Back in the Lion's Den

‘… if you think I’d consider making a match with Niall’s brother, then I’m afraid you’re going to have to think again. He’s far too arrogant, overbearing, and too darn cocksure of himself ever to qualify as a contender for my affections, and—’ Sienna broke off, then enquired of her friend, ‘What’s wrong with your mouth?’

When Jodie didn’t answer, however, she went on, ‘He’s too rich, he’s got a freezer cabinet for a heart, and is about as approachable as a turned on water cannon. I wouldn’t sleep with Conan Ryder if he was the last man on … What?’

Jodie’s eyes had come into the equation now. But even as it dawned on Sienna what her neighbour was trying to tell her, too late she felt that prickling awareness she had always felt when Conan Ryder was close, and she caught his deep voice, low in her ear, as he told her, ‘Don’t worry. You won’t have to. We have enough rooms in Provence for the family not to have to share with the guests.’

Those cool words were at variance with the warmth of his breath against her hair—an unintentional caress that sent tingles along her very nerve-endings. Or was it? she wondered, her pulse quickening ridiculously, because she didn’t think he’d miss a single trick to try and unsettle her.

ELIZABETH POWER wanted to be a writer from a very early age, but it wasn’t until she was nearly thirty that she took to writing seriously. Writing is now her life. Travelling ranks very highly among her pleasures, and so many places she has visited have been recreated in her books. Living in England’s West Country, Elizabeth likes nothing better than taking walks with her husband along the coast or in the adjoining woods, and enjoying all the wonders that nature has to offer.

You can visit her at www.elizabethpower.net

Recent titles by the same author:

SINS OF THE PAST

FOR REVENGE OR REDEMPTION

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Elizabeth Power

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TO ALAN

with love always

HE could hear the music coming from the fitness class before he reached it. A strong pulsing rhythm reverberating down the corridor.

On either side of him, behind glass partitions, enthusiasts were treading rubber and pumping muscle. He knew he cut an incongruous figure in his dark business suit, white shirt and tie, and was aware that two young women playing squash on one of the courts he was passing had stopped their game to watch him.

At six feet three and powerfully built, with the sleek black hair and rugged features of a Celtic heritage, he was used to the attention his presence elicited from the opposite sex. But while he might usually have spared a glance towards an admiring female today Conan Ryder’s mind wasn’t distracted from its purpose.

Ignoring their blatant interest, he strode determinedly on, the green-gold of his eyes remaining focused on the partly open door to the room where the beat was coming from. His broad shoulders were pulled back in a deliberate attempt to stem the adrenalin that was coursing through his body.

No one made him feel like this! The fight for the composure he prized pulled his jaw into a grim cast. Especially not a woman—and particularly not a woman like Sienna Ryder! He had a request to make—that was all. A request she’d probably refuse so that would mean a verbal battle with her to get her to do what he wanted. But he would win in the end. After that it was a matter of making the necessary arrangements and getting out.

‘That’s good, Charlene! Let your hips do the work! That’s lovely! You’re a natural! Let it f-l-o-w …’

He heard her voice above the beat as he pushed open the door with the flat of his hand. Clear. Encouraging. In control.

The lively rhythm was still pounding as he met the class head on and twenty pairs of female eyes turned his way, but his interest lay only with the petite figure of the young woman in a sleeveless red leotard and black leggings who was still directing the class with her back to him.

Her short dark hair was expertly shaped into the nape of her neck, its boyish style only adding to her femininity. Skin lightly tanned, the perfect proportions of her small, slim body were clearly outlined by the clinging clothes, yet there was a remarkably lithe fitness about her that hadn’t been so apparent when she had been married to his brother.

Coming up behind her, he let his gaze sweep over the graceful line of her neck and shoulders to the small butterfly tattoo he recognised just above her right shoulderblade, and felt a tug of unwelcome awareness at the very core of his masculinity. He found himself having to clear his throat before he stooped to make himself heard.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt your workout, but you were proving far too elusive. How does anyone get in touch with you? By carrier pigeon?’ Past hostilities gave a hard edge to the deep resonance of his voice. ‘Or would I have had more luck trying telepathy?’

Shock had registered in her eyes as she’d swung round—big blue eyes that met the green-gold of his now with a spark of contention, acknowledging the coldness in his tones.