‘I was talking to myself.’ She sounded defiant rather than defensive, as if challenging him to make an issue of it. He was intrigued at this facet of his ever-practical employee.
‘Indeed?’
‘I’m sorry I disturbed you. I was just doing a quick clean.’
‘No one will be using the suite.’ He’d lost his taste for company the day he’d lost his brother.
‘I understand.’ She paused then added, her voice low, ‘I’m sorry about your brother, Mr Carstairs.’
‘Thank you,’ he said tersely, dropping his hands.
Familiar guilt swamped him—that he was here, alive, experiencing a surge of sexual interest for this woman, when Adrian was dead. He’d failed his younger brother.
He should have been able to stop him.
His stomach lurched sickeningly. They’d been close, despite their recent geographical separation. He’d been Adrian’s biggest supporter, the one Adrian had turned to when their parents had been busy with their business and charity interests.
But that counted for nothing. All that mattered was that last, irrevocable failure.
How had he let himself be persuaded by Adrian’s upbeat assurances? He should have come here sooner, not relied on phone and email during that vital phase of his new project. How could he not have known Adrian was in such despair?
‘Is there anything else, Mr Carstairs?’
Declan plunged a hand through his shaggy hair. He wished there was something else—something to distract him.
Work was no solace. It couldn’t ease the weight of remorse.
Nor could the search for the woman who’d used his little brother then tossed him aside when she found he’d lost his wealth. Her betrayal had driven Adrian to suicide. Any doubts Declan had about her guilt had been obliterated by the scrawled note David had found jammed in Declan’s desk. As soon as he’d recognised Adrian’s handwriting he’d told Declan, who’d insisted he read it aloud.
Neither had spoken of it since but the words were engraved in Declan’s memory: desperate words that confirmed Adrian’s unnamed girlfriend, the woman he’d been seeing those last weeks, had pushed him to the edge.
Yet the private investigator had turned up no clue to her identity. Where had she vanished to?
Declan’s mouth tightened. Adrian had always been the more sensitive one and, he realised now, more vulnerable. Declan felt impotent, unable to find the woman who’d destroyed his brother and make her face what she’d done.
He gulped down bitter regret, concentrating instead on the burning hate that sustained him when the burden of guilt grew unbearable.
Self-hatred for not saving his brother.
Hatred too for the woman with red-gold hair and come-hither green eyes in the photo his brother had shown him so proudly. A photo so candid it was obvious he’d taken the shot in bed. The woman had lain sprawled in abandon, as if sated from love-making. Golden light had bathed her, giving her the aura of a languid sex goddess inviting adoration.
And Declan had felt a shot of pure, unadulterated lust blast through him at the sight of her.
Remembering made him sick to the stomach, as if he’d betrayed his brother with his response to the woman Adrian had loved. The woman who’d driven Adrian to fatal despair.
Between them they were responsible for Adrian’s death.
CHAPTER THREE
HE NO longer touched her, yet Chloe burned as if still pressed against him.
Shivers trembled down her spine. She had to lock her knees to stand firm. But nothing, not all her willpower, could prevent her dragging in the scent of citrus and man, spice and warm musk, that tickled her nostrils. Her gaze strayed to his half-naked form.
She’d never seen anyone like Declan Carstairs—his powerful, beautiful body and his larger-than-life aura. Unshaven, hard-jawed and scarred he looked more then ever like a pirate. The sort who thrived on danger and the pleasures of the flesh.
Chloe tried to recall Mark’s generous smile, the twinkle of encouragement in his hazel eyes and, to her horror, conjured only the weakest of images. Could she have forgotten in just six years? Or was Declan Carstairs clouding her thoughts? The idea appalled her.
Eyes wide, she retreated a step and put down her bucket of supplies, crossing her arms defensively.
‘Mr Carstairs? If there’s nothing else I really should be getting on.’
A flicker of movement stirred his features as if he’d only just recalled her presence. Why did he look so grim?
‘Actually there is something, Ms Daniels.’
He flexed his hands, drawing her gaze to the sinewy strength in his forearms.
What would it be like to be held by him? Not supported impersonally after bumping into each other, but embraced?
It felt like betrayal of her past even to wonder. Yet she couldn’t prevent the niggle of curiosity.
‘You were working here when my brother came to stay, weren’t you? While I was in China?’
Instantly alert, Chloe darted a look at his face.
‘Yes. I’d been here some time when he arrived.’ Anxiety jiggled inside. Just the mention of Adrian Carstairs gave her the jitters.
How could one brother fascinate and reawaken long-dormant female awareness when the other had left her cold?
‘Tell me, did he bring anyone to stay with him?’
She shook her head, remembering too late that Declan needed to hear her response. ‘No, he came alone.’
‘But there must have been visitors.’ Dark eyes fixed at a point near her mouth, as if focused on her words. She sensed an intensity in her employer she hadn’t encountered before, even when he’d quizzed her about confidentiality.
‘There were no overnight guests.’
‘But for a meal perhaps?’
‘No, not that I recall. Your brother ate alone.’
Except for the days he’d turned up in the big kitchen and insisted on sharing a meal with her.
At first Chloe had welcomed him. Then, when he had grown more intense—his gaze fixing on her hungrily, his moods unstable—she’d taken to eating early in her room or finding an excuse to be away at meal time.
But she couldn’t say that to his brother. There was nothing to be gained by sharing the fact Adrian Carstairs had made her life hell those last weeks. Declan had enough to deal with without her dumping that on him.
‘I see.’ Yet still he frowned, his brows bunched. ‘But it’s possible he had a visitor you didn’t know about?’
‘It’s possible,’ she said slowly. ‘Though not likely.’
Increasingly Adrian had spent his time within sight of her until she’d had to resort to subterfuge to escape him. She’d have been grateful then for visitors to distract him from his fixation on her.
‘He didn’t mention anyone?’ The urgency of her boss’s tone surprised her.
‘I … Not that I recall.’
‘I see.’ Declan’s head sank slowly, as if weighted. The vibrant energy that was so much part of him dimmed and she sensed despair.
Impulsively she lifted her hand to him, then let it drop. She could imagine his sharp rejection of unwanted sympathy.
‘I’m sorry I can’t