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“Keeping me here isn’t a joke.”
“I didn’t say it was.” That sexy mouth curled as Francisco joined Sarah on the sofa.
“It could be weeks before my father gets your message. And there’s no guarantee he’ll respond.” He really was much too close!
“A man not respond to his daughter’s plight?” He wasn’t taking her seriously. He moved closer and with a groan of helplessness she slithered toward him, winding her arms around his neck, his mouth so close to hers she could feel the passionate heat of it and savor the kiss that surely had to come…
DIANA HAMILTON is a true romantic, and fell in love with her husband at first sight. They still live in the fairy-tale Tudor house where they raised their three children. Now the idyll is shared with eight rescued cats and a puppy. But despite an often chaotic lifestyle, ever since she learned to read and write Diana has had her nose in a book—either reading or writing one—and plans to go on doing just that for a very long time to come.
Hostage of Passion
Diana Hamilton
‘SOMEONE to see you, Sarah.’ Jenny poked her glossy brown head round the inner office door, her pretty face flushed. ‘He doesn’t have an appointment and he wouldn’t give his name.’ Her brown eyes turned into saucers. ‘I explained that the agency was closed right now and offered to arrange an interview with you tomorrow morning— but he refuses to leave until he’s seen you.’
Sarah pushed the last file into the steel cabinet and locked it, a tiny frown on her smooth wide brow as she registered her deputy’s agitation. She selected her permanent staff very carefully, paying as much attention to temperament as ability because for the last four years her life had been dedicated to making her secretarial and business agency utterly professional, efficient and highly respected, not only in the North London suburb where it was located but throughout the capital.
Jenny Fletcher had been chosen for her pleasant personality and her calm unflappability but she was unaccountably acting as if she had as much professionalism as a giddy teenager.
Sarah sighed and glanced at her watch. Business had closed for the day twenty minutes ago and she had a dinner date. Nevertheless, even though Scott Secretarial Services wasn’t short of clients it went against her policy to turn prospective business away.
‘Show him in; I can give him ten minutes,’ she instructed, straightening the jacket of her sage-green linen suit as she placed herself neatly on the chair behind her desk, sliding the large leather-bound diary towards her, one fine brow arching quizzically as Jenny gushed breathily,
‘I’ll sit in, shall I? Take details of his needs.’
Her last word degenerated to an expressive giggle and Sarah’s aquamarine eyes went frosty, her voice repressive as she stated, ‘That won’t be necessary. You may as well go home. I’ll lock up.’ She wondered again what had got into her normally controlled and perfectly sober assistant and, with deep resignation, decided she knew the answer to that particular question when the most ferociously handsome male she had ever encountered shouldered arrogantly into the room.
Despite the elegantly styled dark business suit there was a raw sexuality, an aura of brooding power about the stranger that few women would be immune to and, in his mid-thirties, she guessed, he would be all too well aware of it. And Jenny, although professional to her fingertips, could be partly excused because she wouldn’t have the inbuilt immunity to such primary masculine magnetism that came completely naturally to her boss.
Sarah gestured to the seat on the opposite side of the desk, gave her usual cool smile and didn’t bother to wonder why it felt so forced on this occasion and wasn’t surprised when she registered that his voice was dark and smoky, the seductive accent betraying his Spanish birth, because he was far too exotic to be an ordinary, run-of-the-mill English businessman.
What did surprise her was the edge of accusation that threaded through his voice, and his use of the name she had discarded years ago as being utterly unsuitable to her image of herself.
‘Salome Bouverie-Scott.’
It wasn’t a query but a brief hint of a question did gleam in the depths of those black Spanish eyes and when she dipped her ash-blonde head in reluctant agreement the delicate skin on her fine cheekbones was stained pink with something close to embarrassment.
Perplexity followed as she watched his sensual mouth straighten with what looked like distaste because she hadn’t used that name for years.
