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.
She had given up! Sophie Ashdown—who, as a teenager, had clung on to life with sheer determination, had been defeated.
She bit down on her lip. She hadn’t cried since she was sixteen and had caught sight of her bald head in the mirror. At the time, she had lost her hair because of the chemotherapy and had usually worn a woolly hat that her grandmother had knitted her—partly to hide her baldness and partly because the cancer made her feel cold all the time. Seeing her shiny scalp that day, instead of a mane of long blonde hair, had forced her to confront the seriousness of her condition and the frightening possibility that she might die.
She had cried for hours, alone in the isolation room where she was receiving treatment. It had seemed so unfair; she had so much to live for, so many plans. At the end of the crying jag, she’d had a puffy face and red eyes to go with her lack of hair. To her mind she was the ugliest person on the planet, no longer the pretty teenager she had once been. Sophie Ashdown did not exist anymore.
It had been the lowest moment of her illness. But it had also been a turning point. As Sophie had stared at her reflection in the mirror she had vowed that she would not let cancer steal everything she loved. It had taken her hair and her eyelashes and her pride; it had taken two of the friends she had made at the cancer unit. But she had vowed that she would not give up her life without a fight. Having cancer had made her develop a steely determination never to let anything beat her. And ten years on, that trait was an intrinsic part of her nature.
Why had she let Nicolo Chatsfield get the better of her? Sophie now asked herself as she stared at the faded sign of the King’s Head hanging over the entrance to the pub. She had played right into Nicolo’s hands. His outrageous behaviour had resulted in her swift departure from Chatsfield House exactly as he had intended. Now she was faced with returning to Christos and admitting that she had failed the task he had set for her—or she could turn the car around and drive back along the lane full of potholes.
The prospect of facing Nicolo again made her heart lurch. The sensible thing to do would be to head back to London and let Christos deal with Nicolo. But her pride rejected the idea. Nicolo had won the first skirmish, but the battle was far from over! Determination surged through her. Somehow, she was going to make him listen to her. However, before she returned to Chatsfield House she would need to shop for groceries. She could handle Nicolo’s bad temper, but the thought of eating the bloodied lumps of steak she had found in his fridge made her shudder.
Nicolo emerged from the copse at the edge of the Chatsfield estate and looked round for Dorcha, who was pawing at a rabbit hole.
‘Come on, dog,’ he called as he opened the garden gate and strode across the wet lawn. After spending hours sitting in front of his computer it felt good to get outside and expend some energy. The storm had passed, leaving an overcast sky in its wake that belied the fact that it was midsummer, but the dank atmosphere suited Nicolo’s grim mood.
Dorcha bounded ahead of him up the path to the kitchen door. The hound had been acting strangely all afternoon, pacing around the study and whining. Perhaps he had been unsettled by the presence of another person in the house. Nicolo frowned. Sophie Ashdown’s visit had been an annoying distraction, and even after he had got rid of her he had found it difficult to concentrate, which had proved disastrous when he had needed to be completely focused on the financial trading markets. The result was that he had lost several hundred thousand pounds. The money was not a problem; it represented only a tiny fraction of his wealth, but he rarely made bad decisions and he hated losing a deal.
It was all the fault of Christos Giatrakos’s goddamned PA, he thought irritably. The scent of Sophie’s perfume still lingered in his study, which was another reason why he had decided to go out and get some fresh air. He could not understand why her image lingered in his mind. She was attractive, admittedly, but he was no longer the crass idiot of his youth who had been at the mercy of his hormones and had lost count of the number of women he had bedded. He did not want to be reminded of the person he had once been, whose stupid exploits had frequently made the headlines and whose love life had provided fodder for the paparazzi.
Dorcha was barking madly and jumping up against the kitchen window. Maybe the dog had seen a mouse. Nicolo pushed open the kitchen door and stopped dead.
‘You,
