By Royal Demand. Robyn Donald

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      Fala’isi was as distant to her as the stars, part of a life long gone. Fortunately, after several months of desperate endeavour, one decorator had agreed to give her a chance. She owed it to him to do this properly, even though he’d made it more than clear that if there was ever the smallest slip-up she’d go. So far he’d watched her closely, but the fact that he’d let her off the leash now must mean that he was learning to trust her.

      A knock on the door jerked her out of her unhappy thoughts. ‘Come in,’ she called.

      The manservant brought in her suitcase and placed it on a stand.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling at him.

      He gave a stiff nod. ‘If you need anything, madam, there is a bell-pull,’ he said, and left, closing the door silently behind him.

      Rebuffed, Sara caught sight of herself in a mirror and shuddered. She needed a shower and she needed it now. Mourning the forlorn mess her life had become wasn’t getting her anywhere; better to summon her energies and make this a success. And the first thing to go, she thought, should be the bell-pull, long and gold and tasselled in the most vulgar way.

      The bathroom was just as depressing as the bedroom, an abomination in mock-Victorian style with gilded taps and a marble tub. And the plumbing—well, it needed first aid.

      No, surgery—a major transplant, in fact. Grimly Sara washed in water that was barely lukewarm.

      Back in the room she looked around, her frown deepening as she realised that her suitcase had disappeared. Heart thumping, she went across to a large armoire against one wall and, yes, there were her clothes, either stacked on the shelves or hanging. Someone—not the man who’d shown her in, she hoped—had been busy while she’d showered.

      Prominently displayed on a hook inside the door were her sleek, ankle-length black skirt, a jetty silk camisole and her discreet, long-sleeved textured top, its transparent black webbed by silver mesh.

      Obviously castle owners dressed for dinner. She hadn’t brought high heels, but the skirt was long enough to hide the tops of her black ankle boots.

      ‘Thank you, whoever you are,’ she said devoutly to the unknown person who’d taken pity on her and hinted at suitable gear.

      Once dressed, a quick glance in the mirror revealed that she looked suitably anonymous. She made up with restraint, settling on a faint darkening of her eyes and berry-coloured lipgloss rather than the full armour. She couldn’t afford, she thought cynically, to look like a woman on the make!

      Carefully she pulled back her hair, pinning it into a neat, classic chignon at the back.

      A tactful knock at the door set her heart slamming in her chest. Calm down, she told herself sternly. No Igor, no vampires; this is a job—and your future depends on it, so go out there and do your best.

      The manservant stood back as she came through. ‘This way, madam,’ he said, and took her down in the lift, although not all the way to the bottom floor, then escorted her along another stone corridor.

      ‘To the parlour,’ he told her in his colourless voice. ‘It is less formal than the drawing room.’

      Oh, good, so this wasn’t going to be a formal occasion.

      Trying to regulate her heartbeats, she gazed discreetly around for clues to the taste of the owners. In spite of her American client, the original ancestors were still in residence; Sara met the painted eyes of one haughtily beautiful woman and wondered who she was, and why she seemed strangely familiar.

      Her companion stopped outside a door and flung it open, announcing, ‘Miss Milton.’

      And Sara walked into the nightmare that had haunted her dreams for the past year.

      After the tasteless kitsch of her bedroom, the elegant, panelled study came as a shock—but not as much a shock as the man who stood beside the marble Renaissance chimneypiece.

      Gabe Considine, the man she’d loved and had been going to marry. Tall, lean, yet powerfully built, clad in the formal black and white of evening clothes, his boldly chiselled features and slashing cheekbones exuding an uncompromising impression of power and authority.

      And although not a muscle in his lean, handsome face moved when he saw her, Sara sensed a dark, formidable satisfaction in him that chilled her through to her bones.

      For a terrified second every muscle in her body locked into stasis, holding her frozen to the floor.

      ‘Thank you, Webster,’ Gabe said, his voice cool and autocratic. He waited until the door closed behind the man, then smiled, and drawled, ‘Welcome to my ancestors’ castle, Sara.’

      Pride stiffened her spine; pride, and the sick knowledge that a trap had been sprung.

      After swallowing, to ease her arid throat, she said thinly, ‘I won’t say it’s a pleasure to be here.’

      ‘I didn’t expect you to.’ Eyes the colour and warmth of polished steel raked her face, summoned scorching heat to her skin as his gaze drifted downward.

      Cynically, Gabe decided that she’d dressed carefully for this. Although her clothes were outwardly demure, the neckline revealed the lovely lines of her throat and her every breath subtly called attention to the curves of the breasts beneath the silver mesh.

      As for the straight black skirt, so simple and straight—until she took a step, and the skirt opened just above the knee to showcase a long, elegant leg.

      A cold haze of jealousy clouded his brain. According to the firm that was running surveillance on her, she hadn’t gone out with anyone else in the past year, but her salary wasn’t enough to buy clothes like this. Second-hand? Probably; whatever, it didn’t matter.

      The classic hairstyle revealed her perfect features, cool and composed except for the luscious mouth, and even that she’d toned down with a mere film of rosy colour. She wore no jewellery at all, yet the overall effect was of a woman confident of her body and her sexuality.

      Unbidden memories swamped his mind—of her beneath him, soft and warm and silken, of her little gasping cries as she climaxed around him, the scent of her skin and the silken cloak of her hair, the way her voice changed from crisp confidence to an enchanting husky shyness when he made love to her, the way she laughed—

      Ruthlessly Gabe reimposed control over his unruly body.

      ‘You look well,’ he said smoothly. ‘Cool, sophisticated, yet businesslike. But then, image is your talent.’

      He watched the colour fade from that exquisite magnolia skin. No sign of blusher, he noted.

      ‘I hope my talent is a little more substantial than that,’ she said, crisply turning the unspoken insult from herself to her work. ‘I like to feel that interior decorating does more than create a pretty background. This, for example—’ looking around his study ‘—bears no resemblance to the bedroom you’ve given me. I’m sure I don’t need to ask you which room you feel most comfortable in.’

      A quick rally; but then, people who made a living from conning others had to have instant recovery when they were caught out.

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