if her mind had just burst its banks, like a river.
It had started innocently enough—though afterwards she thought about whether there was ever complete innocence between a man and a woman. When and how did simple friendship become transmuted into lust?
The first few times he saw her he completely ignored her, his cool green eyes flicking over her with a disappointing lack of interest.
She knew exactly who he was, of course—everyone in the office did. Rich, clever, enigmatic Philip Caprice who owned a huge estate agency in North London.
He was something of a scout, too—because people seeking discretion and a home in the country flocked to him to find them the perfect place. Rich—fabulously rich—clients who had no desire for the world and his wife to know which property they were in the process of buying. According to Jonathon, he handled house sales for film stars and moguls and just plain old-fashioned aristocracy.
He always dealt with Jonathon. In fact, Lisi was the office junior, only six months into the job, and eager to learn. Jonathon had let her handle a couple of accounts—but terraced cottages and houses on the new estate on the outskirts of Langley were not in Philip Caprice’s league!
And then he walked in one lunchtime, on the day after her twenty-second birthday. She had been left on her own in the office for the first time. Jonathon was at lunch and Saul Miller, her other colleague, was out valuing a property which was coming onto the market shortly.
The phones were quiet and all her work up to date and Lisi felt contented with life. She was wearing her birthday sweater—a dream of a garment in soft blue cashmere which her mother had bought—and her hair was tied back in a ribbon of exactly the same shade.
On her desk were the remains of her birthday cake and she was just wondering whether to throw it away or stick a piece of cling-film round it and put it in the fridge. Jonathon seemed to have hollow legs, and it did seem a shame to waste it.
The door to the office clanged and in came Philip and her heart gave its customary leap. His hair was thick and nut-brown, ruffled by the breeze, and he wore an exquisitely cut suit which immediately marked him out as a Londoner.
For a moment, words deserted her. He seemed to dwarf the room with his presence—it was a little like having a Hollywood film star walk into a small-town estate agency!
She swallowed. ‘Good morning, Mr Caprice.’
He gave a curt nod. ‘Jonathon not around?’
‘He’s not back yet. He, er—’ she glanced down nervously at her watch, and then lifted her eyes to him ‘—he shouldn’t be long. You’re—er—you’re a bit earlier than expected.’
‘The roads were clear,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll wait. No problem.’
He didn’t look as though he meant it and Lisi thought that his face looked bleak, as if he had had a long, hard morning—no, make that a long, hard month. There was a restless, edgy quality about him, as if he hadn’t slept properly for a long time. She said the first, impulsive thing which came into her head and pointed to her desk. ‘Would you like some birthday cake?’
He narrowed his eyes as if she had just offered him something vaguely obscene. ‘Birthday cake?’ He frowned. ‘Whose? Yours?’
Lisi nodded. ‘That’s right. It’s really quite nice—a bit sickly, perhaps, but birthday cakes should be sickly, I always think, don’t you?’ She was aware that she was babbling but something in the slightly askance question in his eyes made her babble on. ‘Won’t you have some?’
There was something sweet and guileless about her eager chatter which completely disarmed him. Nor was he completely oblivious to the slenderly curved figure and the white skin and black hair which made her look like some kind of home-spun Snow White. But with the ease of practice he dismissed her physical attractions and stared at the cake instead.
Lisi could see him wavering. She remembered how much her father had loved cake when he’d been alive. What did her mother always say? ‘Show me a man who says he doesn’t like cake, and I’ll show you a liar!’
‘Oh, go on!’ she urged softly. ‘Have some—I was only going to throw it away!’
‘Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse!’ He laughed, and he realised how alien his own laughter sounded to his ears. When had he last laughed so uninhibitedly? He couldn’t remember. ‘Sure,’ he said, because he hadn’t eaten much since yesterday. ‘Why not?’
She was aware of his green eyes on her as she cut him a hefty portion and piled it onto one of the paper plates she had brought in with her. ‘The last of Minnie Mouse.’ She smiled, as she handed it to him. ‘See? You’ve got her spotty skirt!’
‘So I see,’ he murmured. ‘Aren’t you a little old for Minnie Mouse?’
‘Twenty-two,’ she said, in answer to a question he hadn’t asked, and when he frowned rather repressively she added inconsequentially, ‘I love Disney characters—I always have!’
He took the plate from her and sat down in the chair opposite her desk, and bit into the cake. She had been right. Too sweet. Too sickly. Bloody delicious. He tried and failed to remember the last time he had eaten birthday cake. Or celebrated a birthday. Or celebrated anything. But there hadn’t been a whole lot to celebrate lately, had there?
Lisi watched him, pleased to see him eating it with such obvious appetite. She thought how fined-down his face seemed, and wondered when was the last time he had eaten properly. She struggled against the instinct to offer to take him home and to have her mother cook a decent meal of meat and two veg with a vast portion of apple pie afterwards.
What was she thinking of? The man was a client! And a very well-heeled client, too—not the kind of man who would thank her for trying to mother him!
She licked her lips unconsciously as she looked at his long fingers breaking off another piece. Maybe mothering was the wrong word to use. There were probably a lot more satisfying things a woman would feel like doing to Philip Caprice than mothering, she realised, shocked by her wayward thoughts.
She watched him finish every crumb on his plate and decided to show him how efficient she could be. ‘Right then, Mr Caprice—let me find these properties for you to have a look at—Jonathon has sorted them all out for you.’
She bent her head as she began flicking through an old-fashioned filing box, and Philip felt an uncomfortable and unwanted fluttering of awareness as he looked at the ebony sheen of her hair and the long, elegant line of her neck.
Out of necessity, he had schooled himself not to be tempted by women, and certainly not women who were such a devastating combination of the innocent and the sensual, but for once he felt his resolve waver.
‘Here we are.’ Lisi found the last of what she was looking for, and held them out to him.
He noticed the way that the tip of her tongue protruded from between her teeth when she was concentrating. Tiny and pink. Shiny. He swallowed. ‘Thanks.’ He leaned across the desk and took the sheaf of house details from her.
‘Jonathon should be back any minute, unless—’ she gave him her most hopeful smile ‘—you’d like me to show you round?’ She would have to leave the office unattended for
