LITMIR.BIZ

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yes. Tortured by her fractured relationship with her mother, definitely. But love...? That was something that happened to other people and she had no use for it.

      The fateful car accident had seen to that. Isobel had immediately erected a wall of self-imposed emotional isolation as punishment for what had happened and insurance against any happy-ever-after for her. After all, hadn’t her mother spelled out quite clearly that the accident had not only taken away her husband but also ruined her life? Isobel had been responsible for the accident; therefore she didn’t deserve happiness. It was as simple as that. So she would make sure it never crossed her path.

      Not that falling in love with Orlando would ever make her happy—quite the reverse. Feeling her heart beating wildly inside her chest now, she knew that she was going to have to protect it at all costs. But a fretful night of tossing and turning had led to the creeping realisation that maybe Orlando was right about one thing. The baby was the most important thing here. Maybe it would be for the best for him or her to have legally married parents.

      Isobel had never really thought about the stigma of illegitimacy before, having been raised by two parents in a relationship of marriage—albeit a marriage made up of more quarrels than hugs. Isobel’s memories were of fights, of hiding her head under her pillow to block out screaming rows, and of vowing that she would never marry and subject herself to such torment.

      Her mother’s memories, however, were somewhat different. Since the accident that had so tragically taken her husband away from her, Isobel’s mother had elevated her father to a level of sainthood and their marriage to the most perfect relationship that had ever been. Something that she liked to remind Isobel of whenever she visited, and which compounded Isobel’s guilt like a pile driver pounding into the subsoil of her consciousness.

      But illegitimacy had obviously affected Orlando, despite the emotionless way he had described it to her. And that glimpse of his vulnerability had gone straight to her heart—no doubt as he had meant it to. It had all been calculated to ensure that he got his own way. But at least she had managed to delay any idea of a wedding until after the baby was born. That had been her one small victory. And it had given her some breathing space, if nothing else.

      However, today had brought another problem—in the form of a large delivery of samples from the first production line at the new factory in Le Marche. Excitement had turned to dismay as Isobel had pulled them from their boxes. The stitching was too big, the colours the wrong shade, the finish poor. Now the offending articles were scattered across her desk in a jumble of packaging and tissue paper and general frustration.

      ‘I don’t want to see anyone right now, Daisy.’ Isobel tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘Please say that I am busy.’

      ‘I can see that.’ Towering over Daisy’s shoulder, Orlando’s honed physique now filled the doorway. ‘What is this? Shoe rage?’

      Daisy’s annoying giggle only darkened Isobel’s mood—especially as she had now stepped aside to let Orlando enter. Suddenly the room seemed far too small, the ceiling too low, the clutter that was everywhere closing in on them.

      Giving him the briefest of glances, Isobel turned back to her desk to wait for the spike in her heart rate to steady. ‘This isn’t a good time, Orlando.’

      Totally ignoring her, Orlando moved in closer, looking down at the array of shoes. ‘Samples from the new factory?’

      ‘Yes, and they are dreadful.’ Rummaging around, Isobel found the worst culprit and held it aloft by its spiky heel, pointing it at Orlando like a weapon. ‘I can’t accept this sort of quality. Quite apart from the colour being totally wrong, look at this.’ She held the ankle strap between her fingers. ‘The holes aren’t even lined up properly.’

      But as Orlando bent over her Isobel immediately regretted her invitation. Suddenly he was way too close, and she was painfully aware of the tightness in her chest, of her breasts swelling beneath her lacy cotton blouse.

      ‘Let me see.’ Rescuing the shoe from her hand, Orlando squinted at the holes on the strap before turning to the star-struck Daisy, who was still staring at him as if he was some sort of god. ‘Looks okay to me. What do you think...Daisy, isn’t it?’

      Daisy nodded.

      ‘It doesn’t matter what Daisy thinks.’ Snatching back the shoe, Isobel shoved it into the nearest box and stuffed tissue paper on top of it. ‘I am the one who decides these things, and I am saying that this standard is simply unacceptable.’

      ‘Well, no doubt it can be sorted out. Let’s start with coffee.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ Daisy sprang out of her trance. ‘What can I get for you?’

      ‘Espresso—thank you.’

      ‘Isobel?’

      ‘Nothing for me.’ Her curt reply was partly down to annoyance that Orlando was taking charge—again—and partly a newly acquired aversion to coffee. Another pregnancy-related surprise.

      Pulling out a chair, Orlando squeezed in beside her. Isobel’s basement office wasn’t meant for more than one person. With its wide table, positioned beneath a glass window to let in some natural light, it worked fine as a place for Isobel to work on her designs, catch up on paperwork. But it did not feel fine right now, with Orlando taking up far too much space, somehow managing to steal the air that she needed to fill her lungs.

      ‘There are bound to be some teething problems with the new factory.’ Picking up a jewel-studded evening sandal, he turned it over in his hand before it was snatched back by Isobel. ‘It’s only to be expected.’

      ‘I know that.’ The shoes were now being swept from the table into the large cardboard box they had arrived in. ‘But this is more than teething problems—this is a disaster.’

      ‘Not a disaster. You need to remember that these shoes are for the ready-to-wear collection. You’re not going to get the same quality of manufacture from the factory as you do from your guys here in the workshop.’ He jerked his head towards the glass-panelled door. ‘That sort of craftsmanship is for the couture trade only.’

      ‘Well, thank you so much for pointing that out.’ Isobel shot him a witheringly contemptuous look. ‘But when I want your opinion of my business I will ask for it.’

      If she’d hoped to put him in his place she was to be disappointed. Orlando appeared completely unmoved. And that annoyed her all the more.

      ‘Can I ask what you are actually doing here?’ She tried again. ‘I’m sure you must have any number of business interests that require your attention more than mine.’

      ‘I think our relationship has progressed somewhat further than business.’

      There was that infuriating calmness again—swinging like a lead weight between them, knocking aside Isobel’s protests and somehow giving him all the power.

      Turning to the distraction of her computer, Isobel caught sight of her own anxious expression in the black screen before it came to life with a string of emails. She positioned her fingers over the keyboard, hoping she was making it quite clear that it was time for Orlando to leave. But it seemed he had other ideas.

      ‘As it happens, I might be able to help you with the problem of these samples.’

      Opening her first email, Isobel gave it her full attention. ‘I doubt that very much.’

      ‘I’m flying to Italy this afternoon. I have some business in Le Marche. I can go to the factory and speak to the supervisor about your concerns.’

      ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Emails forgotten, Isobel turned to face him, a dangerous flash in her green eyes. ‘When Cassano Holdings invested in Spicer Shoes it was with the understanding that I would have complete control of the day-to-day running of the business. The issue with these samples is my problem, not yours, and I will be the one to rectify it.’

      ‘If you say so.’ Leaning back in his chair, Orlando tried to stretch out his long

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