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ldquo;I want you in every sense of the word, Alexia.”
York continued, “I want you to play a far greater role in my life than you’ve been doing. In my life. In my home. In my bed.”
ldquo;Permanently? You mean…” Alexia’s eyes desperately searched his. He couldn’t be serious, could he?
“Marry me.” He managed to make it sound more like an order than a request.
“Marry you? I can’t. I—”
”Why can’t you?” His gaze raked over the tense contours of her face…
ELIZABETH POWER was born in Bristol, England, where she lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old cottage. A keen reader, as a teenager she had already made up her mind to be a novelist, although it wasn’t until around age thirty that she took up writing seriously. As an animal lover, with a strong leaning toward vegetarianism, her interests include organic vegetable gardening, regular exercise, listening to music, fashion and ministering to the demands of her adopted, generously proportioned cat!
Marrying The Enemy!
Elizabeth
Power
THE clod of earth made a dull sound on the coffin as the last of the mourners dispersed, leaving Alex standing alone before the open grave.
Page Masterton. Her supposed grandfather. The man who had ruined his own daughter’s life and then called on his estranged granddaughter to…To what? Forgive him in his old age?
A shadow, more ominous than the shifting soil, fell across the grave, causing her breath to catch, her insides to tighten with a stomach-churning anticipation. She knew, even before she turned round, that it would be York. York Masterton, whose entrepreneurial ventures she had followed even from the other side of the world, and an insidious tension stole through her as she turned to meet the harsh austerity of his dark, strikingly etched features.
‘Would you mind telling me who you are?’
His deep voice was as cold as the raw frost that hadn’t melted despite the vain attempts of the bright March sun, and beneath her black three-quarter-coat Alex shivered.
‘You mean you don’t know me, York? Your only cousin?’ There was no affection, only bitter sarcasm in her testing response, because hadn’t he been as instrumental as Page all those years ago in hastening Shirley’s sad end?
She observed his shocked surprise with a little twist of satisfaction. It wouldn’t be like the chief executive of Mastertons, Britain’s biggest name in quarrying and civil engineering, to be nonplussed, and he would be chief—totally in control—now that his uncle had died.
‘Alexia?’ Entirely thrown though he was, he still cut a dominating figure—the long, dark coat he wore over a dark suit, and his sleek black hair filling her with the fanciful, unsettling notion of a raven swooping over its prey. He was, however, merely frowning down at her, those grey-green eyes—which, with that lean, hardstructured face, were so suggestive of his Irish ancestry—disbelieving as he breathed again in a voice that held no trace of the Gaelic accent, ‘Alexia?’
She held her breath, and her gaze wavered for a moment beneath the piercing clarity of his. How could she convince him—or anyone else for that matter—that she was Alexia Masterton when she couldn’t even convince herself?
Her chin lifted in an unconsciously rebellious gesture. ‘Alex.’ Her tone was clipped and concise.
‘Alex.’ He repeated the name as though giving it careful consideration. ‘You used to hate being called that.’
She swallowed. ‘Did I?’
He didn’t respond, except with that cool, contemplative gaze.
‘Well…Alex…’ He took a step towards her, the power of his masculinity so overwhelming her that she would have moved back if it had not been for the scrape of the grave diggers’ spades behind her. ‘This is a surprise, though I must say I would never have recognised you.’
She laughed now, a small, tight sound. Well, no, you wouldn’t, would you? she thought drily, but said only, ‘I suppose I’ve matured a bit…’
‘A bit?’His exclamation held harsh incredulity.
