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“Let me prove it to you!”
“With a kiss?” Emma struggled angrily in Patrick’s arms. “Go to hell! I know precisely what a kiss from you will lead to!”
“Yes, so do I!” Patrick pulled her hard against him. “That’s precisely why I’m going to do it. To force you to acknowledge just how strong the bond between us really is!”
Emma stopped struggling. “What bond? There is no bond…”
“There is, and you know it!”
SARAH HOLLAND was born in Kent, southern England, and brought up in London. She began writing at eighteen because she loved the warmth and excitement of Harlequin Mills & Boon. She has traveled the world, living in Hong Kong, the south of France and Holland. She attended drama school, and was a nightclub singer and a songwriter. She now lives on the Isle of Man. Her hobbies are acting, singing, painting and psychology. She loves noisy dinner parties, buying clothes and being busy.
Master of Seduction
Sarah Holland
FOR
Karen Patricia White
THE white Citroën taxi drew up on the quai of St Tropez. A row of glittering white yachts bobbed gently in the warm harbour waters, while opposite them sat hundreds of people at the jaunty cafés lining the street, sipping Perrier and watching the rich go by.
Emma stepped out of the car, scarlet sundress fluttering in the hot breeze, drawing attention to her long, slim legs. Her hair was black as night, long and curvy, framing a beautiful, classical face with cat-green eyes and a full, firm mouth.
‘I’ll pay the fare,’ Liz said with a bright smile. ‘You go to the yacht and ask for some help with the cases.’
Emma stared blankly at the row of luxury yachts. ‘Which one is it?’
‘Oh—sorry. The big one in the middle. It’s called Sea Witch.’
Turning, Emma walked quickly along the hot stone quai, looking up at the yachts with a bemused smile.
All this reminded her of her childhood, when her rich father would pamper and parade her to all his rich friends, and she would play the beloved daughter for his benefit. The only trouble was, she had been very far from beloved. She had been more of a pretty little doll for him to dress in expensive clothes, and the artifice of that world was akin to the glittering artifice of these magnificent yachts. It was an artifice she had rejected when her father died, and one she did not wish to return to.
It therefore seemed ironic to walk along the quai looking for the yacht she would be cruising on for the next two weeks with Liz’s elder brother, Patrick.
Liz was her best friend and also, currently, her employer. Liz wrote romantic novels. Emma detested them. But she also detested an unproductive life, and when her previous job as a secretary had come to a conclusion in January Liz’s secretary had resigned. It had seemed the perfect solution for Emma to begin working for Liz.
She had been working for Liz for six months now, and, while she found the general soppiness of romantic novels absurd, she loved spending every day with her friend.
When Liz’s elder brother had telephoned from America last week to invite Liz on this cruise, Liz had invited Emma. Emma had been delighted to accept, thinking the yacht would be a small and unpretentious craft.
But now she felt swamped by waves of nasty déjà vu as she strolled along the quayside looking for the glittering white multi-million dollar palace of a yacht called Sea Witch.
Suddenly, she was in front of it.
Two people, a man and a woman, sat on white chairs on the deck drinking cocktails. The man was bare-chested with dark hair, and the woman was a glamorous brunette with red lips. They both wore sunglasses.
Emma cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me—I’m Emma Baccarat, Liz Kinsella’s secretary, and——’
‘About bloody time,’ drawled the brunette. ‘We’ve been waiting around all day. It’s gone four and we were supposed to sail at three!’
Emma steeled herself to be polite. ‘Perhaps you should take that up with the airline. It was hardly my fault the flight was delayed. In the meantime, we need some help with our cases. Could anyone lend us a hand?’
‘Yes, I’ll come and help.’ The man got to his feet, revealing himself to be an astonishingly handsome giant, at least six feet six, as he strode, rippling with solid muscle, down the wooden gangplank.
Emma stared at him from behind her dark glasses.
He was the best-looking man she had ever seen. A living archetype of powerful masculinity, with that body, that tough face and that height. Suntan oil sheened his bare, bronzed chest, gleaming on black hairs and solid muscle, down to the flat brown stomach above his faded jeans.
He stopped in front of her, towering over her with a cool, condescending smile. ‘I’m Patrick Kinsella.’
This arrogant giant was Liz’s brother? Emma just stared at him, stupefied,