CHAPTER ONE

      THE bell over the shop doorway rang as cheerfully as usual to announce the arrival of a customer. Its innocent sound did nothing to alert her to the fact that this customer was going to be any different from any other she’d had in today, that Griffin Sinclair was about to burst into her life—again!

      ‘Izzy? Izzy! I just called in to— Good God, woman, what the hell have you done to yourself? Your erstwhile fiancé, my dear brother Charles, has been dead almost a year now. Did no one tell you that the deceased’s nearest and dearest no longer have to wear black for a whole year, let alone throw themselves on the funeral pyre with them?’

      She had felt her blood turn to ice at the first sound of that mocking voice, but the words that followed shocked her so much that she couldn’t even speak!

      She had always found this man’s outspokenness, his whole overpowering personality uncomfortable to be around. And despite the fact that she hadn’t seen him since Charles’s funeral ten months ago—it was exactly ten months ago—today was no exception!

      ‘Izzy, are you ill?’ He frowned across at her where she sat behind the desk that also housed the till, his brows narrowed over emerald-green eyes. ‘Izzy?’ he prompted again, impatient now at her lack of response.

      ‘Dora.’ She finally spoke softly.

      ‘What?’ Griffin scowled his irritated impatience.

      ‘My name is Dora,’ She told him more firmly, recovering slightly from the shock of seeing him again. ‘And would you either come in or go out of that doorway? You’re letting in a draught!’

      He came fully into the shop, the bell over the door ringing again as he closed it behind him. ‘You know, I’ve never liked the name Dora.’ He arrogantly dismissed her first statement, grinning his satisfaction now that he had at least got some sort of response from her.

      He looked, Dora decided, completely incongruous in the intimate confines of this speciality bookshop. His denims were as old and faded as the brown boots he wore, a black tee-shirt was tucked in at his flat waist, and a brown leather jacket seemed to have been thrown on carelessly over this. But for all his seeming indifference to the clothes he wore, his physique was powerful with vitality, like a lion about to pounce. Dora just wished she didn’t feel quite so much like the prey he intended pouncing upon!

      He really was the most unorthodox man she had ever seen, Dora decided. His hair was even longer than when she had last seen him, golden waves of it reaching to his shoulders now, looking as if the most he did with it was run his fingers through it in the mornings just to push it back off his face. And the length of that unruly hair was totally off-set by the rugged strength of his face, which looked as if it had been hewn from stone: a square chin, full lips, straight, arrogant nose, and those deep green eyes. At the moment he was still grinning at her, those green eyes laughing at her, forcing lines to appear beside his eyes and mouth.

      In fact, Griffin Sinclair was so altogether male that he set Dora’s teeth on edge! A fact that had always made it difficult for her to believe he really was Charles’s younger brother.

      ‘I don’t believe it’s actually significant whether or not you actually like my name, Griffin—’

      ‘Oh, I love your name—Izzy,’ He drawled pointedly. ‘And I quite like Isadora. It’s only Dora that I can’t stand.’ He grimaced with feeling. ‘It makes you sound like a Dickensian heroine!’

      She raised her auburn brows. ‘You meant you dislike the name Dora, of course,’ she taunted dryly—no one ever called her Isadora.

      Griffin strolled further into the shop, his derisive expression showing exactly what he thought of the shelves and shelves of non-fiction and classical books that surrounded the two of them.

      ‘Of course,’ he agreed softly, standing only feet away from her now. ‘Dora sounds like an old maid, and old-fashioned to boot.’ Once again his critical gaze swept over her sombre clothing.

      And Dora knew exactly what he would see, too. The black calf-length skirt and black jumper were completely unflattering to either her figure or the natural paleness of her complexion. Only the vibrant red of her own shoulder-length hair gave her any colour at all, and that was secured at her nape with a black ribbon.

      ‘Isadora is coolly elegant,’ Griffin continued consideringly. ‘But Izzy—well, Izzy is something else!’ he murmured appreciatively.

      The red colour that flooded her cheeks at this comment almost matched the colour of her hair. ‘I thought we’d agreed never to refer to that again!’ she bit out stiffly.

      He shrugged unconcernedly. ‘That was before. Things are different now.’

      ‘Not for me, they aren’t,’ Dora cut in sharply, her hands tightly gripping two books she had picked up to replace back on the shelf.

      That green gaze