melt; her loins burn with a tense and feverish heat. And then, of course, he was at every company function that Ranulph insisted she attend.
‘How old are you?’ she found the courage to ask him after he had asked her to dance at that last company dinner.
And he replied, ‘Too old for you.’
Approaching nineteen, confident of her looks and a sexuality she had sometimes despaired of, she laughed up into his strong, exciting face and, using everything that was feminine in her to try and break through his hard imperviousness towards her, answered sweetly, ‘And what makes you think that that simple question suggests I’d want you?’
Her boldness surprised him, but he merely laughed under his breath and pulled her shockingly close.
‘Because I’m probably the only man in London who hasn’t shown any inclination to bed you,’ he returned, his smile blazing, his eyes coolly sardonic. ‘And one thing I strongly suspect about you, Shannon, is that your greatest challenges are the things you know you can’t have.’
Though she laughed it off, his remark depressed her, assuring her that, when it came to getting Kane Falconer to like her—let alone want her—she was wasting her time. He was too experienced, much too clever for her to outwit, argue with or even try to use her teenage charms on, and in his company she merely suffered one frustrating humiliation after another.
When she started seeing Jason Markham and he asked her to spend the summer with him at his lochside cottage in Scotland she grabbed the chance, as an opportunity to escape not only her father’s increasing domination, but also her hopeless feelings for Kane. They were, she decided, blind and stupidly juvenile; outrageously sexual; agonisingly intense.
Her relationship with Jason, on the other hand, provided her with something far less dramatic, along with friendship, of which, at the time, she seemed to be in short supply. Most of the women she tried to befriend since she had blossomed into womanhood seemed to view her only as a sexual rival, and most men as a means of boosting their egos.
Jason seemed interested in her as a person. He listened to her ideas; seemed to share her dreams. And if the relationship was a little less passionate to start with than he had hoped, well, he had no intention of rushing her—he was a patient man, he assured her, content to wait. And that was how she felt—content and comfortable. As one should feel with a person you were considering making a life with, she managed to convince herself. Not so crazy with wanting that you felt you’d burst from the agony of it; not like the mindless, adolescent crush she had harboured for Kane. And if Jason never drove her to those frenzied heights she had dreamed of reaching in Kane Falconer’s arms…well, wasn’t that for the best? What she felt for Jason was real, not something imagined; real and whole and lasting. Because Jason Markham, up-and-coming racing driver and son of a prominent cabinet minister, was real. Jason was there. Jason was hers.
Which was why, when the story hit the headlines of his wife’s suicide attempt following his infidelity, the tabloids had a field day, citing Shannon as the proverbial femme fatale with Markham as the hapless victim.
Numb with disbelief—over being lied to—she returned to London to face a barrage of questions she refused to answer, as well as a double dose of her father’s temper when she discovered that Kane Falconer had had a disagreement with him that same week and walked out.
She knew Kane had on more than one occasion been head-hunted by the competition; knew he’d found Ranulph difficult to work with. But after the pain of her own betrayal by a man she had convinced herself she was in love with, or at the very least trusted, Kane’s defection lanced her to the quick.
Disillusioned, hurting, she was alone at the house when he called that weekend to pick up some personal papers, when the scandal she was at the centre of turned his usual mocking detachment into full-blown anger with her after she pelted him with an angry tirade of abuse.
‘You dare to question my behaviour?’ His eyes were hard with hostility. ‘That’s rich coming from an attention-seeking little socialite who’ll stop at nothing to get her kicks! And I can think of far worse names, Shannon, but I’ll spare you those.’ She didn’t realise then that he was a friend of Jennifer Markham’s family, which must have accounted for why he was so angry. ‘I only hope you find what you’re looking for—for your sake as well as everybody else’s!’ he sliced at her as he crossed to the door.
Stung by his opinion, by his leaving, by the frustration of never having had this man on her side, she flung back at him, ‘You called me a Jezebel the first time you saw me. Well, if I’m a Jezebel, you’re a Judas! Crossing over to the other side!’
It was her hurt anger that had made her say it; and her envy that he was free to walk away, because secretly she admired him for standing up to her father. He wasn’t a yes man—not a man her father, or anyone for that matter, could push around.
He’d walked out then, slamming the front door behind him, and she hadn’t seen him again until today. Rumour had it that he hadn’t joined another company immediately. She even recalled Ranulph saying he’d cut off his nose to spite his face and that he’d live to regret walking out on Bouvier’s the way he had. But he hadn’t, she thought, if this yacht was anything to go by. He’d obviously got another lucrative post; used those skills and that amazing insight to take him to the top in some other company…
She yawned widely, the occasional gentle motion of the boat relaxing her, making her eyelids heavy…he’d obviously done all right for himself.
The evening sun was streaking gold across the water and, standing on the aft deck, Kane breathed in the cooling air coming off the sea.
Across the wharf the traffic was moving again. He could hear the hum of engines, noticed the first lights coming on in the bars and cafés around the marina, and found himself thinking back to that day, nearly a year ago, when he had answered that distress call from Ranulph Bouvier.
He had found him then, because of circumstances he could so easily have predicted, distraught, driving himself too hard, a near broken man. He had brought it all on himself, Kane knew, but he’d been unable to hold that against the man. Ranulph had needed his help and advice, and Kane had been too worried about him and the company he had once worked for to refuse.
The man was killing himself, he thought. The doctors had told him to take things easy, but it wasn’t just the problems of the company that were driving him into the ground, Kane was sure. It was his estrangement from Shannon that was responsible for that.
On the evening breeze he could still hear Ranulph’s words as he’d stood with him that first evening on the patio of the Bouvier mansion. Find my daughter! For pity’s sake, find my daughter! Find her and…
Effectively, he brought the shutters down over the rest of their conversation, and yet that genuine plea from his old employer still tore at his heart.
The man was a tyrant—an oppressor—yet, handled correctly, he was like a tiger with all its teeth pulled out…loud but harmless. And he wanted his daughter back.
Kane inhaled another deeply impatient sigh. So what if he did? It was none of his business. He might have the know-how to turn the fortunes of a company around, but what he knew about human relationships—father and daughter relationships—he could write on a postage stamp. True, he’d made several attempts to find her—and for his own reasons. But it had been a difficult year, and he had had very little time to go chasing missing heiresses, and when he had had the time he had always drawn a blank. Until today…
And now he had found her, he was beginning to wish he hadn’t. She didn’t look—wasn’t—well, and he was immensely concerned over what she might be doing to herself.
If only he could make her see sense. Persuade her to go home before she wound up making herself really ill, he thought, anxiety clenching his jaw from the futility of his wishful thinking. Because how could he expect to do that in just a couple of hours? he asked himself, cursing his schedule, for once impatient with the commitments he had made that left him very little time.
Above