Untamed Billionaire, Undressed Virgin. Anna Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ and some cold, hard strategy, she doubted she could bring that off. Campaigns weren’t her style. In the situation she was in right now, though, some cool, ruthless strategy was definitely warranted.

      She felt a little shiver of apprehension.

      There was only one thing for it. Whatever it took, she would have to find a way to seize her letter back. She couldn’t allow Connor O’Brien to ruin her chance to know her father before it had even begun. And he wouldn’t win any future encounter with her, either, dammit. He’d better learn that, kissed or unkissed, Sophy Woodruff was a force to be reckoned with.

      Somehow, if it killed her, she would find a way into his office.

      It gave her an eerie feeling to realise that at this very second he might be on the other side of her wall, gazing out at the very same view.

      Connor frowned out across the treetops, beyond the Gardens, to where a strip of Walsh Bay glimmered under a hot blue sky. It occurred to him that not so very far away, as the crow flew, he owned a house. Most of his father’s things had been auctioned for charity, as became the possessions of the extremely wealthy, but it might do, especially as it wasn’t too far from the haunts of Elliott Fraser. He was sure he’d left some of his law books there. Slightly outdated perhaps, but he could pick up some of the current publications later. It might be interesting to see what had changed this side of his old profession.

      He stepped back from the window and gazed appreciatively around at the high-ceilinged rooms with their ornate cornices. If he’d been setting up for real, he couldn’t have found a more pleasing location.

      He glanced at his watch. Organise a car, then take some time to pick up his books and some stationery supplies before the office furnishings were delivered. Consider his next encounter with Sophy Woodruff….

      His pulse rate quickened. He wondered what the letter was she’d been searching for. The anxiety in those stunning eyes had seemed genuine enough. With her sweet low voice, the ready flush washing into her cheek, she’d seemed amazingly soft, too soft to be any of the things Sir Frank suspected. But he was too hardened a case to be sucked in by appearances. Women in the profession could be superb actresses…

      Whatever she was searching for, his challenge would be to find it first.

      He remembered the fire that had flashed in those blue eyes when he’d touched her, and his blood stirred. He could so enjoy a worthy protagonist.

      * * *

      At lunchtime, on her way down to the basement deli, Sophy saw Connor O’Brien assisting some workmen to manoeuvre a handsome rosewood bookshelf through his door. She grimaced to herself. No doubt he needed it for storing other people’s private documents.

      She queued at the deli for a salad sandwich, but instead of taking it to her usual picnic spot in the Gardens, headed back upstairs to finish some of the morning’s reports. As she reached the top of the last flight her stomach flipped in excitement.

      Connor’s door was standing half open.

      Her imagination leaped to the possibilities. The workmen must have gone to pick up their next load. Had the arrogant beast gone with them?

      Except that would be too good to be true. Surely he wouldn’t leave his office unlocked and unattended?

      With a thudding heart, she slowed her pace, and as she reached his door hesitated, pretending to search for something in her bag. She could hear no sound from within. All she could see in the slice of reception office visible through the half-open door was an empty expanse of carpet and the corner of the built-in reception desk.

      He could be in the inner room, though, skulking. She hovered there, straining her ears, trying to guess if anyone was inside. If he was in there, she reasoned, she should be able to sense his presence. A quick glance along the gallery revealed a couple of people waiting for the lift at the other end. She closed her eyes and listened, but the air seemed flat and empty.

      Voices floated up to her from below. She darted across and looked over the balustrade. There were people on the stairs to the lower levels, but no sign of Connor O’Brien. And the lift must have arrived without the workmen, for the waiting people were now stepping into it.

      For the moment, the coast seemed to be clear.

      It was too good a chance to lose. She made a small precautionary knock, then waited with her heart thumping fit to burst. Nothing disturbed the stillness. Feeling as guilty as a thief, she cast a last furtive glance about, then slipped inside.

      Familiar with the layout, she sensed immediately that the entire suite, including both offices and the tiny tea-room inside, were unoccupied. She ventured through the connecting door into the larger room. Already Millie’s comfortable presence had gone. The place had a different feel, as if it had been given over to some sterner god.

      Daylight streamed in through the tall windows, and with it the view her office shared of the Botanical Gardens and the strip of harbour beyond. A laptop sat on a heavy rosewood desk beside a stack of new stationery—cardboard folder files, packaged paper and a selection of office equipment. The bookshelves were bare, a large tea chest of books beside them waiting to be unpacked. She tilted her head and read a couple of the titles upside down. Policy and Practice of Human Rights Law. International Human Rights.

      She felt disconcerted. Connor O’Brien was a lawyer?

      How ironic. If he was so concerned about human rights, what was he doing stealing people’s private letters? For a second she experienced a doubt. It hardly made sense. Could she have leaped to the wrong conclusion and lost her letter somewhere else?

      Even visualising the envelope made a hot and cold sensation of the most unmistakable immediacy sweep over her, as though all the tiny hairs on her body were standing on end. Her overwhelming instinct told her it was close by. If she closed her eyes, she could practically feel the texture of the paper in her hands. Without a doubt she knew it had to be here in this room.

      The question was where?

      A new filing cabinet stood within easy reach of the desk. She glanced over her shoulder at the door and, ignoring some warning prickles in her nape, tried the top drawer. It sounded empty, but it was locked. They were all locked. She felt a surge of excitement.

      Why would he lock the filing cabinet if he had nothing worth hiding? She looked around for the keys. She tried the desk drawers first, but, finding them empty, turned to survey the room. Her eye fell on a briefcase, leaning up against the leg of his desk chair.

      Ah. A thrill of guilty excitement shivered down her spine.

      Should she?

      She vacillated for a moment, but with the seconds ticking away it was no time for squeamishness. Her pulse drumming in her ears, she whisked the briefcase up onto the desk, pushing aside stationery to make room, and unzipped the main compartment intended for the laptop. It was empty, apart from a couple of memory sticks.

      Increasingly conscious of the possibility of the workmen’s return, she made a hasty search of the other compartments. Her letter wasn’t in any of them, nor any keys. In fact, the case contained nothing except for a few odds and ends for the computer. That was when she noticed Connor O’Brien’s jacket, slung on the back of his chair.

      Having sunk this deep into crime, rifling a personal jacket didn’t seem much more of a stretch.

      Gingerly, СКАЧАТЬ