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      MILLS & BOON

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT WAS the moment Ellie had been dreading most. The worst moment in a day she had been anticipating with a sense of something close to horror for almost a month now.

      No, that wasn’t strictly true. The actual fact was that she had feared this moment for around a year and a half. Ever since she had left Morgan and fled here to Cornwall, she had had the worry at the back of her mind that one day he might come back into her life.

      And that day was now. The thought was enough to still her footsteps, bring her to a stumbling halt, a thousand frantic butterflies fluttering wildly inside her stomach as she stared at the short stretch of path that led away from her, towards the cottage.

      ‘I can’t! I can’t do it.’

      Morgan was just around that corner. And he was waiting for her to appear. Though of course he didn’t actually know it was Ellie he was waiting for. And the thought of his probable reaction lifted all the tiny hairs on her skin in a shivering reaction to the panic that clenched all her nerves tight.

      ‘Come on, Eleanor,’ she reproached herself. ‘What can he do to you?’

      He didn’t have to do anything, that was the trouble. Morgan could mess up her life, her mind, her heart, simply by existing, and, no matter how she tried, nothing would change that.

      No!

      Pushing a hand through the golden blonde length of her hair, she squared her slim shoulders resolutely.

      ‘Get a move on…’

      Once more she addressed herself out loud. It was the only way to drown out the endless chattering of the inner voice of fear and unhappiness.

      ‘Just go!’

      Somehow the command gave her the impetus to move, one step following the other, her determination growing, adding force, speed to her movements until at last she swung round the corner in a rush.

      The sleek, powerful Alfa Romeo parked incongruously on the unmade road outside the small cottage told its own story. If she had been in any possible doubt, had harboured any weak, faint hope that the Morgan Stafford who had arranged for a six-month rental could possibly be someone other than the man she dreaded seeing, then that, and the sight of the tall, dark figure standing beside it, immediately disabused her.

      She had forgotten just how big he was. Big and powerful, with a whipcord strength that made her mouth dry just to think of it. In well-worn jeans, tight as a second skin, and an equally elderly, faded, soft denim shirt that clung lovingly to the strong lines of his shoulders and arms, he wouldn’t have been taken by anyone for the latest star in the literary firmament and a strong contender for an Oscar for the screenplay of his award-winning thriller.

      He was leaning against the rough stone wall of the cottage, long legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his powerful chest in a gesture of controlled impatience. But as she approached, more slowly now, he straightened up, somehow managing to convey a sense of disapproval with every movement as he glanced pointedly at his watch.

      ‘You’re late!’ were the first words she had heard from him in what seemed like a lifetime.

      Morgan saw Ellie coming down the path towards him and felt his insides clench in instant response to just the sight of her.

      She hadn’t changed. The afternoon sun glinted on the golden length of her hair, warming the peach softness of her skin to an enticing glow. Her tall, shapely body was enhanced by the neat red skirt that clung to the curve of her hips, the crisp white shirt, open at the neck to give a provocative glimpse of the slender neck that had always delighted him in the past.

      She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The woman who had haunted his dreams by night, tormenting him with a thousand potently erotic images, so that he woke with his heart and head pounding, his body slick with sweat, and the ache of need clawing at him like a pain.

      He had to say something. But what did you say to the woman who had, metaphorically at least, kicked you in the guts before walking out of the life you shared without a backward glance?

      The life he had thought they’d shared.

      The small correction altered his mood at once. The nostalgic feeling vanished as anger rushed over it, dark and thick and hot.

      ‘You’re late!’

      That brought her

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