew in her own emotions.

‘Are you angry because I ruined your evening or because I don’t slavishly follow orders? Because I didn’t ask you to come to my rescue. I would have been fine.’

‘Which bit would have been fine, exactly?’ He strode into the elevator like a man on a mission and thumped his palm against the button. ‘The bit where you were knocked unconscious or the part where you discharged yourself from hospital against medical advice?’

‘I’m capable of making my own decisions.’

He looked unimpressed. ‘Anyone can make a decision. The skill is making the right one at the right time.’

‘That’s what I do.’

‘What you do, Miss Prince, is disagree with me on principle.’

‘That isn’t true.’

‘Isn’t it? You were about to be mobbed by journalists for a second time in one evening. Would you have got into the car if I hadn’t forced you?’

She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly realising just how much she’d inconvenienced him. ‘Yes, I would. If you’d given me time to think about it.’

‘We didn’t have time to debate options.’ His savage tone intensified her growing guilt.

‘I’m sorry! I loused up your evening and I feel bad about that. And I’m grateful to you for helping me out. I’m not just not—well, I’m not used to accepting help. It feels strange.’ Polly felt as small as a field mouse. Not only had he come to her rescue, he’d abandoned a hot date to come to the hospital and all she’d done was give him grief.

When had anyone ever come to her rescue before?

When had anyone given her any help?

A strange, unfamiliar feeling spread through her and she wondered whether the bang on the head had been worse than she’d thought. Suddenly she was relieved he’d forced her into the car. It felt as though a heavy metal rock group was rehearsing inside her skull and she was wondering whether discharging herself had been such a clever idea. Was it normal to feel this bad?

But she had to get to Paris, didn’t she? Winning the High Kick Hosiery account was crucial to the business. And they couldn’t afford to lose that business.

‘P?’ Polly focused her gritty, tired eyes on the glowing panel as the lift moved upwards. ‘P for prison? P for punishment?’

‘Penthouse.’

‘Of course. Penthouse. You live above the shop.’ Looking at him, she saw how tightly he held onto control and wondered what it took to make him snap. ‘I really am sorry I ruined your evening.’ Gingerly, she touched her fingers to her head. ‘I didn’t realise they’d be that eager for a story. How did you find out?’

‘My head of security rang me. He was close enough to see it happen, but not close enough to stop it. Why didn’t you stay at the hospital?’

‘I can’t stay in hospital. I have a very unsympathetic boss. He told me to take my lazy, useless self and do a proper day’s work.’

‘So I’m to blame for your decisions?’

‘Well those were your words but no, you’re not to blame. I would have done the same thing regardless of what you said. The meeting is important.’ The movement of the elevator was starting to make her feel sick. ‘It’s tough out there. If I don’t deliver, Gérard will just pick up the phone to the next agency on his list. I don’t want that to happen.’

‘I am not an unsympathetic boss.’ He spoke the words through gritted teeth. ‘And anyone with any sense would take time off after an injury like that. Or are you trying to impress me?’

‘I’m not stupid enough to think I could ever impress you.’ She wondered why being trapped in a confined space with him should make it hard to breathe. ‘I’m just trying to get the job done. The meeting tomorrow is important. With everything so unstable, I can’t not turn up. We worked hard to win that business and we need to show them that we can do a good job. Do you have any painkillers in your fancy apartment?’

He breathed deeply. ‘Yes.’ Even with his top button undone and his bow tie dangling round his neck, he looked sleek and handsome. He also looked supremely irritated.

Polly wondered about the woman he’d abandoned halfway through a date. Who was she? Someone exceptionally beautiful, obviously, who wouldn’t dream of wearing hot pink tights or writing with a fluffy pink pen.

She stole a glance at his profile.

No one had ever come to her rescue before. Even the time she’d come off the trampoline at school and broken her arm she’d had to get a taxi home from the hospital because no one had been able to contact her father. Confused by her own feelings, Polly looked away quickly. She was so used to rescuing herself that it felt strange having someone else step in. Thanking someone for help was a whole new experience. ‘You could go back and spend the rest of your evening with whoever she is. It isn’t too late. I don’t need a babysitter. I’m just going to have a bath, wash off the blood—that sort of thing. Go and finish your date.’

‘Since you seem determined to launch yourself from one disaster to another, you need supervision.’

Polly laughed and then wished she hadn’t because the movement amplified the pain in her head. Supervision? She hadn’t been supervised since she was a toddler. Right from the moment she could walk, her father had expected her to sort her own problems out.

Find a way, Pol.

‘Unless you’re planning on lying down on the bed next to me, I don’t see how you can supervise me.’ As his eyes met hers, she wished she hadn’t used those words. It was uncomfortably easy to think about sex around this man and she wasn’t used to thinking about sex. ‘I’m going to be fine. I just need painkillers and sleep, that’s all. I don’t need company for that.’

But the comfort she felt at knowing he was going to be close by shook her. Why did it matter? She’d never been a dependent sort of person. Just because the man had broad shoulders, it didn’t mean she had to lean on him.

Seriously unnerved, Polly was relieved when the elevator doors finally slid open and she could put some space between them.

Like everyone, she’d heard whispers and speculation about the duplex apartment that graced the top of the building. Everyone had. When the Doukakis Tower had been under construction there had been hushed talk of the penthouse with its three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of London, roof garden and glass enclosed heated swimming pool. None of the rumours had prepared her for reality.

‘Oh—’ Stunned into silence, she stared at the sparkling cityscape that stretched in every direction. The architect had created a space to maximise the view and yet had managed to merge contemporary with homely by dividing that space into distinct living areas.

Polly had never seen so much glass in one place. ‘Well—no one is ever going to suffer from claustrophobia here,’ she said faintly. ‘It’s amazing. Seriously cool.’

‘I like the feeling of space. My villa in Greece is modern. I like light.’

It was the first personal thing he’d said to her and Polly stood awkwardly, realising just how useless she was at making small talk with men. ‘You have a villa in Greece? Lucky you.’ God, what a lame response. No wonder he thought she was a complete idiot. He was obviously regretting playing nursemaid instead of continuing his date with someone who was no doubt a master at sophisticated conversation.

Chewing her lip, she decided to pretend he was a client. She never felt tongue-tied or awkward talking to clients, did she?

Damon gestured to the end of the room where the space narrowed. ‘You can use the guest suite at the end of this floor. I’ll show you where.’

Polly took one look at the thick white rugs covering the polished wooden floor and automatically tugged off her boots. Padding after him, she felt like a stray dog that had wandered into someone’s home. ‘It really is incredible.’ Gazing longingly at the deep, luxurious sofas, she followed him through the apartment. Despite the glass and the space it was surprisingly cosy and she felt a stab of envy. This man didn’t lie awake at night worrying about how to keep his company afloat and protect people’s jobs. He was so phenomenally successful his only worry about money would be how to count it all.

She caught a glimpse of a futuristic-looking kitchen and he intercepted her look.

‘Are you hungry? I can ask my chef to make you something.’

‘Not unless he does pasta with painkiller sauce. Honestly, I couldn’t eat. But thanks for the thought.’ For the first time Polly noticed the spiral staircase rising from the centre of the room. Cleverly lit by tiny spotlights, it looked like something from a fairy tale. She’d never considered herself remotely romantic, but suddenly she was wondering if he’d ever carried a woman up that transparent staircase the way he’d carried her to the car …

‘Polly?’ His rough tone cut through her daydream. Scarlet-faced, she followed him through to a large guest suite and caught her breath. Flames flickered in a sleek, contemporary fireplace and the bed was positioned to take advantage of the spectacular view. It was as if someone had twisted a million fairy lights around every building in London.

Any guest staying here would never want to leave, she thought wistfully.

‘The bathroom is through that door. You have blood in your hair—’ He lifted a hand and then lowered it again as if he was unsure whether to touch her or not.

The relentless pull of sexual awareness was like an invisible rope dragging them together.

With a faint frown he took a step backwards and they both started to talk at the same time.

‘I don’t expect—’

‘Do you want help?’

No one had ever asked her if she wanted help before and it threw her—but nowhere near as much as the sudden urge to say yes. It was only the thought of stripping off in front of him that kept her from accepting his offer. ‘I’ll be fine now. I appreciate you bothering.’ Part of her wished he hadn’t. By helping her he’d tipped the balance of emotion. To feel angry with him was ungrateful, but to feel grateful was uncomfortable. It felt strange, she realised, to know that someone was looking out for her, even if only because of a sense of duty. It turned out that his advice not to leave the building had been sound and when he’d heard she’d got herself in trouble he’d come straight to help her.

Maybe he was ruthless, but he was also decent.

And horribly, terrifyingly attractive.

Damon reached forward and pressed a button by the bed. The cuff of his shirt shifted, the movement revealing a strong wrist dusted with dark hairs. A television screen appeared in the wall but Polly didn’t notice. She was transfixed by the contrast between white silk and bronzed male skin.

She swallowed hard. This was worse than she’d thought.

She was in a seriously bad way if she found a man’s wrist sexy.

‘I’m expecting news of your accident to hit the headlines within the hour. If your father is watching, then he’s going to get in touch. If he tries to contact you I want you to dial two on the phone by the bed. It goes through to the master suite.’

Her mind was so busy creating an image of what he would look like naked that it took Polly a moment to process what he was saying. News of her accident? ‘There weren’t any TV cameras there. They were just photographers and a couple of reporters. It’s not going to be on the news.’

‘Yes, it is.’

His words sank slowly through her bruised skull. ‘But—you told them?’ Images of him naked vanished in an instant. It was as if someone had pulled the power cord on her brain. Sickness rose inside her and her cheeks flamed as she acknowledged her own gullibility. ‘Oh, my God—you used my accident as a publicity stunt.’

‘I was not responsible for your accident. You made the decision to leave the building and take on a pack of gossip-hungry journalists.’ His cool response was the final straw.

Reeling from the discovery that his help had been driven by a desire to flush her father out of hiding, Polly grabbed the door to the bathroom to steady herself. ‘And to think that just for a moment there I thought you were a nice guy who didn’t want me found dead on my own in the house.’ Her light tone painted a thin veneer over the hurt. ‘You should have talked to me before you went to all that trouble. I could have told you that it won’t make any difference to my father. I could be in Intensive Care and he still wouldn’t come.’

His dark brows were already locked in a deep frown as he digested her emotional confession. ‘You’re saying that your father would see the news that you’re in hospital and still not get in touch?’

His appalled response drove her mood lower still. If there was one thing worse than having a parent who didn’t care, it was the world knowing about it.

Why on earth had she told him that much?

It was the headache, she thought miserably. ‘Look, just leave me alone. I’ve had enough of you to last me a lifetime. I hope your conscience doesn’t keep you awake.’

He stared at her for a long moment and it was obvious he wanted to say more. Instead, his mouth tightened. ‘Don’t lock the door. If you collapse, I want to know.’

‘Why? So that you can call the paparazzi and have them take close-ups?’ Feeling worse than she’d ever felt in her life, Polly stalked into the bathroom, slammed the door and defiantly turned the key in the lock.

Damn.

Discovering that tears stung the cut next to her eye, she ground her teeth and held back the emotion, knowing that a crying fit would simply add to her throbbing headache.

‘Miserable man—vile, inhuman machine—’ Venting in front of the mirror, she wet the corner of a towel and gingerly touched her head. ‘Oww.’ Gritting her teeth, she tried to analyse why she felt so let down. She was used to looking out for herself, wasn’t she? She’d always done it. She didn’t need Damon Doukakis flying to her rescue.

So why did she feel so let down? Why did it matter that his reasons for dumping his date to come and find her had been self-serving?

Polly stared at her white face in the mirror.

Because, just for a moment, she’d been taken in by those distracting flashes of chemistry. Just for a moment she’d forgotten this was all about his sister and made the mistake of thinking he cared about her a little bit.

That was what you got for dropping your guard.

Trying to ignore the pain, she took her time in the bathroom, wanting to make sure he’d gone before she emerged.

When she finally opened the door, the room was empty.

On the bed was a suitcase, presumably packed with the clothes she’d put on the list.

Fantastic Franco obviously worked fast.

On the table next to the bed were painkillers and a jug of water.

Polly sniffed, determined not to be grateful. Delivering painkillers didn’t make him thoughtful.

She swallowed them and then pulled on the lacy shorts and camisole she wore to bed, trying not to think about the serious-faced Franco packing her clothes. Digging out her BlackBerry from her bag, she checked her e-mails. Having satisfied herself that there was nothing that couldn’t wait until the morning, she settled on top of the bed, pulled out her notebook and started to scribble down thoughts for the following day’s meeting. Determined to show Gérard that he’d done the right thing appointing them as his agency, she sketched out a few new ideas until drowsiness got the better of her and she flopped back onto the pillows.

His hand locked around a glass of whisky, Damon watched the news report from the hospital. There were stills of Polly being lifted into an ambulance, blood visible on her face, and an interview with the doctor who refused to comment on her patient’s condition. It was enough to drive to most laid-back parent to the nearest telephone.

But the phone remained ominously silent.

What would it take, he wondered, to flush Peter Prince out of his love nest? Clearly more than an injured daughter.

What sort of man saw that his daughter was in hospital and still didn’t call her?

Contemplating that question, Damon drained the whisky. Responsibility towards family flowed through him, as much a part of his being as the blood that was his life force. He could no more abdicate that responsibility than he could stop breathing.

From the moment the police had broken the news about his parents he’d buried his own feelings and focused all his energies on providing for his sister.

Clearly Peter Prince felt no such sense of obligation.

Damon thought back to that day a decade earlier when he’d received the call from the school. He’d walked out of an important meeting to go to his sister and, yes, he’d given her a hard time. Children, especially teenagers, needed rules and discipline. But his abiding memory of that day wasn’t anything to do with Arianna. It was of Polly Prince, standing in one corner of the office, alone and defiant as he’d torn strips off her. Alone. There had been no sign of her father. At the time, Damon had taken that evidence of lax parenting to be the reason his daughter had slid so far off the rails.

Now he was wondering whether ‘lax’ should be replaced with ‘absent’.

Just what part had the man played in Polly’s life?

His phone buzzed. As he answered the call Damon glanced towards the guest room but the door remained firmly closed and he wondered uneasily if he should have checked on her again. The doctor had told him she needed someone around.

Trying to block out an unsettling image of Polly stretched unconscious on the floor of the guest bathroom, he spoke to his pilot an then terminated the call and considered his options.

Of course she wasn’t unconscious.

The girl was tougher than Kevlar.

But the image stayed with him as he gave a soft curse and strode through the apartment towards the guest suite. One look, he promised himself. As long as she was breathing, he’d leave her alone.

Pushing open the door, he saw her curled up in a ball on top of the bed, a notebook face down on the white silk cover, ink from a discarded pen spreading black blotches across the delicate fabric.

But it wasn’t the ink that caught his attention. It was the exceptional pallor of her face. Remembering the doctor’s comment that she should have stayed in hospital, he crossed the room swiftly, his overriding emotion one of concern. Was the wound bleeding again? He gently pushed her hair away from her face and the soft strands flowed over his hand like liquid gold, the scent of it distracting him from his purpose.

Reminding himself that he was supposed to be checking her head, he stroked her hair back and studied her face.

There were dark violet shadows under her eyes and the livid bruise on her forehead was an angry smudge. Asleep, she looked younger than ever.

How did she feel, he wondered, knowing that her father didn’t care enough to call?

Staring down at her, he remembered the words she’d thrown at him in the boardroom.

‘If there’s an emergency, I’m expected to handle it.’

To her credit, she’d been trying to handle it all day. Whatever he might think of the way he used office space, there was no denying that she’d worked hard to help settle the staff into their new surroundings and she’d defended them with a passion that had surprised him.

Wondering how anyone so small could be so monumentally aggravating, Damon gently removed the offending pen from her limp fingers and put it on the table next to the bed.

As he leaned forward and pulled the duvet over her, the pink notebook tumbled onto the floor.

Damon retrieved it, smoothed the crumpled pages, and was about to close it when something caught his eye.

Run, breathe, live…

She’d scribbled the words over the pages of her notebook in scrawling, loopy handwriting but what caught his attention were the other combinations.

Run, live

Run right

Live to run

Feel alive

She’d obviously been playing with a million combinations in an attempt to come up with a tagline that worked for the brand.

His attention still fixed on the book, Damon sank onto the side of the bed. With no qualms about delving into her privacy, he flicked back to the beginning, reading what she’d written.

One thing stood out with startling, unsettling clarity.

He’d been completely and utterly wrong in his assessment of Polly Prince.

The creative brain behind every brilliant campaign belonged to the girl lying on the bed.