Trish Morey - His Prisoner in Paradise

‘What are you so afraid of?’ he asked, moving closer, dropping his other arm to the vehicle behind. ‘Why is it so hard to make a decision?’

Sophie looked up at him, surprise at his sudden move turning her eyes wide, and shock at finding herself trapped neatly against the vehicle when she tried shuffling backwards filling them with alarm. ‘Oh, nothing. I’d have to call the office. And change my flight booking, of course—although I don’t know what time I’ll be able to get away.’

She was babbling. Flustered again, and delightfully so. ‘Is that all you’re worried about?’

Her eyes darted from one side to the other, checking the positioning of his arms as if assessing her chances of escape.

Didn’t she realise? It was much too late for escape.

by

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TRISH MOREYis an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a life-long love of reading, she penned her first book at the age of eleven, after which life, career, and a growing family kept her busy until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true. Visit Trish at her website, www.trishmorey.com

Recent titles by the same author:

FORBIDDEN: THE SHEIKH’S VIRGIN *HIS MISTRESS FOR A MILLION THE RUTHLESS GREEK’S VIRGIN PRINCESS FORCED WIFE, ROYAL LOVE-CHILD THE ITALIAN BOSS’S MISTRESS OF REVENGE THE SHEIKH’S CONVENIENT VIRGIN

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To editor extraordinaire, Jo Grant.

Thank you for your patience, your insight and your wisdom, along with your wonderful advice and support through these last 11 books!

Long may it continue.

With thanks, too, to the generous and gracious Helen Bianchin. A class act, an awesome writer, and an inspiration in every way.

Thank you both!

‘OVER my dead body!’ Daniel Caruana hadn’t made it past the first paragraph of his sister’s email before he crumpled the printout in his fist and hurled it in fury at the closest wall. Monica marrying Jake Fletcher? No way in the world!

Not if he had anything to do with it!

Too wound up to sit, too agitated to stand still, he gave in to the need to pace, his long strides eating up length after length of his sprawling office’s floor, while his restless hands took turns clawing though his hair. By his side, full-height windows took full advantage of the view of a white, sandy palm-lined beach and the azure sea that glinted under the tropical Far North Queensland sun.

Daniel saw nothing of it.

Daniel saw only red.

Whatever had possessed him to allow Monica to study in Brisbane? So far from Cairns, so far away from his influence. And clearly nowhere near far enough away from the grasping hands of Jake Fletcher.

He stopped pacing, his mind making connections that sent ice floes careening down his spine. Fletcher had called twice this week out of the blue, leaving messages for Daniel to call back, messages Daniel had brushed aside like he was swiping at an annoying insect needling at his skin. For he had no desire to speak to Fletcher ever again. Had no purpose.

But now it appeared Fletcher had purpose—if only to gloat…

Bile rose in his throat, its bitter taste the perfect accompaniment to his mindset. Please God, not Fletcher.

Please God, not his sister.

Especially after what had happened before.

Daniel leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes, a vision remaining of a girl with laughing blue eyes and a sweet, sweet smile.

Emma.

As long as he drew breath, he would not forget Emma.

Nor what Jake Fletcher had done to her!

He opened his eyes and gazed far out to where the cerulean sea met the sky, searching for answers and solutions. Ordinarily the picture-postcard view was a sight that inspired him. Cheered him. Even, on occasion, soothed his fractured nerves.

Today all that sun-drenched perfection only served to mock the storm-tossed contents of his mind.

He slammed one palm against the glass. Damn—not Monica! He’d barely seen off Monica’s last so-called boyfriend, an effort that had left him twenty-thousand dollars poorer on the deal. Small change, given what the jerk might have held out for if he’d done his homework a little more thoroughly and found out what his girlfriend was really worth.

Fletcher, on the other hand, probably knew how much the Caruana fortune was worth down to every last cent. Twentythousand dollars would be nowhere near enough to deter his kind, especially not now he probably imagined he was practically family.

No way. His fingers pressed hard against the glass, as rigid as his resolve. As long as Daniel had any say in it, Jake Fletcher would never be family.

Fletcher wouldn’t come cheap—there was no doubt of that—but everyone had their price, and whatever it took to free Monica of his poison influence would be worth it.

The phone on his desk buzzed behind him. Daniel scowled at the interruption—surely his empire could cope for just ten minutes without him? Then he reached for it. After all, he hadn’t taken the Caruana name from the brink of financial disaster to its dizzy heights by ignoring his businesses, whatever the reason.

He would deal with Fletcher—nothing was surer—but he would not lower his game in the process. His hand snatched up the receiver. ‘What?’

A moment’s hesitation met his retort, a moment in which he remembered it was a temp sitting outside and not his usual indestructible PA.

‘Mr Caruana?’ she squeaked. ‘There’s a Miss—a Miss Turner here to see you.’

His scowl deepened and for a second the problem of Fletcher took a back seat. He couldn’t remember anything about any Miss Turner. ‘Who?’

‘Sophie Turner: from One Perfect Day .’

The name made no sense to him but he was used to people trying to talk their way into his office, looking for favours, or more frequently cash contributions towards shaky business-plans the banks had already turned down. This Miss Sophie Turner was no doubt another of their ilk. ‘Never heard of her. Get rid of her.’ He slammed the phone back down, annoyed again with the unnecessary interruption when he had important things on his mind.

Even more annoyed when the phone buzzed a second time not thirty seconds later. ‘What is it this time?’ he growled into the mouthpiece, unforgiving at the interruption, even if the girl didn’t know better.

Her voice sounded even more timid. ‘Miss Turner says it should have been in the email your sister sent you. All the details about her visit were apparently there.’

‘What email?’