sandwiches. But she quickly discovered that the contents of the fridge consisted of a lump of out-of-date cheese and a couple of raw steaks. Investigation of the kitchen cupboards proved just as unsuccessful. Sophie was desperate for a cup of tea but she had to make do with preparing coffee in a cafetière, and from the back of a cupboard she unearthed a packet of biscuits which she placed on a tray and carried back to the study.
There was no response when she tapped on the door. Undeterred, she walked in and smiled brightly as she placed the tray on the desk in front of Nicolo.
‘I thought you might like some lunch but I couldn’t make any sandwiches because you don’t seem to have any food, apart from a couple of steaks in the fridge and half a dozen more in the freezer. I guess all that red meat is for Dorcha. What on earth do you eat for dinner?’
‘Steak,’ Nicolo growled, ‘cooked rare.’ His eyes narrowed on Sophie’s face. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Miss Ashdown? I told you to leave—not scavenge around in my kitchen.’
‘To be honest there wasn’t much to scavenge. And it would have been nice if you had offered me a cup of tea after I’d had a long drive here.’
‘It was your choice to come and not my problem that you had a wasted journey. I made my feelings about the goddamned shareholders’ meeting clear to Giatrakos.’
Sophie had drawn up a chair beside the desk, but before she sat down she reached for the cafetière. ‘I’ll pour, shall I?’ she said brightly.
‘Santa Madre!’ Nicolo exploded. ‘What part of get out of my house do you not understand, Miss Ashdown?’
‘I have no intention of leaving,’ she told him calmly.
‘In that case I am perfectly entitled to force you to leave.’ Nicolo jumped to his feet and strode around the desk, propelled by a surge of anger that surprised him with its intensity. For years he had stifled his emotions, determined that he would never again allow his temper to flare out of control. The scars covering one side of his body were a constant reminder of what he was capable of when he lost his temper, he thought grimly. Dio! But Sophie Ashdown had pushed him to his limit by barging into his home and disturbing his peace.
Sophie’s heart sank as she stared up at Nicolo’s furious face. His skin was drawn tight over his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes were no longer expressionless but were glinting with a warning that she was beginning to wish she had heeded. A purely feminine instinct noted that he had interesting eyes; the light brown irises were ringed with a distinctive band of olive-green and the unusual two-toned effect was strangely mesmerising.
She edged away from him and her spine came into sharp contact with the edge of the desk. It occurred to her that she should have told him she had his father’s permission to be at Chatsfield House, but she had kept that trump card to herself in case there was an occasion when it might be useful. The occasion was now, she realised. But before she could speak, Nicolo seized hold of her waist and, ignoring her startled cry, lifted her off her feet and hoisted her over his shoulder.
‘Hey—put me down….’ The room swung dizzily in front of Sophie’s eyes as he walked over to the door. She could feel her blood rushing to her head, but worse than the discomfort of her position was the loss of her dignity. She was outraged at being carried like a sack of potatoes.
‘How dare you!’ She curled her hand into a fist and thumped his back, but he took no notice and continued walking out of the study and across the hall to the kitchen.
Her handbag was on the worktop where she had left it. He picked it up. ‘Are your car keys in here?’
‘Yes. Put me down. I promise I’ll leave.’
‘You had your chance, Miss Ashdown.’ His tone was uncompromising.
It was difficult to breathe properly with her stomach squashed against Nicolo’s hard shoulder and Sophie could hear herself panting in time with his footsteps. She could not believe he was treating her like this. She kicked her legs wildly, hoping to force him to put her down, but he simply tightened his hold on her. His hand was splayed across her bottom to anchor her in place and she could feel the heat of his palm through her skirt.
To her shock, she felt a melting sensation between her thighs. She stiffened, horrified by the idea that she found Nicolo’s caveman tactics exciting. She was a well-educated professional with a business degree and an executive secretary’s diploma from the London Chamber of Commerce, she wanted to yell at him. He had no right to manhandle her!
He pulled open the front door and strode down the steps. The storm had broken and raindrops the size of coins pelted Sophie, quickly soaking through her blouse. She belatedly remembered that she had left her jacket in the kitchen, but even if Nicolo allowed her to run back for it, she could not contemplate going back into the house.
When he set her down on the driveway she was almost speechless with anger. Almost—but not quite.
‘You—you Neanderthal! I’ve a good mind to report you for assault.’ She clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering as a combination of shock at Nicolo’s actions and the sensation of being lashed by the increasingly heavy rain set in.
He folded his arms across his massive chest. ‘You are trespassing on my property and I am entitled to use reasonable means to eject you,’ he said coldly.
Sophie stared at his chiselled features and felt a dragging sensation deep in her pelvis. God, he was sexy! In his long black coat and boots he reminded her of a Regency rake from the historical romance novels she secretly enjoyed reading. She would never admit to the other members of the online book club she belonged to that she was a fan of so-called ‘bodice-rippers,’ or that she fantasized about being swept off her feet by a devilishly gorgeous hero.
She watched Nicolo sweep his long dark hair back from his brow and thought ruefully that a couple of centuries ago he was more likely to have been a highwayman. He certainly had a total disregard for rules and social niceties.
Christos would have to think of another way of persuading Nicolo to attend the shareholders’ meeting because she refused to remain at Chatsfield House a minute longer. Her hand shook as she scrambled in her handbag for her keys and unlocked the car. She was drenched and her skirt clung to her legs, making it awkward for her to slide behind the wheel.
‘Drive carefully,’ Nicolo advised. ‘Some of the sharp bends along the lane can be treacherous in the wet.’
She longed to slap the arrogant expression from his face, but there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes and her common sense prevailed.
‘Go to hell,’ she snapped as she slammed the door and started the engine. Seconds later the tyres spun on the wet gravel as she pressed the accelerator pedal and shot down the driveway. She glanced in the rear-view mirror, expecting to see Nicolo watching to make sure she left, but he was walking back into the house and did not look round.
Sophie drove as fast as the torrential rain and the terrible potholes in the lane allowed while she called Nicolo Chatsfield every rude word she could think of. She was still seething when she arrived in the village and pulled into the pub car park. But her anger was mixed with another emotion as she acknowledged the reality of the situation.
She had given up! Sophie Ashdown—who, as a teenager, had clung on to life with sheer determination, had been defeated.
She bit down on her lip. She hadn’t cried since she was sixteen and had caught sight of her bald head in the mirror. At the time, she had lost her hair because of the chemotherapy and had usually worn a woolly hat that her grandmother had knitted her—partly to hide her baldness and partly because the cancer made her feel cold all the time. Seeing her shiny scalp that day, instead of a mane of long blonde hair, had forced her to confront the seriousness of her condition and the frightening possibility that she might die.
She had cried for hours, alone in the isolation room where she was receiving treatment. It had seemed so unfair; she had so much to live for, so many plans. At the end