www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Anne MacFarlane,

      writer and critique partner extraordinaire

      One

      “It’s pronounced sin-cere.” Vicki St. Cyr leaned on the hotel counter. She was used to having her name mangled.

      “Don’t believe a word of it.” The deep, rich voice in her ear made her start and spin around. Those familiar flashing dark eyes were settled firmly on the hotel clerk. “She’s not to be trusted at all.”

      The young female behind the desk looked up, and her face took on that foolish sparkle of a girl suddenly confronted with the attentions of a handsome predatory male. “Can I help you, sir?”

      “I’ll let you know.” Jack looked back at Vicki, and she felt her blood heat.

      “Hi, Jack.” Vicki realized, too late, that she’d crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “Fancy seeing you here.”

      “Vicki, what a surprise.” His voice contained no more astonishment than hers. His gaze seemed to peer right through her carefully groomed exterior and flay bare a small part of her soul. If she still had a soul. “I hear you’re looking for me.”

      She swallowed. How had he heard? She’d hoped at least for the advantage of surprise. But then Jack had always been two strides ahead of her. Why would now be any different? “I have a proposal for you.”

      He leaned against the counter like a lazy puma. “How romantic.”

      “Not that kind of proposal.” Her voice had a prim, schoolmistressy snap that she instantly regretted. “A … business proposition.”

      “Perhaps we should go somewhere more private.” His dark eyes added an undercurrent of suggestion to his words. He turned his head to the clerk. “She won’t be needing her room.”

      A surge of desire, tangled up with fear and anticipation and even—already—regret for what she was about to do, rose through her body like a flash flood. She lifted her bag higher on her shoulder. She was strong now. She could handle him. She’d have to.

      “Why won’t I need my room?” The question was purely for show because they both knew the answer.

      “You’ll be staying with me. Just like old times.” His broad, sensual mouth widened, like the habitual slight grin of a crocodile. He grabbed her bag off the floor and strode for the door. Vicki’s faithless eyes tracked his tight behind, clad in faded denim, and the way his worn T-shirt hugged the thick muscle of his back.

      “Should I cancel the room?” The desk clerk didn’t take her eyes off him, even after he disappeared through the revolving door. “There will be a cancellation charge of fifty dollars because it’s already—”

      “Yes.” Vicki put her credit card on the counter. What was another fifty on top of what she already owed? It would save a fortune over staying in this expensive boutique hotel. Two years of trying to “keep up appearances” had left her close to beggary. Lord knows she wouldn’t be here otherwise.

      But desperate times called for desperate measures, like daring to set foot in Jack Drummond’s lair.

      Jack was behind the wheel of his vintage Mustang when she got outside. The fierce South Florida sun beat down on the tarmac and threw dazzling diamond reflections off the custom jade-green paint job. The engine was already running and the passenger door open for her to get in. Did he know she didn’t have a car? In the old days she’d have rented one and insisted on driving it just to keep the escape hatch open. Right now she didn’t have that luxury. She climbed in and settled herself against the soft leather seat. “How did you know I’d be here?”

      “My spies are everywhere.” He didn’t look at her as he pulled out of the parking lot and left the exclusive Ramona Beach Inn behind.

      “You don’t have any spies.” She seized the opportunity to study his face. Skin tanned to a rich copper as usual, dark hair flecked with gold. “You’ve always been a one-man band.”

      “You’ve been hanging around the New York Drummonds.” He still didn’t turn toward her, but she saw the muscles tighten in his hand on the wheel. “Figured I was next.”

      Vicki drew in a breath. “I spent a relaxing few weeks with Sinclair and his mom. It was fun to catch up with old friends.”

      A smile twitched at the edge of his mouth. “You always have an ulterior motive. The fun is in figuring it out.”

      She stiffened. “My motives are very simple. I’m helping Katherine Drummond locate the pieces of a three-hundred-year-old family chalice.”

      “And you’re doing this because of your passion for history?” This time he did turn to her. His smile deepened, beneath his bold cheekbones. “I heard you became an antiques dealer.”

      “The chalice has an interesting story.”

      “Oh, yes.” His voice deepened into a throaty narrator’s drone. “Three brothers, tossed by the stormy seas on their passage from bonnie Scotland, bid