Passionate Fantasy

‘You feel it too. Don’t you?’

‘Feel wh-what ... ?’ Kitty stammered.

Darius gave a click of impatience, the gleam leaving his eyes.

‘Oh, come on, Kitty,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t deny what your body accepted minutes ago. Because you can’t, can you? Your eyes are begging me to kiss you, aren’t they?’

‘N-no. They aren’t,’ she lied ineffectually.

He smiled. ‘And do you know, I’m very tempted?Very tempted indeed!’

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and ... well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him ... Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Passionate Fantasy

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Dear Reader

Author the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

I MUST be mad, thought Kitty as she knotted the ribbon in her hair before tying it in a bow. No, not just mad. Certifiable.

What did a girl wear for an interview with a world-famous film director?

She stared in the mirror again. Her ginger curls had gone totally wild after her shower, billowing into a mass of uncontrollable frizz. Very attractive! Just about the only thing she could do with it was to catch it back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck with a black velvet ribbon. Her pale, freckle-spattered skin was bare—she had discovered a long time ago that foundation was useless on a complexion which was basically two-tone! The eyelashes which surrounded her blue eyes were normally the same pale ginger-blonde as her hair, but every six weeks she dyed them black. It made her eyes look bigger, and it meant that she didn’t have to mess around every morning applying mascara.

She had ummed and ahhed about what to wear. Mr Darius Speed would doubtless be used to women in up-market designer clothes, which was tough, since she didn’t have any. Kitty had chosen instead a smart pair of cotton shorts in jade-green, with a matching silk scoop-necked T-shirt. There were a million colours you couldn’t wear with ginger hair— but fortunately green wasn’t one of them. It would actually have been preferable to wear long sleeves to cover up her freckly arms, but the weather in Perth, Western Australia was sweltering and since Kitty had arrived two months ago she had had to abandon her much loved camouflage of jumpers and cardigans.

It was hard to believe that she was actually being interviewed for the job of cook to a man with the formidable reputation of Darius Speed. She would have thought that he’d have a top chef flown in from somewhere, but no—it seemed that he was interested in her, Kitty Goodman, with nothing to her name but a diploma from catering college.

What Mr Speed didn’t know was that Kitty was specifically interested in him, and not the job. Not romantically interested, of course, as so many women were—that was if you could believe half of what you read in the gossip-columns.

No, Kitty’s interest was of a far more noble nature—she was on a mission for her new and very dear friend Caro—to prove to the world that the supposedly high-minded Mr Speed had ripped Caro off—had stolen the film-script which Caro had spent a lifetime working on, and was planning to use it under his own name!

It had astonished and horrified Kitty to discover just how devious she could be. She had planned this interview with the film-maker with the precision of a military campaign. She had applied to him first in a letter, stating her qualifications and references. What had seemed like ages had passed, until she had been certain that she was out of the running—and then a well-spoken man had rung her up out of the blue to arrange an interview time.

‘Are you free tomorrow evening?’ the voice had asked.

She had remembered Caro showing her the newspaper clipping which had pictured a girl draped round the film director’s neck like a boa-constrictor. ‘Tomorrow evening, Mr Speed?’ she had enquired frostily.

‘I’m not,’ an amused-sounding voice had said, ‘Darius Speed. I’m Simon Parker—his secretary.’

‘It seems rather an—odd—time for an interview,’ Kitty had ventured.

The voice had sounded even more amused. ‘Not so much odd as unusual. He’s an unusual man. And besides, he’s out doing research during the day.’

‘Oh.’

‘So are you available or not?’

It had struck Kitty that he could have chosen a word with slightly less awkward connotations than ‘available’, in the light of what Caro had told her about Darius Speed’s reputation with the fairer sex, and she couldn’t help feeling a little shiver of apprehension, half tempted to tell him no. But then she had thought about what she had promised Caro. ‘Yes,’ she had said, forcing a note of enthusiasm into her voice. ‘I’m free.’

‘Good. Can you meet him in Barbary’s restaurant at eight? Oh, and don’t eat first.’

A meeting in a restaurant. At night. Don’t eat first. Kitty’s face, she hoped, hid her misgivings as she paid her cab fare and walked into the fashionable and already crowded restaurant at five minutes before the appointed time.

‘Mr Speed, please,’ she said to the maȋtre d’.

He gave her an expansive smile. ‘Mr Speed hasn’t arrived, madam. If you would like me to show you to your table?’

She followed him across the room to a table which was suitably central for an important customer, yet far enough away from other tables to prevent any conversation being overheard.

‘Would madam like a drink?’

‘Just a mineral water, please,’ she said instantly, vowing that alcohol wouldn’t cloud her senses. ‘Sparkling.’

The drink was produced immediately in a long crystal glass packed with ice, With a piece of lime floating decorously on the surface, and Kitty had just started sipping it when there was the momentary lull which, she knew, heralded the arrival of Somebody Very Important, and the man whose photograph she had seen in the newspaper appeared in the doorway.

Darius Speed.

He looked straight across the restaurant, at the table at which she was sitting, and their eyes met. He stood very still for a moment, and stared hard at her. His own face was stern, although he said something to the maȋtre d’ which produced a wide smile.

Wow! was her first thoroughly instinctive thought. In the photograph he had looked devastating, but in the flesh he was something else! He had to be the most delectable man she had ever, ever set eyes on, and then she reminded herself what kind of man he was, and immediately felt appalled at herself.

He began to walk towards her, full of both grace and power, and Kitty watched him approach, suddenly exceedingly nervous of what she was intending to do. She was intending to infiltrate the house of this man, to gain his trust, and then coolly to rob him. And while that was OK in theory, the reality of such an intimidating opponent quite unnerved her.

He was so much bigger than she had imagined— well over six feet—and his shoulders were distinctly and disturbingly broad. His hair was as dark as the night, unmarred by any trace of grey. And as he came closer to the table she could see that his eyes were the light, mercurial colour of quicksilver—grey one minute, silver the next.

He wore a suit in some dark grey material which fell loosely about the powerful frame, yet hinted at the strength which lay beneath, but there all conventionality ended because beneath the suit he was tieless, wearing a shirt of black silk—the hard inky colour somehow at odds with the softness of the material, as the penetrating look in his eyes was curiously at odds with the polite half-smile he gave her as he extended his hand.

‘Miss Goodman? No, don’t get up—I’m Darius Speed.’

She took the hand he offered, felt it give hers the most cursory of firm squeezes, before he sat down opposite her, his eyes questioning as he waited for her to speak.

‘Good evening, Mr Speed.’ Stop sounding like a mouse speaking to a lion, she told herself firmly.

‘Darius,’ he corrected shortly. ‘And you’re Kitty?’

She nodded, taking her courage in both hands. ‘I am.’

The grey eyes flicked over her face, briefly taking in the well-pressed but fairly unremarkable outfit she wore. ‘You don’t,’ he said, the deep voice holding the faintest undercurrent of warning—or was that just in her guilty imagination—‘look in the least bit like a cook.’

Her instinct was to counter-attack, but she wanted the job, so she forced herself to be pleasant. From everything that Caro had told her, she already despised this man, but he wasn’t going to discover that. Not for a little while, anyway. ‘Whereas you,’ she smiled, ‘look exactly like a film director.’

There was an almost imperceptible tensing of his facial muscles. ‘You’ve heard of me, then?’

‘Naturally,’ she concurred. ‘I’m applying to work for you, aren’t I?’

Grey eyes narrowed instantly. ‘But the job description said only that the successful applicant would be working for a businessman. I don’t remember specifying which business.’

‘Well, I recognised you as soon as you walked into the restaurant,’ she amended hastily. ‘From your photo in the paper.’

He leaned back a little. ‘Did you?’ he enquired lazily, and Kitty got a strange and vivid impression that he would easily be able to differentiate between truth and fiction. She had better be careful. ‘Well, that makes a refreshing change,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

He shrugged, the movement causing a dark tendril of hair to stray on to his high and faintly tanned forehead. ‘You have no idea,’ he said, ‘how many young women believe that it will elicit my lasting and unswerving dedication if they play-act-usually badly—failing to recognise me. The implication being, I imagine, that I will respect a woman far more if she likes me for being just me, rather than for the attraction of my fame and my money.’

Kitty remembered one of her mother’s lessons. She counted to ten, but as she did so she began to savour putting into action her plan to extricate the script from this intolerably arrogant man! ‘Dear me,’ she said placatingly. ‘How difficult relationships can be—as I know to my cost! You don’t appear to have had very much luck either.’

It was the gentlest of put-downs. Obviously not what he was expecting her to say. He should have had the grace to look abashed.

He didn’t.

‘You don’t look like a chef,’ he observed again.

‘Don’t I?’ She gave a serene smile. ‘You would have preferred the stereotype, perhaps? A good ten pounds overweight, checked trousers, a white jacket with tall matching hat? Perhaps the tip of my nose covered in flour would have added the final convincing touch?’

There was the faintest smile, before the handsome face resumed a mocking mask. ‘Something like that,’ he said softly.

She looked straight into the flashing silver eyes. Oh, that voice, she thought reluctantly. Had she ever heard a voice like that before? Never. It sounded like chocolate and honey. Like music played by some deep, sexy instrument. With the faintest of underlying drawls which made it especially distinctive. She sighed. Why couldn’t he have looked like the back end of a bus? Much easier, surely, to deceive someone who didn’t bring you out in goose-bumps all over.

The silver-grey eyes were unwavering. ‘Now,’ he said crisply. ‘Before we go any further, I have to tell you that I’m looking for a chef and not an actress.’

She stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked slowly.

‘Think about it.’

Comprehension slowly dawned. ‘You think—that I’m really an actress? That my applying for the job of cook is simply a ploy to get to meet you?’

‘You’ve got it in one,’ he murmured.

Of all the insufferable arrogance! Stealing from this man was going to be pure, undiluted joy! ‘You’ve seen my certificates,’ she said coldly. ‘You must know I’m bona fide.’

‘Oh, yes—I’ve seen them.’ He laughed then, a sort of bitter, empty laugh. ‘But you’d be surprised,’ he drawled, ‘just how many women try it on. The whole world, it seems, wants to break into the movie business. I ring out for pizza—the girl who delivers it belts out a number from last year’s musical. I go shopping, and the woman selling me the sweater asks can she visit me on set to audition. Not just women, either. I take a bus and the driver gives me a rendition of Macbeth’s soliloquy. Yes——’ he must have seen her disbelieving expression ‘—bus. I don’t travel exclusively by limousine. If I cut myself off from real life, then I can’t make real films.’

What a cynic! Kitty drew a deep breath. ‘Listen to me,’ she told him. ‘I cannot recite poetry or dance to save my life. When I start to sing, people leave the room in droves. I have no desire in the world to become an actress. Cooking is what I do best, and I enjoy it. At the moment I’m temping— mostly waitress work—handing out microwaved food with stupid names to people who don’t need it. I answered your advertisement because I want to go back to cooking, which is why I’m here, though heaven knows—a restaurant seems a bizarre place in which to conduct an interview——’

‘You think so?’ Unexpectedly he gave a wolfish grin and handed her one of the leather-bound menus which the maître d’ had placed silently on the table in front of him during their little discourse, as though he hadn’t dared to interrupt. ‘I can’t think of a better place to interview someone who works with food.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She nodded in comprehension as she took the menu and scanned it. ‘This is to be trial by bread and butter, is it? I’ll be pilloried if I commit a crime so heinous as ordering strawberries out of season, or liberally sprinkling my food with pepper and salt without having tasted it first ... ?’ She looked up to find that his eyes were fixed with amusement on her face. It was there for a moment, and then it was gone, and, in the few seconds that it took, her heart-rate underwent an alarming acceleration.

‘Do you always have an answer for everything?’ he mused.

She stared down at the menu, the handwritten italic script just meaningless hieroglyphics to her confused eyes. No, she didn’t. This verbal jousting had been sparked by him. Him. And admit it, she thought, you enjoyed sparring with him. You liked the fact that you were able to make him smile.

‘She retreats,’ he commented. ‘Wondering whether she has taken one step too far.’

If it weren’t for Caro, she’d be taking more than one step, she fumed silently. She’d be taking several, right out of here, and away from Darius Speed with his alarming attraction.

‘What should I have?’ he queried casually. ‘What can a restaurant best be judged on?’

It was a relief to be able to concentrate on something other than what a hunk he was. Her special field. ‘Something fresh,’ she replied promptly, ‘which can’t be successfully reheated. Here I would try the eggs Florentine—poached eggs, béarnaise sauce and spinach—a simple dish which is heaven if it’s done properly, hell if it’s not.’

He nodded. ‘If——’

‘Mr Speed ...’

They both looked up. A woman, who looked as though she had been poured into a black satin dress, stood looking down at them. The hair which tumbled artfully over her shoulders was blonde, but with the falsely honeyed hue of bottled peroxide.

He raised dark eyebrows. ‘Yes?’ he enquired noncommittally.

‘Mr Speed,’ she gushed, ‘I’ve been a fan of yours for so long. I loved your last film, and——’

‘There’s a problem, Mr Speed?’ It was the professional voice of the Maȋtre d’.

‘No problem,’ he came back implacably. ‘What can I do for you, Miss ... ?’

‘Arnold,’ she gushed. ‘Ffyona Arnold—that’s with two fs and a y. Could I have your—autograph?’ She batted sooty lashes and gave a little-girl smile. ‘Please’?

‘Sure.’

Kitty thought she detected a faint sigh as he took a gold fountain-pen from the pocket of his jacket and accepted the card which Ffyona Arnold offered.

Was this what it was like, then—fame? wondered Kitty. That elusive twentieth-century symbol of success, chased by so many and given to so few. Was this all it was? Total strangers disturbing you in restaurants, transparent in their eagerness for something more than a mere signature?

‘What would you like me to write?’ he asked politely.

Ffyona Arnold gave another coquettish smile. ‘How about the chance to show you what I can do—acting-wise, I mean?’ She giggled hopefully, then must have seen the barely concealed look of boredom on his face. ‘Your phone number would do,’ she gushed.

Good heavens, thought Kitty, the woman must have the skin of a rhinoceros not to have picked up the negative vibes which were shimmering across the table from where the film-maker sat.

‘Sorry.’ He negated her request with a tone of chilly indifference, signing his name instead with a sweepingly confident flourish, and handed the card back with a polite gesture of dismissal.

After the disappointed woman had been firmly led away by the Maȋtre d’, he turned back to Kitty, and she could see the mild expression of distaste which curled his lips. Was that all for her benefit? she wondered. If he hadn’t been interviewing, would he have taken the woman up on her blatant offer? Taken her back to his house for a night of decadence?

He gestured towards her now empty glass. ‘Something stronger?’ he enquired. ‘Some wine perhaps?’

‘No, thank you. Just mineral water,’ she said, much too quickly, and, suddenly nervous, knocked over the small crystal salt-cellar by her hand, and it tipped on to its side, salt spilling out in a small pile, a snowy little mountain growing on the crisp damask of the tablecloth.

There was a short silence while a waiter rushed over, brushed up the residue and replaced the saltcellar, and she couldn’t miss the searching look Darius Speed gave her, the eyes narrowed as if he hadn’t expected clumsiness from her; and normally he would have been right. Normally.

‘Tell my why you applied for this job,’ he said, a cool impartiality making the deep voice devoid of any emotion.

He mustn’t suspect, she thought desperately. He mustn’t.

‘You pay well,’ she said, and she saw him give a small nod as though he understood the language of hard currency very well. ‘Enough for me to save up and see the rest of Australia.’

‘You could have done that in one of the established restaurants—of which Perth has many—some of them with world-class reputations. And you could have learnt from one of the master chefs.’

She shook her head. ‘I’d have ended up chopping garlic in one corner of the kitchen. Working on my own gives me professional autonomy—and I like that.’

‘Do you?’ He nodded, and continued to subject her to that steady, cool stare, his eyes now the colour of pewter, shadowed by thick, dark lashes. ‘And is there anything you’d care to ask me— Kitty?’

Don’t seem too eager. He wouldn’t give the job to just anyone. This kind of man would value someone only if she valued herself. She took a sip of iced mineral water, returning his cool stare with one of her own. ‘I’m surprised that you need a fulltime chef. Being a single man, that is.’

‘You assume that I’m single, then? Been reading the papers again?’

‘Not at all,’ she shot back. ‘I made the assumption because, if you were married, then I would certainly have expected your wife to take part in the choice of chef.’

‘Because cooking is a woman’s province, perhaps?’

‘Because of equality within the relationship,’ she countered. ‘And some of the world’s greatest chefs are men, as I’m sure you know.’

‘Indeed. Very generously conceded, Kitty. And you’re right—I am single.’ He smiled, and sipped his own mineral water. ‘I’m writing a screenplay,’ he said, ‘as well as auditioning for a film I’ll be making, starting in January. I’m also researching a documentary on Rottnest Island, which the Western Australian government has asked me to make. So there will be film people in and out of the house. I keep very odd hours, because when I work I work. I also entertain people from all over the world, and I prefer to do that at home. In restaurants, there are often ...’ His eyes shot over to the other side of the room, where Ffyona Arnold was sitting, ignoring her dining companion and gazing at Darius. When she saw him look over, she gave him a hopeful smile, but he did not return it.