A Haunting Obsession. Miranda Lee

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      CHAPTER ONE

      JORDAN VINE-HALL sat at his large leather-topped desk, drumming the fingers of his right hand and glaring down at the phone. It had taken all of his control not to slam the damned thing down after speaking with that woman. Even now—several seconds later—his temper was still frayed around the edges.

      Who did she think she was, treating him like that? Didn’t she know the adage that the customer was always right? Any real-estate agent worth his or her salt would have been fawning all over him, not giving him the proverbial cold shoulder.

      OK, so he’d been a bit brusque initially, and he’d probably piqued her undoubtedly feminist nature by saying he’d asked for a salesman. But so what? Her job was to sell him a house, not make snap judgements on his possible chauvinism. She should have hidden her irritation, not snootily told him that she was, in fact, a valued member of Coastal Properties’. sales staff, but if he insisted she would pass him on to one of her male colleagues.

      Perhaps he should have let her do just that!

      Hell, he had a good mind not to go at all. Let her wait and sweat for nothing. No doubt, underneath, she thought she was on to a sure sale with his having said money was no object. Serve her right if he didn’t turn up. God, she hadn’t even had the decency to crawl a little once she’d known she had money on the line.

      A wry but somewhat reluctant half-smile curved one corner of Jordan’s normally serious mouth and he leant back into the deep leather chair, elbows on the padded arm-rests, his long fingers steepled in front of his chest. He supposed he had to admire her for that. It was even a pleasant change in a way. And rather intriguing. He was used to people kowtowing to him, especially women.

      Closing his eyes, he tried to put a face to the coolly competent voice and came up with one which looked suspiciously like his mother when she’d been younger, his black-haired, black-eyed beautiful mother, his sleekly sophisticated and treacherously adulterous mother!

      Jordan scowled, then snapped forward on his chair, determined to get his mind back on work, and off Mrs Merrick of Coastal Properties. But it was no use. His curiosity over the woman was far too aroused.

      Or was it something else?

      He frowned, then swore. Yes, dammit. That was it. That was definitely it. Somehow, Mrs Merrick’s voice—or was it her challenging attitude?—had sparked a sexual response in him. God knew how. It was crazy, really. Quite crazy.

      But, crazy or not, he couldn’t sit in his damned office another moment. He had to see for himself the face behind the voice, had to see if reality would live up to fantasy.

      And if it did?

      His conscience stabbed at him as he put on his jacket and felt for his car keys in the pocket. The woman was married. He himself was on the verge of becoming engaged, to a very beautiful young lady who gave him everything he’d ever wanted from a woman. Total attention. Adoration. Sex—when he had time for it. She never complained or demanded. She was sweet and accommodating. She was perfection.

      She wouldn’t change if he married her, either. He was confident of that. Erica was one of those females who considered being a wife a career in itself. Exactly his cup of tea.

      So what the hell are you doing, jumping up and running off to see some woman, just because she has a sexy voice? You don’t mean to do anything about it, do you? Do you?

      Suddenly, he wasn’t at all sure of that, either.

      His grimace reflected this highly uncharacteristic inner torment. It wasn’t like him to be unsure of anything. He’d always known exactly what he wanted in life, and was on the verge of having it all.

      Now here he was, being besieged by the most ridiculous—and potentially dangerous—impulse. Common sense warned him to buy a weekender from another real-estate agent in Blackrock Beach; there were several listed in the phone book. But somehow common sense had no power against his intense desire to see the woman he’d just hung up on in the flesh. No power at all.

      He mocked himself with a dry laugh as he hurried towards the lift. With a bit of luck, Mrs Merrick wouldn’t be anything at all like the coolly beautiful creature she sounded. Voices could be very deceiving. She would probably turn out to be a hard-faced middle-aged hag with about as much sex appeal as Ma Kettle.

      Jordan hoped so. He really did.