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      ABBY GREEN deferred doing a social anthropology degree to work freelance as an assistant director in the film and television industry—which is a social study in itself! Since then it’s been early starts, long hours, mucky fields, ugly car parks and wet-weather gear—especially working in Ireland. She has no bona fide qualifications, but could probably help negotiate a peace agreement between two warring countries after years of dealing with recalcitrant actors. Since discovering a guide to writing romance one day, she decided to capitalise on her long-time love for Mills & Boon^® romances and attempt to follow in the footsteps of such authors as Kate Walker and Penny Jordan.

      She’s enjoying the excuse to be paid to sit inside, away from the elements. She lives in Dublin and hopes that you will enjoy her stories. You can e-mail her at [email protected].

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      This is for Lindi Loo and Lola, my two favourite girls

      Chapter One

      RICO CHRISTOFIDES stifled his irritation and tried to rein in his wandering attention. What was wrong with him? He was in one of the most exclusive restaurants in London, dining with one of the most beautiful women in the world. But it was as if someone had turned the sound down and all he could hear was the steady thump-thump of his heart.

      He saw Elena gesticulating and speaking with a little too much animation, her eyes glittering a little too brightly as she tossed her luxurious mane of red hair over one shoulder, leaving the other one bare. It was meant to entice but it didn’t.

      He knew all the moves. He’d seen countless women perform them for years, and he’d enjoyed them. But right now he felt no more desire for this woman than he would for an inanimate wooden object. He regretted the impulse he’d acted on to call her up once he’d known he’d be in London for a few days.

      Curiously, he was being enticed by a tantalising memory. He’d glanced fleetingly at one of the waitresses as they’d walked in and in an instant something about the way she moved had registered on his brain, throwing him back in time—two years back in time, to be precise. He’d found himself thinking of the one woman who hadn’t been like all the others. The one woman who had managed to smash through the high wall of defences he kept rigid around himself and his emotions.

      For just one night.

      His fist clenched on his thigh under the table. It had to be just because he was back in London for the first time since that night. He forced himself to smile tightly in answer to something Elena had said, which seemed to require that response, and to his relief he could see that she was off again, clearly loving the sound of her voice more than she cared if he was listening or not.

      The night he’d met her—Gypsy…if that even was her name—they’d just come out of the club and he’d been about to tell her his name. She’d put a hand over his mouth, saying fervently, ‘I don’t want to know who you are…tonight isn’t about that.’

      Scepticism hadn’t been far away. Either she knew damn well who he was, as he’d been splashed all over the tabloids for days before that night, or else…But Rico had found himself pausing as he’d looked down at her. She’d looked so lovely and young and fresh…and untainted. And for that moment, for the first time in his life, he’d pushed aside cynicism and suspicion—his constant companions—and said, ‘OK, then, temptress…what about just first names?’

      Before she could say anything and still believing deep down and with not a little arrogance that she had to know who he was, he’d held out his hand and said with a flourish, ‘Rico…at your service.’

      She’d placed her small soft hand in his and hesitated for a long moment before saying huskily, ‘I’m Gypsy.’

      A made-up name. It had to be. He’d chuckled, and he could remember even now how alien it had felt to allow that emotion to rise up. ‘Fair enough. Play your silly game if you want…Right now I’m interested in a lot more than your name…’

      Someone laughed raucously at a nearby table, jerking Rico out of the memory, but even so a hot spiral of desire ran through him and he had a sudden memory flash of hearts beating in unison, sweat-slicked skin, her sleek body around his in an embrace so velvet hot and tight that he’d fought just to keep control. And then her muscles had started to spasm around him, she’d given a fractured breathy moan, and he’d lost it in a way that he’d never lost it before or since.

      ‘Rico, darling…’ Elena was pouting at him, lips too blood-red. ‘You’re miles away. Please tell me you’re not thinking of boring work.’

      Rico stifled a cynical grimace. It was that very boring work, and all the many millions he’d made in the process, that had women like Elena hovering around him in droves, waiting for little more than a crooked finger to signal his interest. Even so, the acknowledgement couldn’t stop him from shifting uncomfortably in his seat, very disturbed by the fact that he was being turned on not by the woman opposite him, but by a ghost from the past. Because that ghost was the one woman who hadn’t fallen at his feet in sycophantic ecstasy when he’d singled her out.

      On the contrary: she’d tried to walk away from him. And then the following morning she had walked away from him. But not before he’d left her on the bed, like a callow, unsophisticated youth. Regret burned him, and Rico didn’t do regret.

      He forced another tight smile and reached across for Elena’s far too available hand. She practically purred when he took it. He opened his mouth to offer some platitude as a waitress walked past their table, and he frowned when his body inexplicably reacted—tightening almost as if it sensed something his brain hadn’t yet registered. He looked up; it was the waitress he’d noticed