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 of the crying jag, she’d had a puffy face and red eyes to go with her lack of hair. To her mind she was the ugliest person on the planet, no longer the pretty teenager she had once been. Sophie Ashdown did not exist anymore.
It had been the lowest moment of her illness. But it had also been a turning point. As Sophie had stared at her reflection in the mirror she had vowed that she would not let cancer steal everything she loved. It had taken her hair and her eyelashes and her pride; it had taken two of the friends she had made at the cancer unit. But she had vowed that she would not give up her life without a fight. Having cancer had made her develop a steely determination never to let anything beat her. And ten years on, that trait was an intrinsic part of her nature.
Why had she let Nicolo Chatsfield get the better of her? Sophie now asked herself as she stared at the faded sign of the King’s Head hanging over the entrance to the pub. She had played right into Nicolo’s hands. His outrageous behaviour had resulted in her swift departure from Chatsfield House exactly as he had intended. Now she was faced with returning to Christos and admitting that she had failed the task he had set for her—or she could turn the car around and drive back along the lane full of potholes.
The prospect of facing Nicolo again made her heart lurch. The sensible thing to do would be to head back to London and let Christos deal with Nicolo. But her pride rejected the idea. Nicolo had won the first skirmish, but the battle was far from over! Determination surged through her. Somehow, she was going to make him listen to her. However, before she returned to Chatsfield House she would need to shop for groceries. She could handle Nicolo’s bad temper, but the thought of eating the bloodied lumps of steak she had found in his fridge made her shudder.
Nicolo emerged from the copse at the edge of the Chatsfield estate and looked round for Dorcha, who was pawing at a rabbit hole.
‘Come on, dog,’ he called as he opened the garden gate and strode across the wet lawn. After spending hours sitting in front of his computer it felt good to get outside and expend some energy. The storm had passed, leaving an overcast sky in its wake that belied the fact that it was midsummer, but the dank atmosphere suited Nicolo’s grim mood.
Dorcha bounded ahead of him up the path to the kitchen door. The hound had been acting strangely all afternoon, pacing around the study and whining. Perhaps he had been unsettled by the presence of another person in the house. Nicolo frowned. Sophie Ashdown’s visit had been an annoying distraction, and even after he had got rid of her he had found it difficult to concentrate, which had proved disastrous when he had needed to be completely focused on the financial trading markets. The result was that he had lost several hundred thousand pounds. The money was not a problem; it represented only a tiny fraction of his wealth, but he rarely made bad decisions and he hated losing a deal.
It was all the fault of Christos Giatrakos’s goddamned PA, he thought irritably. The scent of Sophie’s perfume still lingered in his study, which was another reason why he had decided to go out and get some fresh air. He could not understand why her image lingered in his mind. She was attractive, admittedly, but he was no longer the crass idiot of his youth who had been at the mercy of his hormones and had lost count of the number of women he had bedded. He did not want to be reminded of the person he had once been, whose stupid exploits had frequently made the headlines and whose love life had provided fodder for the paparazzi.
Dorcha was barking madly and jumping up against the kitchen window. Maybe the dog had seen a mouse. Nicolo pushed open the kitchen door and stopped dead.
‘You, again!’ he said harshly. ‘For God’s sake, Miss Ashdown, can’t you take a hint? You’re not welcome here.’
‘Your dog is pleased to see me—aren’t you, boy?’ Sophie crooned as she made a fuss of Dorcha. ‘Can you smell your dinner?’ she asked the wolfhound. She glanced at Nicolo. ‘I’m cooking a steak for him and stuffed baked trout for us. You really shouldn’t eat too much red meat—it’s bad for your digestive system and is probably the reason you’re so grouchy.’
Nicolo’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’ No way was he going to admit that the aroma of warm trout was tantalising his taste buds. Truthfully, he was sick of eating steak every night, but he had not realised it until now.
‘I bought lots of fresh vegetables as well as store cupboard essentials,’ Sophie continued brightly. ‘The lady in the village shop said that you used to employ a cook, but since Mrs Pearson retired a couple of months ago you live here alone.’
‘I like being on my own,’ Nicolo said pointedly.
Sophie apparently did not hear him and prattled on. ‘Although the shop lady said you have a cleaner come in twice a week. I knew that anyway. Your cleaner is the farmer’s wife’s sister, isn’t she?’
‘I haven’t a goddamned clue who my cleaner is related to. How the hell do you know?’ Nicolo strode across the kitchen. ‘Dio, do you ever stop talking, Miss Ashdown?’ He swore beneath his breath. ‘What do you want?’
‘You know what I want. Christos asked me to talk to you—’
‘Perhaps he hoped you would bore me to death.’
‘—about the shareholders’ meeting.’ Sophie ignored his jibe. She turned her head and gave him a direct look that for some peculiar reason made Nicolo feel uncomfortable. ‘I’m simply trying to do my job,’ she said quietly.
Sophie stiffened as Nicolo strode towards her. ‘If you’re planning to use brute force to throw me out of the house again, I’d better warn you that I am perfectly capable of defending myself. It was just that you took me by surprise earlier.’
Nicolo skimmed his gaze over her petite frame. ‘I’m a foot taller than you. What do you intend to do—bite my ankles?’ he asked sardonically.
Sophie’s hazel eyes flashed dangerously and she folded her arms across her chest. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m a black belt in—in tae kwon do.’
It was true that she had never sparred with an opponent as physically imposing as Nicolo, but she wasn’t going to admit that to him. ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Mr Chatsfield.’
‘You’re hardly in a position to make a deal, Miss Ashdown.’
Despite himself, Nicolo was intrigued by Sophie. When he’d walked into the kitchen he had been shocked to find that she had returned to the house after their previous encounter. She had guts, he acknowledged grudgingly.
Irritatingly, he was also forced to admit that attractive did not adequately describe her classical beauty. She had changed into jeans and a plain white T-shirt. There was nothing remarkable about her clothes but he could not help noticing how the denim moulded her pert bottom and the clingy cotton shirt revealed the upwards tilt of her breasts. Her long hair was caught up in a ponytail, with a few feathery strands framing her face, and the transformation from sophisticated secretary to a look that was both wholesome and yet sexy stirred a purely masculine response in Nicolo.
‘What deal?’ he growled.
Sophie felt a surge of triumph that she seemed to be