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  ‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sophie Ashdown, and I am Christos Giatrakos’s personal assistant. Christos sent me here to ask you—’

  ‘I know what Christos wants,’ Nicolo interrupted. ‘My answer is the same as I told him on the phone earlier. You’ve had a wasted journey, Miss Ashdown. Shut the door on your way out.’

  ‘Wait …’ Sophie cried as he swung round and strode out of the room with his hound following faithfully at his heels. ‘Mr Chatsfield …’ She hurried across the hallway after him but he took no notice of her as he walked into another room and shut the door firmly behind him.

  ‘Well, of all the …’ Sophie stared at the door and her temper simmered. She had never experienced such rudeness before and without pausing to consider her actions she grabbed the door handle and turned it.

  Evidently this was Nicolo’s study. As she crossed the threshold she glanced around the large high-ceilinged room where the walls were lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets. On the desk was an impressive computer system with eight monitors displaying constantly changing columns of figures and graph lines. She recalled Christos saying that Nicolo had built a career as a hugely successful financial trader. He owned a hedge fund company called Black Wolf Asset Management and was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the city.

  He certainly did not appear to spend any of his fortune on clothes, Sophie thought, running her eyes over him. His long black waxed coat had seen better days, and his calf-length boots were scuffed. Curiously he wore a leather glove on his left hand only. If she had not recognised him from the newspaper photo she could easily have mistaken him for a gamekeeper, especially when he was accompanied by the hound from hell.

  The dog was growling deep in its throat and the sound reverberated through Sophie’s body. Nicolo was standing by the desk, studying the various computer monitors, and did not look round even though he must have heard her enter the room.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Ashdown,’ he said in a soft voice that held a definite hint of danger.

  Sophie’s patience was wearing thin. ‘Mr Chatsfield …’

  The wolfhound bared its teeth. Nicolo continued to ignore her, and Sophie wondered if he would be even mildly interested if the dog ripped her to shreds in front of him.

  This was ridiculous. She could not begin to persuade Nicolo to listen to her while she was staring literally into the jaws of a savage beast which had its hackles raised and its black eyes fixed hungrily on her. Sophie’s only experience of dogs was her beloved Yorkshire terrier, Monty, who had been her childhood companion, but she was sure she had read somewhere that Irish wolfhounds were gentle giants with a friendly temperament. The dog’s gums were drawn back to reveal a worryingly sharp set of teeth. There was only one way to find out about its temperament. Steeling her nerve, Sophie walked across the room and held out her hand.

  ‘Hello, boy! You’re rather lovely, aren’t you,’ she said softly. She glanced at Nicolo’s broad back. ‘What’s his name?’

  Madonna! Nicolo cursed beneath his breath. Although he had grown up in England, he often reverted to Italian—the language his mother had spoken to him as a child—at times of heightened emotion or when he was annoyed by something. Right now, the something was the woman who’d had the audacity to stroll uninvited, not only into his home, but into the private sanctum of his study.

  He dragged his eyes from the monitor showing the FTSE 100 Index and glanced over his shoulder, astonished to see Sophie Ashdown stroking the dog’s head.

  ‘Dorcha,’ he muttered. ‘In Irish it means dark.’

  ‘Ah, I was right. He’s an Irish wolfhound, isn’t he?’

  Nicolo grunted. In truth he was surprised by Sophie’s fearlessness. Most people who met Dorcha tended to back away from the hound the size of a pony. With his shaggy black coat and strong neck and jaw, Dorcha looked menacing, but as he was now proving, he was a big softie who loved to be made a fuss of. Any minute now the dog would roll over and let the woman tickle his stomach, Nicolo thought disgustedly.

  ‘He doesn’t really look like a wolf,’ Sophie commented.

  ‘The Irish wolfhound’s name originates from its use as a wolf hunter, not from its appearance. The breed was around in Roman times, and wolfhounds were used as guard dogs and for hunting wild boar and wolves.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad he doesn’t seem to want to hunt me.’ Sophie gave a cheerful smile as she stroked the dog’s rough coat, and Nicolo grudgingly had to admit that Christos Giatrakos’s PA was very attractive.

  He frowned at the thought of the Greek usurper who his father had placed at the helm of the Chatsfield Hotel empire. He had not met Christos Giatrakos and had no intention of doing so. For the past eight years Nicolo had distanced himself from the Chatsfield and had told himself he was not interested in what happened to it, but his father’s decision to appoint an outsider as CEO had shown him that he did care about the family business.

  It was more for his sister’s sake than his own. Lucilla had worked at the Chatsfield’s flagship London hotel for years, and she’d had every right to expect to take over from their father as head of the entire business empire. Understandably, Lucilla was angry and upset that she had been overlooked, and Nicolo felt a lot of sympathy for her. Hell, his older sister had done her best to hold the family together after their mother had abandoned them and their father had been busy sleeping with whichever chambermaid took his fancy. But instead of being given the top position she deserved in the company, Lucilla had been forced into second place and was expected to take orders from the new CEO.

  Anger surged through Nicolo as he skimmed his eyes over Sophie Ashdown. How dare she walk in here from the enemy’s camp and assume that she would be welcome? Every aspect of her appearance infuriated him: her chic linen suit that bore the hallmark superb tailoring of a top designer, her long legs in sheer hose and the elegant stiletto heels that made her slender calves look even shapelier.

  Her hair was a warm honey-gold colour. He wondered sardonically how many hours she spent in a hairstylist’s chair to achieve the glossy layers that rippled halfway down her back. Miss Ashdown looked as primped and pretty as a pampered show cat, and no doubt she was used to getting her own way by fluttering her ridiculously long eyelashes. In his younger, wild days he would have been attracted to her subtle combination of sexy sophistication and he would have wasted no time trying to persuade her into his bed. The knowledge filled Nicolo with self-disgust. He despised the man he had once been, and he hated being reminded of his past.

  ‘Dorcha—heel,’ he commanded, and was gratified when the hound immediately padded over to him. At least he could prevent the dog from making a fool of himself over a beautiful woman. He glanced at the computer monitors. There was a buzz of activity on the Asian markets and the Nikkei was up three hundred points. He wanted to be alone so that he could focus on the one thing he was good at, which was making money, and he resented the presence of his uninvited guest.

  ‘Perhaps you didn’t understand me, Miss Ashdown,’ he said as he strode across the room. ‘I’m not interested in the shareholders’ meeting, or in anything that your boss has to say.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder and spun her round, feeling faintly amused when her eyes widened in shock as he marched her over to the door. ‘Christos can go to hell for all I care. He has no right to be running the Chatsfield.’

  ‘Your father gave him that right.’

  ‘My father needs to see sense and put my sister in charge. Lucilla knows the business better than anyone, including Giatrakos.’

  ‘I understand your loyalty to your sister …’

  ‘You understand nothing,’ Nicolo growled. The soft expression in Sophie Ashdown’s hazel eyes was the last straw. For a split second he had felt an inexplicable urge to admit that he believed his father had betrayed the family by handing power over to an outsider. Nicolo was not a man who shared personal confidences even with his few close friends and he could not understand why he had been tempte
d to reveal his thoughts to a woman he had never met before.

  Standing close to her in the doorway, he could smell her perfume, and immediately recognised it as the Chatsfield signature scent. The notes of cedarwood, bergamot and white rose, with a hint of lavender, evoked mixed emotions in him, reminding him of his early childhood when he had visited various Chatsfield Hotels around the world with his parents. To this day every Chatsfield Hotel was subtly scented with the perfume, diffused through the air conditioning and also reflected in the range of toiletries provided for the guests.

  They had been happy times, Nicolo recalled. His parents had seemed devoted to each another, and he had grown up in the security of a stable family unit. But then it had all fallen apart. His mother had walked out and he had not seen her again. He had felt devastated and abandoned, and when he had discovered the truth about his father he had felt disgusted.

  The familiar scent of Sophie Ashdown’s perfume mocked him. He did not want to think of the past, the things he had done, the regrets that ate away at his soul. He had found some measure of peace hidden away here with his computers and his work and he resented her intrusion of his privacy.

  He steered her out of his study. ‘You managed to find your way into the house so I’m sure you won’t have a problem finding the way out again,’ he said sardonically.

  A deep rumble of thunder made the hundreds of small panes of glass in the original Victorian windows tremble.

  ‘I’d get a move on if I were you, Miss Ashdown. The lane is prone to flooding when it rains and it’s a long walk back to the village if you get stranded.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  FOR THE SECOND time in the space of ten minutes Sophie found herself on the wrong side of the door to Nicolo’s study. Damn his stubbornness, she thought grimly, rubbing her shoulder where he had gripped her. She wouldn’t be surprised if she had a bruise there.

  Christos had warned her that Nicolo would be no pushover and she would have to use all her powers of persuasion to get him to agree to attend the shareholders’ meeting. But so far she hadn’t even managed to talk to him. However, she had glimpsed a chink in his armour when he had mentioned his sister. He clearly believed that Lucilla should be CEO of the Chatsfield. If she could somehow assure him that Christos was prepared to listen to some of Lucilla’s suggestions for running the business, then perhaps he would agree to come to London for the all-important meeting.

  The brief flare of emotion she had seen on Nicolo’s granite-like features reinforced Sophie’s determination not to give up. She just needed to try a different tack. If she went back into his study now she could guess what kind of reception she would get, but if she returned with a peace offering perhaps he would be more amenable and inclined to listen to her.

  She walked back to the kitchen. It was lunchtime, and it seemed like a good idea to tempt Nicolo with some 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.