Melanie Milburne - At No Man's Command

Lochbannon was a little large for an older single woman with only a dog for company and a handful of staff, but he had wanted to give his mother a safe haven, a place that was totally unconnected to her former life as Clifford Challender’s wife.

Although he had insisted the estate was in his mother’s name, James liked to spend the occasional week up in the Highlands away from the fast lane of London, which was why he’d decided to come up in spite of his mother’s assurances that Bonnie was well taken care of.

This was the one place he could focus without distractions. A week working here was worth a month in his busy London office. He liked the solitude, the peace and tranquillity of being alone, without people needing him to fix something, do something or be something.

Here he could let his shoulders down and relax. Here he could think. Clear his head of the stress of managing a company that was still suffering the effects of his father’s mishandling of projects and clients.

Lochbannon was also one of the few places where he could escape the intrusive spotlight of the press. The repercussions of his father’s profligate lifestyle had spread across his own life like an indelible stain. The newshounds were always on the lookout for a scandal to prove their theory of ‘like father, like son.’

Even before he turned off the engine he heard the sound of Bonnie’s welcoming bark. He smiled as he walked to the front door. Maybe his mother was right about her precious dog being too sensitive to leave with strangers. Besides, he had to admit there was something rather homely and comfortable about an enthusiastic canine greeting.

The door opened before he could put his key in the lock and a pair of wide grey eyes blinked at him in outraged shock, as if suddenly finding a prowler on the doorstep instead of the postman. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

James’s hand fell away from the door. His body went stiff as if the snow falling behind him had frozen him to the spot. Aiesha Adams. The infamous, lethally gorgeous, impossibly sexy and outrageously wild Aiesha Adams. ‘I believe that’s supposed to be my line,’ he said when he could locate his voice.

At a casual glance there was nothing outstanding about her features. Dressed in a loose-fitting boyfriend sweater and yoga pants and without make-up, she looked like your average girl next door. Midlength chestnut hair that was neither curly nor straight but somewhere in between. Skin that was clear and unlined apart from a couple of tiny scars that were either from chickenpox or the site of a picked pimple, one on the left side of her forehead and one just below her right cheekbone. She was of average height and of slim build, the result of lucky genes rather than effort, he surmised.

For a moment—a brief moment—she looked fifteen years old again.

But look a little closer and the unusual colour of her eyes was nothing short of arresting. Breath-snatching. Storm and smoke and shadows swirled in their depths.

The shape of her mouth had the power to render a man speechless. That lush, ripe mouth was pure sin. The bee-stung fullness, the youthfulness, and the vermillion borders so beautifully aligned it physically hurt to look and not touch.

What was she doing here? Had she broken in?

What if someone found out she was here...with him? His heart galloped ahead a few beats. What if the press found out? What if Phoebe found out?

Aiesha’s chin came up to that don’t-mess-with-me height James had seen her do so well in the past, her body posture morphing from schoolgirl to sultry, defiant tart in a blink. ‘Your mother invited me.’

His mother? James’s frown was so tight it made his forehead hurt. What was going on? His mother’s rushed text message hadn’t mentioned anything about Aiesha. Not. One. Word. Why would his mother invite the girl who’d caused so much heartbreak and mayhem in the past? It didn’t make sense.

‘Rather magnanimous of her under the circumstances, is it not?’ he said. ‘Has she locked up her jewellery and all the silver?’

Her eyes flashed gunmetal-grey fire at him. ‘Is anyone with you?’

‘I hate to repeat myself, but I believe that’s what I’m supposed to be asking you.’ James closed the door on the chilly air but, in doing so, it made the sudden silence and the space between them far too intimate.

Being intimate—in any sense of the word—with Aiesha Adams was dangerous. He dared not think about it. Would not think about it. Being in the same country as her was reputation suicide, let alone in the same house. She oozed sex appeal. She wore it like a slinky coat, slipping in and out of it whenever she felt the urge. Every movement she made was pure seductress. How many men had fallen for that lithe body and that Lolita mouth? Even with that smoky glower and that upthrust chin she still managed to look sex kittenish. He could feel the thrum of his blood in his veins, the sudden rush of sexual awareness that was as shocking to him as it was unwelcome.

He bent down to ruffle Bonnie’s ears to distract himself and was rewarded with a whimper and a lavish licking. At least someone was pleased to see him.

‘Did anyone follow you here?’ Aiesha asked. ‘The press? Journalists? Anyone?’

James straightened from ruffling the dog’s ears to give her a sardonic look. ‘Running away from another scandal, are we?’

Her lips tightened, her eyes burning with the dislike she had always assaulted him with. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. It’s been in every paper and newsfeed.’

Was there anyone who didn’t know? The news of her affair with a married politician in the U.S. had gone viral. James had pointedly ignored it, or tried to. But then some unscrupulous newshound had unearthed Aiesha’s role in the break-up of his parents’ marriage. It had only been a sentence or two and not every paper or newsfeed ran with it, but the shame and embarrassment he had been trying to put behind him for a decade was back with a vengeance.

But what else could he expect? Aiesha was a wild child who attracted scandal and had been from the moment his mother had brought her home from the back streets of London as a teenage runaway. She was a smart-mouthed little guttersnipe who deliberately created negative drama, even for the people who tried to help her. His mother had been badly let down by Aiesha’s disreputable behaviour in the past, which was why he was puzzled that she had allowed her to come and stay now. Why would his mother invite the unscrupulous girl who had stolen not only heirloom jewellery from her, but tried to steal her husband from her, as well?

James shrugged off his coat to hang it in the cupboard in the hall. ‘Married men are a particular obsession of yours, are they not?’

He felt the stab of those grey eyes drilling between his shoulder blades. He felt the sudden kick of his pulse. He got a thrill out of seeing her rattled by him. He was the only person she couldn’t hide her true colours from. She was a true chameleon, changing to serve her interests, laying on the charm when it suited her, reeling in her next victim, enjoying the game of slaying yet another heart and wallet.

But he was immune. He’d seen her for what she was right from the start. She might have got rid of her East End accent and chain-store clothes, but underneath she was a pickpocket whose aim in life was to sleep her way to the top. Her latest victim was a U.S. senator whose career and marriage were unravelling as a result. The press had captured a damning shot of her leaving his suite at the Vegas hotel where she worked as a lounge singer.

‘No one must know I’m here,’ she said. ‘Do you understand? No one.’

James turned from neatly arranging the sleeves of his coat to face her. She was still looking at him with hatred but something else moved in her gaze, a flicker of uncertainty, or was it fear? She quickly disguised it, however. She jutted her chin and flattened those delectably full lips. Her mouth had always fascinated him. Ripe and soft and full, a mouth built for sin and sex and seduction. There was nothing innocent about her mouth or her body. She was a five-foot-eight knockout package of sinuous catlike curves that could wrap around a man until he was strangled by his need of her.