Secret Heirs: His One Night Consequence. Кэрол Мортимер

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      ‘You sure do. You can babysit for us next weekend. We’ve got plans for a night on the town, if you can mind Ashleigh.’

      ‘Done.’ She looked at her watch. She had to get back before the next crisis hit. ‘Don’t forget to give Leo a goodnight kiss from me.’ Stupid to feel that catch in her throat because tonight she wouldn’t feed him his evening meal or kiss his plump pink cheek at bedtime.

      Her son was in good hands and, she told herself sternly, she was lucky to have landed a job that usually gave her regular time with him. She was grateful the management had been impressed enough to allow her reasonably family-friendly hours.

      Today was the exception. The flu that ravaged the Landford’s staff had hit at the worst possible time. More than a third of the staff was off sick just when there was a series of major functions.

      It didn’t matter that Carys had already spent more than a full day on the job. The collapse just an hour ago of David, the senior functions manager, with a soaring temperature, meant Carys had to step into that role too.

      Nerves fluttered in her stomach. This was her chance to prove herself and justify David’s faith in her, having taken her on despite her incomplete qualifications. He’d been a good friend and a terrific mentor. She owed him not only her position, but the hard-won self-confidence she’d slowly built since coming to Melbourne.

      ‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back, Sarah. Probably in the early hours.’ Steadfastly Carys refused to worry about how she’d manage the trip home. She couldn’t rely on public transport at that time, and the cost of a cab was prohibitive. ‘I’ll see you around breakfast time, if that’s OK?’

      ‘That’s fine, Carys. Don’t fret. We’ll see you when we see you.’

      Slowly Carys replaced the phone and stretched her hunched shoulders. She’d been working at the computer and on the phone without a break for so long her body ached all over.

      She glanced at the monitor before her and saw the lines of the spreadsheet she’d opened dance and jumble before her eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose, knowing that no matter how hard she concentrated, working on the document would be a test of endurance and determination.

      Sighing, she reached for her tinted reading glasses and leaned forward.

      She had to finish this. Only then could she make last minute checks on the arrangements for tonight’s masked ball.

      Carys stood in the corner of the ballroom near the door to the kitchens, listening to the head waiter’s whispered update. It was mayhem in the kitchen with more staff struck down by this virulent flu. Only a couple of the extra waitstaff had arrived to replace those who’d phoned in ill, and the chefs were barely able to cope.

      Fortunately, the guests hadn’t noticed anything wrong. The Landford prided itself on superb service, and the staff were doing everything to live up to that reputation.

      The ballroom, all black and gold, was gracious and formally elegant. Antique chandeliers sparkled, casting a glow that set jewels scintillating among the A-list crowd. The guests looked impossibly chic as befitted one of Fashion Week’s major events.

      The room smelled of exclusive fragrances, hothouse flowers and money. Serious money. Celebrities, designers, buyers, the crème de la crème of Australian society, were here tonight and plenty of international high-flyers too.

       And they were all her responsibility.

      Carys’ pulse thundered and she struggled to focus on her companion’s words. She must concentrate if she wanted to ensure tonight was a success. Too much was at stake.

      ‘All right. I’ll see if we can get someone else from the restaurant to help out.’ She nodded, dismissing him and turning to the house phone on the wall. She reached out to hit the speed dial number for the restaurant, then froze.

      A tingling sensation began at the base of her spine. It burned its way up her back like the slide of hot ice on bare skin. Except her skin wasn’t bare. She wore a regulation jacket and straight skirt, dark stockings and high heels.

      Yet through the layers of clothing her skin sizzled, the hairs on her neck prickling.

      Carys replaced the phone with stiff, unsteady fingers. She pivoted, turning to face the shifting, colourful crowd. Staff circulated with gourmet canapés and vintage champagne; groups broke and reformed.

      The guests, most of them wearing exquisite handmade masks, were busy enjoying themselves or networking or showing off their finery. They wouldn’t notice anyone who didn’t belong in their rarefied circle.

      That suited Carys. She didn’t hanker for a place at a fairytale ball. Not since she’d given up on the whole Prince Charming fantasy.

      Yet heat washed her cheeks. Her breath snagged in her throat and her pulse accelerated as instinct told her she was being watched.

      Her heart was in her mouth as frantically she searched the throng for something, someone, familiar. Someone who could make her skin tingle and her heart race as it had before, long ago.

      Briefly she shut her eyes. Madness! That was in the past. A past best forgotten.

      Tiredness and nerves had simply made her imagine things.

      Her path and his would never cross again. He’d made certain of that. Carys’ lips twisted in a grimace as familiar pain stabbed her chest.

      No! Not now. She refused to let her wayward imagination distract her. People depended on her. She had a job to do.

      From across the packed room he watched her.

      His fingers curled, white-knuckled, around the back of a nearby chair. Blood roared in his ears as his heart thundered out of control. The shock of recognition was so strong he shut his eyes for an instant and lightning flickered across the darkness of his closed lids.

      Opening them, he saw her turn to the wall phone, her movements jerky.

      It was her. Not just the woman from the brochure, but more, the woman he remembered. Correction—almost remembered.

      An image teased his mind. An image of her walking away from him. Her back rigid, her steps staccato bites that ate up the ground as if she couldn’t get away fast enough. Bites that echoed the rapid pulse of his drumming heart as he stood rooted to the spot. She carried a case, the taxi driver ahead of her stowing another bag in his vehicle.

      Finally she paused. Alessandro’s heart stopped and rose in his throat. But she didn’t turn around. A moment later she was in the car as it accelerated in a spurt of gravel and swooped away down the private road from his Lake Como home.

      Still he stood, prey to an alien mix of sensations. Fury, relief, disappointment, disbelief.

      And hurt! Pain filled the yawning chasm inside him.

      Only once before in his entire life had Alessandro felt so intensely. At five, when his mother had deserted him for a life of pampered luxury with her lover.

      He stirred and shook his head, banishing the misty image, belatedly aware again of the crowded ballroom.

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