LITMIR.BIZ

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made of warm, solid muscle.

      No, no dwelling on the muscles. Or the warmth. She pushed the thought out of her mind as firmly as she could and adopted her best, haughty public schoolgirl voice. ‘This is Hawksley Castle, isn’t it?’

      Of course it was. Nowhere else had the utterly unique blend of Norman keep, Tudor mansion and Georgian country home that ensured Hawksley remained top of the country’s best-loved stately homes list—according to Debutante magazine anyway.

      But Daisy wasn’t interested in the historical significance of the perfectly preserved buildings. She simply wanted to gain access to the final third of the castle, the Georgian wing marked ‘private’.

      ‘Yes, this is Hawksley Castle and we are not open until Whitsun. So, I suggest, miss, that you return and purchase a ticket then.’

      ‘Look.’ Daisy was done with playing nice. ‘I’m not here to sightsee. I was here six weeks ago for the Porter-Halstead wedding and got snowed in. Seb helped me and I need to see him. To say thank you,’ she finished a little lamely but there was no way she was telling this woman her real motivation for visiting. She’d be turned to stone for sure.

      The gorgon raised an eyebrow. ‘Six weeks later?’

      ‘I’m not here for a lesson in manners.’ Daisy regretted the snap the second it left her mouth. ‘I’ve been...busy. But better late than never. I thought he was the handyman. He certainly—’ seemed good with his hands flashed through her mind and she coloured ‘—seemed to know his way around.’ Oh, yes, that he did.

      Nope. No better.

      ‘But he definitely works here. He has an office. Tall, dark hair?’ Melting dark green eyes, cheekbones she could have cut herself on and a firm mouth. A mouth he really knew how to use.

      Daisy pulled her mind firmly back to the here and now. ‘He had a shovel and snow chains, that’s why I thought he was the handyman but maybe he’s the estate manager?’

      Unless he had been a wedding guest putting on a very good act? Had she made a terrible mistake? No, he hadn’t been dressed like a wedding guest, had known his way around the confusing maze behind the baize door in the Georgian wing.

      She was going to have to get tough. ‘Listen,’ she began then stopped as something wet and cold snuffled its way into her hand. Looking down, she saw a pair of mournful brown eyes gazing up at her. ‘Monty!’

      Proof! Proof that she wasn’t going crazy and proof that Seb was here.

      Crouching down to scratch behind the springer spaniel’s floppy brown ears, Daisy broke into a croon. ‘How are you, handsome boy? It’s lovely to see you again. Now if you could just persuade this lady here that I need to see your master that will be brilliant.’ She couldn’t help throwing a triumphant glance over at her adversary.

      ‘Monty! Here, boy! Monty! Here I say.’ Peremptory tones rang across the courtyard and Daisy’s heart began to speed up, blood rushing around her body in a giddying carousel. Slowly she got back up, leaving one hand on the spaniel’s head, more for strength and warmth, and half turned, a smile on her face.

      ‘Hi, Seb.’

      * * *

      It had been a long morning. It wasn’t that Seb wasn’t grateful for his expensive education, his academic credentials and his various doctorates but there were times when he wondered just what use being able to recite Latin verse and debate the use of cavalry at Thermopylae was.

      Business studies, basic accountancy, and how to repair, heat and conserve an ancient money pit without whoring her out like a restoration actress would have been far more useful.

      He needed a business plan. Dipping into what was left of the estate’s capital would only get him so far. Somehow the castle needed to pay for itself—and soon.

      And now his dog was being disobedient, making eyes at a blonde woman improbably dressed in shorts and a trilby hat teamed with a garish waistcoat. Shorts. In March. On the other hand... Seb’s eyes raked the slender, long legs appreciably; his dog had good taste.

      ‘Monty! I said here. I am so sorry...’ His voice trailed off as the woman straightened and turned. Seb felt his breath whoosh out as he clocked the long blonde hair, blue eyes, tilted nose and a mouth that had haunted him for the last six weeks. ‘Daisy?’

      ‘Hello, Seb. You never call, you don’t write.’ An undercurrent of laughter lilted through her voice and he had to firm his mouth to stop a responsive smile creeping out. What on earth had brought the wedding photographer back to his door? For a few days afterwards he had wondered if she might get in touch. And what he would say if she did.

      For six weeks afterwards he had considered getting in touch himself.

      ‘Neither did you.’

      ‘No.’ Her eyelashes fluttered down and she looked oddly vulnerable despite the ridiculous hat tilted at a rakish angle and the bright lipstick. ‘Seb, could we talk?’

      She sounded serious and Seb tensed, his hands curling into apprehensive fists. ‘Of course, come on in.’ He gestured for her to precede him through the door. ‘Thanks, Mrs Suffolk, I’ll take it from here.’ He smiled at his most faithful volunteer and she moved aside with a sniff of clear disapproval.

      ‘I don’t think she likes me,’ Daisy whispered.

      ‘She doesn’t like anyone. Anyone under thirty and female anyway.’ He thought about the statement. ‘Actually anyone under thirty or any female.’

      Seb led the way through the narrow hallway, Monty at his heels. The courtyard entrance led directly into what had once been the servants’ quarters, a warren of windy passageways, small rooms and back staircases designed to ensure the maids and footmen of long ago could go about their duties without intruding on the notice of the family they served.

      Now it held the offices and workrooms necessary for running the vast estate. The few staff that lived in had cottages outside the castle walls and Seb slept alone in a castle that had once housed dozens.

      It would make sense to convert a floor of unused bedrooms and offer overnight hospitality to those who booked the Tudor Hall for weddings rather than chucking them out into the nearby hotels and guest houses. But it wasn’t just the expense that put him off. It was one thing having tourists wandering around the majestic keep, one thing to rent out the spectacular if dusty, chilly and impractical hall. The Georgian wing was his home. Huge, ancient, filled with antiques, ghosts and dusty corners. Home.

      And walking beside him was the last person to have stayed there with him.

      ‘Welcome back.’ Seb noted how, despite her general air of insouciance, she was twisting her hands together nervously. ‘Nice hat.’

      ‘Thanks.’ She lifted one hand and touched it self-consciously. ‘Every outfit needs a hat.’

      ‘I don’t recall you wearing one last time.’

      ‘I was dressed for work then.’

      The words hung heavily in the air and Seb was instantly transported back. Back to the slide of a zip, the way her silky dress had slithered to the ground in one perfect movement.

      Definitely no hat on that occasion, just glittering pins in her hair. It was a shame. He would have quite liked to have seen her wearing it when she had lain on his sofa, golden in the candlelight, eyes flushed from the champagne. Champagne and excitement. The hat and nothing else.

      He inhaled, long and deep, trying to ignore the thrumming of his heart, the visceral desire the memory evoked.

      Seb stopped and reconsidered his steps. The old estate office was an incongruous mix of antique desk, sofa and rug mixed with metal filing cabinets and shelves full of things no one wanted to throw away but didn’t know what else to do with.

      Now, with Daisy’s reappearance, it was a room with ghosts of its own. Six-week-old ghosts

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