MILLS & BOON^®

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Sharon Kendrick started story-telling at the age of eleven and has never really stopped. She likes to write fast-paced, feel-good romances with heroes who are so sexy they’ll make your toes curl!

      Born in west London, she now lives in the beautiful city of Winchester—where she can see the cathedral from her window (but only if she stands on tip-toe). She has two children, Celia and Patrick, and her passions include music, books, cooking and eating—and drifting off into wonderful daydreams while she works out new plots!

       Don’t miss Sharon Kendrick’s exciting new novel, The Italian Billionaire’s Secretary Mistress, available in October 2009 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

      To Michèle et Claude Bertrand, for their wonderful hospitality and for showing me a different side of glorious Paris.

      CHAPTER ONE

      CESARE DI ARCANGELO’S eyes narrowed as he watched the woman begin to walk down the aisle, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her beautiful mouth, and he found he wanted to crush it, lick it, bite it, eat it.

      Yet he felt the flicker of a pulse at his temple and was aware of the faint wash of disappointment—for he had wanted to feel nothing, to remain as coolly indifferent as women always accused him of being. But as she approached, in a cloud of silk-satin and lace, that hope shattered within him. He felt anger rise like poison in his blood, but something else too. Something more powerful still—which it seemed that all the years could not diminish. Something which had kept the human race going since the beginning of time.

      Lust.

      And maybe that was better—because if lust was a problem then it had a pretty simple solution.

      The sound of the organ music was building up to a crescendo, and the heavy scent of the flowers was intoxicating, but all Cesare could see from his seat near the back was Sorcha, smiling, her bouquet held in front of a waist which was as sensuously narrow as it had been when she was just eighteen.

      What a gorgeously sexy bridesmaid she was…

      Feeling the hard, heavy tug of an erection straining against the exquisitely tailored trousers of his morning suit, Cesare briefly clenched and then flexed his hands, willing the hard throb of desire to disappear.

      He had slid into his seat at the back of the church at the very last minute. It had been a low-key but deliberate lateness—for the sight of Cesare di Arcangelo tended to create interest and excitement wherever he went.

      Mega-rich, sexy Italians seemed to be on the top of everybody’s wish list. It was why the hottest hostesses in all the major cities in the world pursued him with the fervour of astronomers who had just discovered a brandnew planet.

      He scanned the congregation for Sorcha’s mother. Yes. There she was—in a hat as big as the Sydney Opera House—and even from this distance it was easy to read the cat-got-the-cream satisfaction of her body language. She must be very pleased—for a rich son-inlaw spelt hope for a family firm beset with problems. Would Emma’s new husband be willing to pour the necessary funds into the family business to keep creditors at bay?

      Cesare doubted it. Money only worked up until a certain point—after that, you might as well hold it up to the winds and let it scatter. Problems had to be fixed; they couldn’t be patched up. His mouth twisted. All problems.

      The bride and groom were now passing, but he barely gave them a glance. Nor the parade of chubby little bridesmaids, or the scowling pageboys clad in satin romper suits which they would never forgive their mothers for forcing them to wear.

      No, it was the only adult bridesmaid, with the bright, strawberry blonde hair woven with tiny rosebuds, who commanded his total, undivided attention. She was his problem—the unfinished business which he needed to put to bed. Beautiful Sorcha Whittaker, with the green eyes, and the bright hair like a waterfall, and a body as supple as an eel.

      He had her trained in his sights, like a hunter with his prey fixed—for he wanted to see her reaction when their eyes met for the first time in…How long was it now? A pulse began to beat at his temple. Seven years? A minute? An eternity?

      He saw her knuckles tense and her footsteps falter so much that for a second she almost came to a halt. Time froze as he stared into eyes as green as a rainwashed woodland and saw the confusion and consternation which flew into them as she stared straight back.

      Cesare watched her face blanch and her lips tremble and felt a fleeting moment of utter triumph—swiftly followed by frustration that he could not just take her there and then.

      If only this were not a crowded place of worship.

      How much easier if they were alone and he could swiftly remove all the underwear hidden beneath the canopy of that monstrous dress—could swiftly obliterate desire and frustration with sweet release.

      And then just walk away.

      For a moment he was powerless—as once she had made him powerless all those years ago. But soon she would have fulfilled her role as bridesmaid, and then he would take the power back with relish.

      ‘Bride or groom?’ asked the delicious-looking brunette in banana-coloured silk who was standing beside him.

      Cesare swallowed, for his erotic thoughts had inevitably made him ache. He flicked his eyes over the brunette, who widened hers so provocatively that she might just as well have had Yes, please! tattooed on her forehead. ‘Groom,’ he answered drily. ‘And you?’

      ‘Mmm. Me, too. He said there were going to be some gorgeous men here, and by heck—he wasn’t lying!’ The brunette batted her eyelashes quite outrageously. ‘Any chance I could cadge a lift to the reception?’

      Cesare’s mouth hardened into a smile. ‘Why not?’

      Outside the church, Sorcha was standing in the wedding group while it seemed as if a thousand photos were being taken. But her smile felt as if someone had slashed it across her face with a razor.

      Her eyes flickered over to the tiny church and she saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure emerging, having to bend his head to avoid bumping it on the low door, and her heart felt as if someone had ripped open her chest and squeezed it with a bare fist.

      Cesare!

       Here!

      ‘Sorcha! This way! Look at the camera!’

      With an effort she tore her eyes away from him and a flashbulb exploded in her face, temporarily blinding her. When it cleared he had gone. But there was her brother, Rupert, standing in a group, and she hurried over to him, completely ignoring the appreciative comments which came from his fellow ushers. Her mouth was dry and her heart was beating like a drum. And it hurt. It shouldn’t do, but it hurt.

      ‘Who in their right mind invited Cesare di Arcangelo today?’ she managed, though her specially perfected chief bridesmaid smile didn’t waver.

      ‘Oh, he’s here, is he?’ Rupert looked around and an odd expression came into his eyes. ‘Good.’

      ‘Good?’ Sorcha tried to squash all the instinctive fears which came scurrying to the forefront of her mind. Because none of them might be true, and it was her sister’s wedding day, after all.

      It was supposed to be a happy occasion, a joyous day—like all weddings should be. And it had been—right up until the