CARO EMERGED FROM the café, huddling into her coat as the wind swirled around her ankles and bit her face. Funny that her skin could feel numb with cold while inside she was all churning heat. Nothing could extinguish that fire inside.
Except the possibility she might fail.
She faltered to a stop, grasping a lamp post with one gloved hand, fighting nausea.
Her head told her success was unlikely.
Her heart urged her on. Not with logic, but with desperate hope.
She’d never been courageous or adventurous. From infancy she’d been trained to do as she was told, never make waves or put herself forward. Her one attempt to break free and make her own decisions had been disastrous.
But that was years ago. She’d changed, reinventing herself in the aftermath of tragedy and pain. Caro might not be naturally intrepid but she was determined. She breathed deep, swallowing sharp, sustaining Alpine air. She’d do whatever it took now to succeed.
Caro looked up the street of the famous Swiss ski resort, ultra-exclusive with its astronomically high prices. Tourists gaped at the elegant shop windows, but they’d be gone by evening, driven away by the chic resort’s unaffordability.
Up a nearby valley was one of the world’s most iconic mountains. In the other direction lay her destination. Setting her jaw, she crunched over a dusting of late snow and got into her small rental car.
Twenty minutes later Caro nosed the car around a bend and emerged in a cleared space that hung partway up a mountain. The view was spectacular but she barely noticed.
She’d assumed she was driving to a ski lodge or an architect-designed home positioned for a multimillion-dollar vista. Instead she looked up at a wall of pale stone, a fairy-tale profusion of towers with steep, angular roofs. There was even a portcullis, raised to reveal a cobbled courtyard.
Caro stared at the centuries-old castle. This was no romantic ruin. It looked solid and meticulously maintained.
She’d known Jake Maynard was rich but he must have money to burn to live here. Her research told her he hadn’t inherited it. His permanent home was in Australia.
She set her jaw. Caro had seen behind the scenes of the rich and famous and knew human frailties lurked there as they did everywhere. Wealth and overt luxury didn’t awe her.
That was the one tiny advantage she had. Caro clung to it, feeling the nervous lurch of her stomach, tasting desperation on her tongue. Slowly she drove under the portcullis with its security camera, feeling each bump of the old cobblestones. Then she parked in the corner of the courtyard, next to a sleek, black vehicle.
It was only when she switched off the ignition and heard the silence thicken around her that she realised her hands shook.
Firming her lips, she reached for her purse, flicked a look in the mirror and pushed the door open.
She could do this.
She would do it.
Two lives depended on it.
‘Ms Rivage is here.’
At the sound of his secretary’s voice, Jake reluctantly looked up from behind his desk. Neil stood in the doorway, his expression bland.
Logic had urged Jake to excise this woman from the shortlist. She didn’t have the experience of the front-running applicants. Yet one small detail in her application had caught Neil’s eye, and Jake’s. Small but vitally important. He raked a hand through his hair and told himself he’d give her fifteen minutes.
Neil stood aside and she walked in.
Jake felt his eyebrows channel down in a frown, his senses humming like the rigging on a yacht when a sudden wind rose. The nape of his neck prickled and his nostrils flared as if sensing...something.
She looked like a nanny straight from central casting. Yet at the same time not. He surveyed her plain skirt suit, scraped-back hair and apparent lack of make-up.
What was it about her that didn’t fit? He’d learned to rely on his instincts and right now they sensed...something.
He got to his feet and walked around the desk, hand outstretched.
‘Ms Rivage.’
His hand engulfed slim, soft fingers, yet her grip was firm as she returned his gesture. Most of the other applicants had non-existent handshakes. Either they’d simpered up at him, or were content to let him take the lead. This one looked him square in the eye.
But only for a moment. Then her brown gaze slewed from his and he knew she stifled anxiety.
Of course she’s anxious. She’s applying for a job. She must know her qualifications aren’t impressive.
Yet his sixth sense tickled, telling him this was more than interview nerves.
‘Please, Ms Rivage, take a seat.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Maynard.’
Her voice was deeper than he’d expected, with a husky resonance that teased an altogether earthier part of his consciousness. Perhaps it was the hint of an accent colouring her perfect English. But Jake had never been swayed by a sexy accent. Not unless it was accompanied by an equally sexy body.
Caro Rivage’s body was hard to define behind the boxy jacket and skirt. She was tall in those heels, just half a head shorter than he, and her long legs were slender. She subsided into the chair with a grace that seemed at odds with the sombre suit. Brown clothes, brown eyes, dark, dull brown hair. She should look forgettable yet Jake found it hard to drag his gaze away.
Maybe it was the neat way she angled her ankles beneath her, accentuating an innate femininity that plain suit belied. Or the creamy skin that contrasted so startlingly with the dark suit.
Not completely pale. His gaze traversed her small, lush mouth and high cheekbones, both tinted the palest pink. Not, he’d swear, from make-up. This looked like the genuine article, a peaches and cream complexion, unblemished by the years of sun exposure he was used to seeing in his fellow Australians.
She shifted, her eyes lifting almost to his, then away, making Jake aware he was staring. The knowledge disturbed him. He wasn’t interested in Ms Rivage’s skin. Even if it looked as soft as a petal.
He pulled out his