building that housed Dalton International.
Almost before the chauffeur had opened the car door, a brisk young man appeared to greet them. Having taken charge of their luggage, he escorted them up in the high-speed elevator to the bright, baking heat of the roof, where a helicopter was waiting on the pad.
Moments later, rotor-blades whirling, they lifted off into the sun-filled dome of a cloudless blue sky, the spectacular skyline of downtown San Francisco falling away beneath them. Cassandra could only admire the meticulous efficiency of the whole operation.
After a breathtaking flight down the rugged coast, they turned inland and headed for the Sierra Roca, where Lang Dalton had his home. The superb scenery became sun-baked and mountainous, and the conclusion of their journey proved to be equally impressive.
Once again a sleek limousine was standing by to ferry them the short distance from the landing-pad to a white, one-storey, Spanish-style hacienda.
Built around a huge central patio and swimming pool, it was surrounded by extensive gardens, archways, bougainvillaea-draped terraces, fountains and statuary.
From the air the lavish spread had looked like a film set, the very epitome of where the wealthy and privileged lived.
When the big car slid to a halt on the paved apron outside the main entrance, their uniformed chauffeur jumped out and opened the door. Almost before they had time to get out, a white-coated servant appeared and whisked away their small amount of luggage.
At the same instant a tall, wide-shouldered man with thick, sun-bleached fair hair appeared on the terrace and came down the shallow flight of steps to meet them.
His clothes were casual: well-cut olive-green trousers and a silk, open-necked shirt. He looked completely assured and coolly elegant.
‘Brent…’ He shook hands with Alan, and turned to look at Cassandra.
She saw his face was lean and tanned with thickly lashed, heavy-lidded eyes, and a strong, bony nose. He was about thirty-two or three, she judged, much better looking than she had imagined, and even more formidable.
‘Miss Vallance…’ There was a ghost of a polite smile around his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’m Lang Dalton…’
Very conscious of the way he dwarfed her five feet seven inches, and of the mature width of his shoulders, she murmured a formal, ‘How do you do?’
‘Welcome to the Villa San Gabriel. I hope you had a good flight?’ His voice was attractive and unexpectedly cultured, his speech clipped and decisive.
His hand, well-shaped and muscular, closed over hers, and she felt a rising panic as he looked her over from head to toe, coolly appraising.
She was dressed in a businesslike grey silk suit and her ash-brown hair had been tamed into an elegant coil which emphasized her long, slender neck, her high cheekbones, and the pure line of her jaw.
With that wonderful bone-structure she could have been part Cherokee, he thought. Her winged brows and slightly slanting green eyes, her wide, generous mouth and cleft chin made her one of the most unusually beautiful women he’d ever seen.
Seeing she was made uncomfortable by his silent scrutiny, he said, ‘I decided it was high time I met you.’
‘I’m surprised you even knew of my existence.’ Her husky voice, and the way she withdrew her hand, betrayed her nervousness.
‘I make it my business to know about the people who work for me.’
But surely he couldn’t know about all the people in such a vast organization? She felt afraid. Singled out. Like a victim chosen to be sacrificed.
Abruptly, he said, ‘You’re not at all as I’d…’ There was a fleeting pause before he added, ‘Pictured.’
‘Neither are you.’ The imprudent words were out before she could stop them.
‘Oh? What had you expected?’
Someone short and paunchy, thick-necked and balding, with an aggressive, belligerent manner, rather than this air of contained but absolute authority.
But she could hardly tell him that. ‘I—I hadn’t realized you’d be quite so young.’
A strange inflection in his voice, he said slowly, ‘And I hadn’t realized you’d be quite so beautiful.’
As he spoke she saw that his teeth were excellent, his mouth wide and firm, the upper lip thinner than the lower… A controlled mouth, she thought, yet it held a disturbing touch of sensuality. Despite the hot sun, a strange shiver ran through her.
He noticed that betraying movement, and eyes that were a deep blue with darker rims to the irises caught and held hers.
Possibly he read the apprehension in their green depths, because he asked silkily, ‘Are you afraid of me, Miss Vallance?’
‘Aren’t most people?’
Even as she regretted her unthinking retort, she recalled Alan saying, ‘There was a story going around that even his own PA was afraid of him…’
If she had let it pass casually he might have taken the remark at face value, but, only too aware of her blunder, she found herself flushing furiously.
A white line appeared round his mouth. ‘I see you’ve been listening to some old gossip.’
There was a frozen silence, then Alan, who had been standing by unheeded and forgotten, stepped forward and, giving her a warning look, began hastily, ‘I’m sure Cass didn’t mean—’
‘Perhaps you’ll allow Miss Vallance to speak for herself,’ Lang Dalton broke in curtly.
Cassandra lifted her chin and looked him in the face. His grim expression told her that any attempt at an explanation could only make matters worse.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did.’
‘Even if it were true?’
‘Especially if it were true.’ By her side, she felt Alan stiffen, and wondered despairingly why she, who was normally prudent and diplomatic, seemed hell-bent on signing her own death warrant.
Trembling a little, she waited for the axe to fall.
Instead, the anger in the dark blue eyes changed to ironic amusement. ‘I see you have a sense of humour.’
‘A sense of self-preservation might be more use.’
He laughed, white teeth gleaming against his tan. ‘I thought perhaps you liked to live dangerously?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not the type. Too chicken.’
‘Somehow I doubt it. But I’ll be able to judge for myself when I get to know you better…’ There was a lot about this woman he still didn’t know. But he fully intended to.
Disconcerted by the steely purpose she sensed beneath the mundane words, she glanced at Alan, who, excluded from the conversation, moved a little restlessly.
Lang Dalton’s gaze flicked to him, and then back to Cassandra. ‘In the meantime, I expect you’d like to have a shower and get settled in before dinner?’ He lifted a hand.
A Mexican houseboy in white baggy trousers and a tunic appeared as if by magic.
‘Manuel will show you both to your rooms.’
‘Thank you.’ With a feeling of reprieve, Cassandra turned and followed the short, slim youth up the steps and across the wide terrace, conscious that Lang Dalton stood quite still where he was and watched them.
When they were well out of earshot, Alan remarked, ‘Well, it could have been worse, I suppose… And presumably there’ll be other people present from now on. It won’t be just the two of us in the hot seat…’
But it hadn’t