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him the bad news.

      ‘Her wedding?’

      The silver specks in the rock-grey eyes turned molten. He was angry. Well, of course he was angry. He probably thought she’d arranged the whole thing, had brought it to his doorstep in an attempt to force his hand.

      ‘They’re giving Sylvie’s charity a vast amount of money for the chance to feature it,’ Pam said before she could do anything,

      say anything to reassure him. ‘She was going to stay in Melchester, but it seemed so much more sensible to have her stay here. It’s not as if we’re short of rooms.’

      ‘Her charity?’ He turned away to look at Pam and for a moment Sylvie was assailed by a curious mixture of emotions. Relief, largely. But something else. Something almost like loss …

      As if being looked at by Tom McFarlane brought her to life. Which would explain why, ever since she’d had to leave him, taking delivery of that damn cake, she’d felt something had been missing.

      ‘The Pink Ribbon Club? Sylvie’s mother, Lady Annika Duchamp Smith, founded it.’

      ‘Your father was that Mr Smith?’ he said.

      For a moment Tom McFarlane had been distracted, but now he regarded her with, if that was possible, even more dislike.

      Something missing? That would be her common sense, obviously.

      ‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘He was that Mr Smith.’

      ‘And now the charity is yours.’

      ‘I took my mother’s place as the Honorary President, that’s all. I help with fund-raising when I can. Like now.’

      ‘So you used to live here?’

      She’d misjudged him over that. He hadn’t known. But he did now.

      ‘Well, yes,’ she said, doing her best to imply a good-heaven’s-that-was-years-ago carelessness. As if it didn’t matter. Adding, with polite interest, ‘I understand that the plan is to turn the place into a conference centre.’

      ‘And where did you hear that?’

      ‘From someone who lives locally who’s involved with English Heritage.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘You can’t keep secrets in the country, Mr McFarlane.’

      ‘No?’

      There was something almost threatening in the word. A warning.

      Ignoring it, striving for casual, as if it really didn’t matter to her what he did with the house, she said, ‘Are you telling me it isn’t true?’

      ‘Oh, it’s true,’ he assured her, with what could only be described as a satisfied little smile—nowhere near big enough to get anywhere near his eyes—which suggested that she needed to work on her ‘carelessness’. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

      ‘Not at all—’

      ‘A rare moment of agreement—’

      ‘—in fact I was going to offer my company’s conference services. I’ll ask my office to send you a brochure, shall I?’

      That, at least, got a reaction. A glowering, furious reaction but Pam stepped in before it boiled over with a swift interjection.

      ‘I’d better go and put your breakfast on hold for another twenty minutes. Sylvie? Can I get you something?’

      ‘Thanks, but I don’t need waiting on, Pam,’ she said. ‘I know my way about.’ Which was probably exactly the wrong thing to say but she doubted that there was anything she could say that was right.

      Realising that this was a conversation going downhill fast, Pam took charge. ‘It’s no trouble. Camomile tea, isn’t it?’ And, before she could say anything else calculated to irritate her boss, ‘You’re okay in the morning room? It’s warm enough?’

      ‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’

      Pam waited, evidently planning to escort her out of harm’s way, but, still trapped in the doorway by Tom McFarlane’s rocklike figure, she was unable to escape so, with a meaningful look at him, she said, ‘Shout if you need anything, Sylvie.’ And left them to it.

      ‘So, Miss Duchamp Smith—’

      ‘Just Smith. Sylvie,’ she added with a touch of desperation—how ridiculous was that? It didn’t elicit an invitation to call him Tom and, since she was the one in the wrong place, she said, ‘I promise you that I had no idea that it was your company that had bought Longbourne Court, Mr McFarlane.’ She emphasized the Mr McFarlane, making the point that she wasn’t here to put in a plea for her baby. Or for herself. ‘If I’d known—’

      He didn’t wait for her to tell him that she wouldn’t have accepted Pam’s invitation to stay. He simply leaned close and, speaking very softly, said, ‘Well, you do now, so you won’t get too comfortable in the morning room, will you? Or upstairs. I’ve had my fill of your kind.’

      She didn’t have to ask what kind of woman he thought she was. Twenty per cent told her that and how could she protest when the last time they’d been this close he’d had one hand on her naked back and the other had just found the gap between stocking and the lace of her Agent Provocateur French knickers and nothing about her response had suggested she was anything but happy about it …

      ‘I promise you,’ she snapped back, her cheeks flaming, ‘getting comfortable is the last thing on my mind.’ Then, lifting her hand in a gesture that indicated she’d like to move and that she wanted enough space to do it without the risk of physical contact, she said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, the sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll be out of here.’

      And, finally, she’d managed to say something right because, without another word, he stepped back, allowing her to escape.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      TOM watched as, head held high, Sylvie Smith walked quickly away.

      At their last meeting she’d arrived buttoned up for business in a designer suit, hair coiled up in some elegant style, make-up immaculate, but it hadn’t taken her long to start unbuttoning, loosening up. For those big silvery-blue eyes, smoked with heat, to be sending out an unmistakable message, apparently as incapable as him of resisting the attraction between them.

      Today he’d caught her unawares, casually dressed in soft dusky-pink layers that all but disguised her condition, her hair caught back with a matching chiffon scarf. Not a button in sight.

      She’d been less obviously flirtatious and yet the look had still been there, he thought, his gaze drifting down over hips that were curvier than he remembered, wide-legged trousers that flapped a little as she strode briskly in the direction of the morning room, drawing attention to her comfortable flat shoes.

      But he didn’t need the short skirt and high heels to feel the same tug of heat that had caught him on the raw a year ago, when he’d walked into her office behind Candy.

      When his marriage plans had fallen apart he’d responded by giving her a bad time. Not that she hadn’t deserved it.

      Then, stupidly, he’d just responded.

      He’d done his best to kill the flame, but six months on, his body, driven, denied for months, was on fire again.

      The only difference was that this time she was the one getting married.

      Concentrate …

      Forget Tom McFarlane. Forget that she’d jumped every time the phone rang for weeks after she’d had to race away to save her client from wrecking her own party.

      After she’d gone back to find his flat empty. That, after the passion, he’d still gone on his honeymoon for one …

      Cold. He was cold …

      Beneath the fire there

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