CHAPTER ONE

      THOUGH lunchtime was almost over, the quiet backstreet restaurant was still fairly full.

      Bel Grant had just paid her bill and was preparing to leave when she noticed Mortimer Harmen, their company secretary, sitting at a corner table. In a reflex action she ducked her smooth blonde head.

      She disliked and distrusted Harmen, and avoided him whenever possible.

      Handsome in a beefy, florid way, his smile brash, his manner bold, he clearly thought he was God’s gift to women.

      He made Bel squirm.

      Even during business meetings his pale blue eyes always seemed to be stripping her. The last thing she wanted now was for him to spot her and insist on walking back to the office with her.

      A surreptitious glance showed that, though at the coffee stage, he was still deep in conversation with his luncheon companion, a dark-haired man who had his back to Bel.

      She picked up her bag, and was making her way to the door when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harmen rise to his feet. He appeared to be looking in her direction. Muttering, ‘Oh, hell!’ she dived into the Ladies.

      While she waited for the coast to be clear Bel checked her appearance. She hardly looked like a fugitive, she thought quizzically.

      Mirrored walls reflected a slim, charmingly businesslike woman wearing a charcoal suit and white blouse. Her gleaming ash-blonde hair was up in a neat chignon. Her oval face, with its small neat nose and generous mouth, the clear green eyes perfectly set and slightly elongated, was cool and composed, and free of make-up.

      Though her father owned the cosmetics company she worked for, Bel used few of their products. Well marked brows and lashes several shades darker than her hair, combined with a flawless skin, did away with the need—except for evenings out or special occasions.

      After hovering impatiently for two or three minutes, afraid she would be late for the two o’clock board meeting, Bel cautiously emerged.

      The table Harmen and his companion had shared was now vacant, and there was no immediate sign of her bête noire.

      Breathing a sigh of relief, she was making a beeline for the door when she cannoned into a tall, muscular figure and went staggering back.

      Lean hands shot out and gripped her shoulders, steadying her. She found herself looking up into a pair of thickly lashed eyes the exact colour of woodsmoke, and was suddenly breathless.

      Telling herself it was the impact that had robbed her of breath, she stammered, ‘I—I’m so sorry.’

      He said nothing, but as he studied her face a flame kindled and leapt in those smoky eyes.

      An answering spark, a flare of excitement, of sexual awareness, ran through her, heating her blood and bringing a flush to her cheeks while she stood staring into his eyes as if mesmerised.

      Then those handsome eyes blurred out of focus, and for an instant firm lips touched hers.

      Drawing a deep, shocked breath, she pulled herself free and hurried out, refusing to glance back.

      To any onlookers they must have appeared to be lovers taking leave of each other rather than total strangers.

      She felt shaken and indignant, furious with him, and with herself, because she was forced to recognise that his powerful masculinity had appealed to everything feminine in her.

      Trying to push the disturbing little incident to the back of her mind, Bel headed for Hyde Park, where the dusty trees and yellowing grass of late summer baked in the hot sun.

      The offices of Grant Filey