CHAPTER FIVE

      ‘MUMMY, THERE’S A GIANT standing in our garden. What do you think about that?’

      Given yesterday it had been an elephant under the stairs, Sybella didn’t rush to call the fire brigade or police station or even Jack the giant killer.

      When she did put away the bath towels she was folding and came into her bedroom, she found her five-year-old daughter was kneeling at the dormer window in her pyjamas, her big violet-blue eyes full of innocent curiosity for a world that produced fairy-tale characters in human guise.

      Joining Fleur at the glass, she obligingly looked out. Her pulse hit a thousand and she stepped back and said a silent prayer. Then she leaned forward again to get a better look.

      She became aware of Fleur watching her, waiting for a cue as to how to respond to this stranger at their door. Sybella shook off her astonishment.

      ‘That’s not a giant, darling, that’s a Viking god.’

      He was facing their door and in a minute he’d work out the old-fashioned bell-pull was indeed the bell—but it was broken.

      Then he’d probably pound on the door until he broke it down.

      ‘Mummy will go down and speak to him. Why don’t you stay here with Dodge? You know how nervous he gets around boys.’

      ‘Because they’re noisy.’ Fleur picked up her toy bricks and returned to fitting pieces together. Sybella wasn’t fooled. Her daughter would wait until the coast was clear and make her way to the top of the stairs and peer down through the bannisters.

      Sybella wouldn’t have minded that option herself. Instead she took the stairs by twos, then stopped in front of the hall mirror and checked her face was clean. Clean but her eyes were shadowed with lack of sleep.

      She’d been on the Internet late last night checking up on Nik Voronov and how much damage he could possibly do her. Given he was on the Forbes list, probably a lot.

      At least she was wearing her work clothes: a white silk blouse, a knee-length caramel-coloured suede skirt and boots. Pretty respectable. She ran a hand through her yet-to-be-braided hair and went to open the door.

      Then hesitated and looked at herself in the glass again, this time undoing her top two buttons.

      There, just a hint of cleavage. It had nothing to do with making herself more attractive for the man who had called her a honey trap last night. It was about her own self-confidence as a woman.

      She opened the door, and her self-confidence did a wobble and promptly fell over.

      He was wearing a tailored suit and tie. He might as well have been wearing a surcoat and carrying a broadsword. She knew he’d come to take prisoners.

      His eyes flared over her as if he were dropping a net and Sybella instinctively dug her heels into her shoes to keep herself from being dragged in towards him.

      And just like last night in the snow it was his mouth she was drawn to. The wide lower lip, the slight curve at the ends that could go either way, like Nero’s thumb, up or down, and decide your fate. She’d been kissed by that mouth last night and it had definitely been going her way for a little bit. But in the end it had all been a ruse to make her look as foolish as possible.

      ‘Enjoy the brandy?’

      The brandy? She hadn’t known what to do with the bottle when she’d got home so she’d stashed it in the linen closet.

      It had occurred to her that Catherine, her mother-in-law, was regularly in and out of that cupboard when she babysat Fleur.

      Sybella was forever coming home to freshly changed sheets, which she appreciated even as it drove her crazy.

      Hiding spirits behind the bathroom towels, Sybella, dear?

      A little devil she didn’t know was in her made her say, ‘Yes, thank you, I drank the lot.’

      ‘Careful,’ he said, his deep voice wiping away any comparisons with her mother-in-law, ‘excessive drinking is a slippery slope to all kinds of illness in later life.’

      ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

      What did he want? Why was he looking at her in that way, his eyes trained on her, cool and watchful and somehow taking her clothes off?

      ‘So,’ she said, swallowing. ‘How can I help you today?’

      Nik eyed the two undone buttons.

      ‘It’s nine o’clock.’

      ‘I told you my mornings were busy.’ She made a gesture with her hand, wriggling her fingers. ‘Serene on the surface, duck legs churning underneath.’

      Nik’s attention had drifted to her hair because it seemed to have grown more abundant overnight like some Victorian-era maiden. He suddenly found himself right back where he was last night. Wanting her.

      He cleared his throat. ‘My grandfather tells me you take tours of the house.’