LITMIR.BIZ

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was ten and there had been no relatives willing to take them in. Five years older, Lauren had been more like a little substitute mother than a big sister, at least, until she had fallen under Cruz’s influence and every rule had been broken, every moral flouted, every evil permitted. Freddie had been stuck in the middle of all that horror from the day of Eloise’s birth, knowing that if she moved out her niece would be lucky to survive that chaotic household where only constant vigilance protected the weak and vulnerable. Claire had urged her to walk away and turn her back but she had loved Eloise too much to do that.

      So, when Claire had generously agreed to apply to be the kids’ foster carer even though she wasn’t really ‘a kiddy person’, as she put it, the agreement had been that Freddie would continue doing the lion’s share of the childcare. That meant that Freddie stayed home days to see to the children and worked nights in a bar, having readied the kids for bed before she left Claire’s tiny terraced home. Claire had confessed herself content to live off the foster-care payments but Freddie had had to find work to bring in some extra money.

      And during Zac’s stay at the hotel, his tips had virtually doubled Freddie’s earnings. He had routinely tossed her two fifty-pound notes every time she served him and the first time, aware of his personal interest, she had taken umbrage and tossed them back, telling him she wasn’t for sale, only to be ambushed by another waitress who had angrily reminded her that their tips went into a communal pot, so she had had to go back to Zac’s table and apologise and pick up the discarded notes.

      His unsought generosity had, however, reclothed Eloise and Jack, put some very nice meals on the table and now that little gold pile was almost gone it was time for a treat, she thought, determined to start being more positive and stop worrying about Claire, who, ultimately, would do what she wanted to do regardless of what anyone else wanted. Equally, why was she beating herself up about a stupid dream? Fantasies were harmless and, in the flesh, Zac was decidedly a fantasy, a traffic-stoppingly beautiful man whom women stood still to study until they recollected themselves and, blushing, moved on.

      Of course, Freddie had done worse several weeks earlier when she had lost her temper with Zac and then burst into floods of tears. The stress of two sleepless nights with Jack running a fever had smashed all her defences flat. Claire had been so irritable about his crying disturbing her sleep and Freddie had been so exhausted, she had simply cracked down the middle and snapped when Zac had merely put a hand on her spine to steady her when she’d wobbled in the very high heels she had to wear for work. She had learned to be very averse to men touching her while she was living with her sister, whose home had overflowed with untrustworthy men. She had developed the habit of maintaining rigid boundaries and it had come back to haunt her at the worst possible moment.

      But then, although she had been forced to apologise for the scene she had made to retain her job, she had still believed her hysterical outburst couldn’t have happened to a more suitable person. Zac’s very first words to her, after all, had been unrepeatably dirty and blunt, an invitation to spend the night with him but not one couched in polite or acceptable terms. She had had many such invites before but he was the first who had ever employed that kind of language to her face and she had felt soiled by it, besmirched by the simple fact she had to wear denim shorts, little tops and high heels to work in the hip hotel bar. After all, she was well aware that at least one of her colleagues took money to sleep with customers, and she had always been very careful not to give the wrong impression to the male clientele by being too flirtatious and she never ever gave out her phone number. In any case, for better or for worse, she had no time for a boyfriend in her life. Her life was full to overflowing from the moment she got up at six until she fell into bed worn out soon after midnight.

      She checked into work punctually that evening, having earned several admonitions for being late when Claire failed to come home on time to take over charge of the children. Stashing her bag in the locker provided, she put on the shorts and the high heels that she had mercifully finally worn in and walked into the elegant black and white bar, with its eye-catching lighting and mirrored ceiling, to begin serving drinks. The black and white theme and the wonderfully opulent décor ran right through the boutique hotel, where no expense had been spared and where every comfort was on offer to those who could afford the high prices.

      ‘Mr da Rocha is out on the terrace,’ Roger, the bar manager, informed her.

      ‘Who the heck is Mr da Rocha?’ she asked.

      ‘That guy you don’t like. He’s back,’ Roger told her wryly and he lowered his head to whisper tautly, ‘A fairly reliable source tells me that Mr da Rocha bought this place a couple of months ago, so I would watch my step if I were you because if he decides he wants you out, you’ll be history.’

      Freddie was drop-dead stunned by that piece of information and she stared wide-eyed after Roger as he moved off to attend to a customer at the bar. Zac owned the hotel? How was it possible that a foul-mouthed, tattooed guy in ripped jeans and biker boots had bought a hotel in one of the most exclusive areas of London? She clenched her teeth in thwarted disbelief. Yes, Zac was a huge mystery because, no matter what he wore or how carelessly he spoke, he emanated a force field of power and arrogance and contrived to appear totally at home in a very upmarket hotel. Practising her brightest smile, Freddie marched out to the terrace, which was unnervingly empty but for him.

      And like a juggernaut parked in a too small parking space, Zac overfilled it, his devastating effect all the stronger because it had been so many weeks since she last saw him. He was wearing all black, which was a change from his usual denim blue jeans. Black jeans, black shirt, leather cuff on one arm, his St Jude necklace gleaming gold at his bronzed throat. Patron saint of lost causes, very appropriate, she thought inanely. But he was so outrageously gorgeous standing there that her mouth ran dry and her nipples tightened and her entire body leapt in a response that maddened her because it happened every time she saw him, like an alarm clock shrilling in her ear, reminding her that she was as weak and hormonal around him as every other young woman she saw staring at him with longing. While she might not stare, she was, at heart, no different from the rest of her sex, and the reminder rankled like a stone in her shoe she couldn’t shake loose.

      Lounging back against the boundary wall, Zac straightened the instant Freddie appeared, so tiny, so dainty she reminded him of a delicate doll. A doll he wanted to flatten down and spread on the nearest horizontal surface, he reminded himself, looking boldly into eyes that ranged from the colour of melted caramel to that of liquid chocolate. A wall would do perfectly well, he thought absently, so aroused at the sight of her he was threatening the fly in his new jeans, and the infuriating thing was that he didn’t know exactly what it was about her that so turned him on every time she was within view.

      ‘Mr...er da Rocha,’ she pronounced, startling him with both the name and the undeniably false smile she had pasted on her lips because, most pointedly, she was careful never ever to smile at him.

      And he knew right then that somebody had been talking and that she was somehow aware that he was not merely a hotel guest at The Palm Tree. Exasperation shimmered through him. He had bought the hotel for convenience, not for any form of recognition.

      ‘I have a proposition for you,’ Zac murmured huskily.

      He had the most lethal electric sensuality Freddie had ever heard in a man’s voice. He could make a drinks order sound like a caress that skimmed spectral fingers down her rigid spine.

      ‘I think I’ve already heard that one, sir,’ she tacked on tightly. ‘And I’m going to pass on it—’

      ‘No, you haven’t heard this one,’ Zac cut in with a raw impatience he did not even attempt to hide. ‘I will give you a thousand pounds to spend an hour with me. And no, not in bed if that’s what you’re thinking. An hour anywhere in any place of your choosing.’

      Her lashes fluttered up on utterly bewildered eyes. ‘But why would you offer—?’

      ‘I want to get to know you,’ Zac lied. ‘A conversation is all I’m asking for, nothing else. So, are you up for it or not?’

      ‘Anywhere, any place?’ she double-checked, because she didn’t

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