Romy glanced in the rear-view mirror, realising that she would have to go right round the roundabout and come back in again.
Minutes later, she was heading back towards the St Fiacre’s turn-off in her zippy little black car, bought largely with the bonus given to her by her last grateful client.
Not for the first time, Romy thanked her lucky stars that in business at least she had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. No job was too big, too small or too difficult for Romy to tackle, and Top Class, her very own company, was going from strength to strength.
She drew up in front of the distinctive navy blue and gold wrought-iron gates which separated St Fiacre’s from the rest of the world, and decided to risk a quick, critical glance at herself in the driver’s mirror.
Not too bad, she thought dispassionately as she squinted her eyes against the glare of the sun reflected there. She flicked a trace of dust from one smooth, pale cheek and risked a closer look.
Her face carried the barest trace of make-up and her thick, straight hair was expertly styled in the urchin cut which was currently so fashionable and which made the most of the unusual pale honey colour.
She wore a silk and linen trouser suit in a neutral dark cream colour which flattered the pale magnolia of her skin and the deep velvety brown of her eyes. Beneath the suit Romy wore a simple white silk T-shirt, and she looked as she had intended to look—professional and efficient and ready for anything.
Or anyone, she reminded herself, with a wry little twist of her wide mouth as she punched in the security number she had been given.
The gates swung open and Romy drove through them to have her first inside view of the St Fiacre’s estate.
She could see immediately why it was dubbed ‘the Beverly Hills of England’ by the popular Press. It didn’t just exude money—it positively shouted it from the summit of every beautifully designed rooftop!
Or at least what you could actually see of every rooftop, thought Romy as she craned her neck to try to get a better look at some of the palatial mansions she was passing.
Impossible to see anything, really. The hedges were too high, the gates and the fences too impenetrable. Several houses even had menacing-looking signs bearing the message “Warning! Dogs Loose!”.
Romy shuddered and uttered a fervent prayer that she wouldn’t bump into anything which growled and bared its teeth!
She glanced down at the directions her secretary had neatly typed out for her.
First right, down the road for half a mile, then the second house past the oak tree. She looked for confirmation that she had found the right house, saw the sign saying “Brunswick House” and, although she had tried for weeks now to suppress it, familiar cold fingers of fear crept over her skin.
Don’t be crazy, she urged herself silently. It’s just a job, like any other job. A job, what’s more, that you could do in your sleep!
But it was so much more than a job to Romy—in fact, for once, most uncharacteristically, the job had taken on secondary importance. Not even her secretary knew how high the stakes were going to be at this particular interview. For Romy was going to see Dominic again, after five long years which had seemed to stretch out in front of her like an eternity.
And this time she intended to exorcise his cruel and sexy ghost once and for all.
The gates were open and Romy steered the car down a sweeping drive which seemed to go on for ever, dimly observing the beautifully laid out gardens in the middle of which glittered a formal lake, before drawing up in front of an elegant red-brick house.
She switched off the ignition and quietly took in her surroundings.
In front of the house a dark green Aston Martin was parked, its sleek lines lying so close to the ground that it looked like a lithe jungle cat, just before it pounced.
So he was home...
Waiting...
Suppressing a shiver, and picking up her slim leather briefcase, Romy swung her legs out of the car, wishing that she could shake off the persistent and rather disconcerting feeling that she was being watched.
She had raised one hand to press on the doorbell when the door was suddenly opened, and Romy stood staring up at a man whose coldly handsome features would be etched on her memory until her dying day.
Dominic Dashwood—in the living, breathing flesh.
And... Oh, my God!
Elation and despair swamped over her like a tidal wave as she discovered that time and maturity had done nothing except add to that formidable appeal of his. He had always been a dynamic-looking man, but now he exuded the quietly confident air of the seriously successful.
With the expertise born of weeks of practice, Romy somehow managed to present to him a face which was both polite and impassive, as if he were just another client she was meeting.
‘Hello,’ he said softly.
‘H-hello,’ she stammered, feeling as overcome as a sixteen-year-old in the presence of her favourite pop star. Oh, why in heaven’s name had she agreed to take the job? Had she really been stupid enough to think that she might now be immune to him? After all that had happened between them?
So what did she do next? Did she pretend she didn’t recognise him, or what? She hunted for the smallest flicker of recognition in his eyes but saw nothing other than self-possession and detachment. So either he didn‘t recognise her or he was pretending not to. Well, two could play at that game, mister!
‘Romy Salisbury,’ he stated, in a deep voice which still had the power to bring her out in goosebumps beneath the cream jacket she wore. His steely grey eyes swept over her in candid assessment.
Romy waited, but that was all he said and she carefully kept her face neutrat—determined not to show that she was itching to know why he had asked her here.
It might simply be coincidence that he had hired her, of course. She was, after all, one of the best party planners in the business. So why on earth look for hidden agendas which might simply not exist? And wouldn’t it be best for everyone if he didn’t recognise her? Five years was a long time.
But deep in her heart she knew that it was not coincidence which had brought her here this weekend. Men like Dominic Dashwood did not allow something as unpredictable as coincidence to govern their lives.
‘That’s right,’ she agreed with a smile, and decided to follow his lead—polite but distant
Very distant.
‘So, by a simple process of elimination, you must be...’ Her voice faltered slightly as she failed to block out just how spectacularly handsome he was. How could she have forgotten that? ‘Austen Holdings, I suppose?’ she finished pertly, giving the name of the company in which he had made the booking, presumably to keep his identity secret
She held her hand out to him, triumphant in the knowledge that in that at least he had failed! ‘So would you prefer me to call you Austen?’ she enquired sweetly. ‘Or Holdings?’
Dominic had to bite back a reluctant smile as he wondered if her cool indifference was feigned or genuine; his pride and his ego instinctively rebelled against the unthinkable—that she did not remember him!
But he hesitated for no more than a fraction of a second, then took her outstretched hand in his. ‘You must call me Dominic,’ he instructed softly. ‘Or Dashwood, if you prefer.’
His grey eyes blazed at her as he watched for her reaction, and this made Romy even more determined to keep her face impassive.
‘Dominic will do just fine.’ she agreed noncommittally. ‘Why on earth should I want to call you Dashwood?’
He smiled, but now Romy could detect a cold flicker of anger which lurked in the depths of his grey eyes. Had her supposed failure to recognise him