HELEN BROOKS - Fire Beneath The Ice

Cover Page

Excerpt “I thought blondes were supposed to be cool and unemotional.” Wolf studied Lydia’s angry face with a superior frown. “Mr. Strade, I—” She stopped abruptly as hot color flooded her pale, creamy skin. “The name’s Wolf.” Lydia glared at him. For some strange reason her body was determined to be aroused by a man she both disliked and disapproved of. But he was so cold, so self-contained. Didn’t anything touch him?

About the Author HELEN BROOKS lives in Northamptonshire, England, and is married with three children. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife and mother, her spare time is at a premium but her hobbies include reading, swimming, gardening and walking her two energetic, inquisitive and very endearing young dogs. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty, and sent the result off to Harlequin Mills & Boon. Look out for THE PRICE OF A WIFE by Helen Brooks in October (#1914), as part of our From Here to Paternity promotion.

Title Page Fire Beneath The Ice Helen Brooks www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

Copyright

Wolf studied Lydia’s angry face with a superior frown.

“Mr. Strade, I—” She stopped abruptly as hot color flooded her pale, creamy skin.

“The name’s Wolf.”

Lydia glared at him. For some strange reason her body was determined to be aroused by a man she both disliked and disapproved of. But he was so cold, so self-contained. Didn’t anything touch him?

HELEN BROOKS lives in Northamptonshire, England, and is married with three children. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife and mother, her spare time is at a premium but her hobbies include reading, swimming, gardening and walking her two energetic, inquisitive and very endearing young dogs. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty, and sent the result off to Harlequin Mills & Boon.

Look out for THE PRICE OF A WIFE by Helen Brooks in October (#1914), as part of our From Here to Paternity promotion.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

‘I HOPE you haven’t got me another empty-headed little bimbo out there, Connoly, who is more interested in a chip in her nail varnish than getting on with the damn job.’

‘Mr Strade—’

‘I told you my requirements last night and I meant what I said. Grey hair, middle-aged, with nothing less than a first-class typing speed and skirts down to her ankles, OK?’

‘Please, Mr Strade——’

Lydia found her mouth had fallen open in a little O of shocked surprise as she stood waiting in the outer office where Mr Connoly had positioned her thirty seconds before. He had smiled at her apologetically before scuttling into the inner sanctum of the chairman and managing director of Strade Engineering, motioning for her to stay where she was until he returned. He had obviously intended to shut the door, but it had opened the merest crack after he had closed it and now the conversation of the two men inside was clearly audible.

‘You changed the agency?’ the hard masculine voice continued grimly.

‘Yes, Mr Strade.’ She could just imagine Mr Connoly’s thin, nervous face trying to smile. ‘Of course. But you must understand that itwas such short notice that most of their employees were already in a position.’

‘And that means?’

‘This lady is extremely capable, I do assure you, and I’m sure she will meet all your work requirements admirably.’ The nervous squeak wouldn’t have convinced Lydia, and clearly Mr Strade was of the same opinion.

‘She isn’t a blonde-haired bombshell, is she?’ the harsh voice asked tightly. ‘It’s going to be another few months before Mrs Havers comes back after this damn maternity leave, and already I’ve endured two females who were a darn sight more interested in the size of my bank balance than doing the job they were hired for. Short skirts and fluttering eyelashes have their time and place, but my office is not one of them. Are you sure this one isn’t on the make?’

Enough was enough. The flood of anger that burnt hotly through Lydia’s pale, creamy skin brought her small chin militantly upwards and made her deep brown eyes shoot sparks. Who on earth did this creep think he was? Robert Redford and Richard Gere rolled into one? She had pushed open the door and stepped into the huge plush room beyond before she had time to consider what she was going to say.

‘Do excuse the interruption, gentlemen,’ she said coolly, her eyes sweeping in magnificent disdain over the two men standing by the far window, ‘but in view of your conversation, I hardly think there is any point in my waiting any longer. I’ll see myself out.’ The sunlight streaming in through the panoramic plate glass held the two men in silhouette, although one was clearly taller and broader than the other and it was to this figure that she addressed the last remark. ‘Do have a good day, Mr Strade,’ she finished with acid sweetness as she turned to leave.

‘Stay exactly where you are.’ She didn’t even think about disobeying him; there was something in the deep voice that demanded and received acquiescence, although her chin raised itself another notch as she swung round to face the two men again. As they moved from the window and into focus she was aware of two thoughts striking her simultaneously, both of which were acutely unwelcome in the circumstances. One was that the tall figure just in front of Mr Connoly was hopping mad, if the scowl on his dark face was anything to go by, and the other? The other was that he was the most attractive man she had seen for a long time. She hadn’t been far wrong with the Robert Redford and Richard Gere comparison, she thought weakly as he came to a halt just in front of her, his six-foot frame seeming to dwarf her slim, petite five feet four.

‘Yes?’ She raised her eyes to meet the arctic blue of his, her face straight. He had been rude, incredibly, unforgivably rude, and if he thought she was going to crawl now he’d soon find out differently.

‘What the hell do you mean by bursting into my office uninvited?’ he asked cuttingly, his eyes moving to her ash-blonde hair, secured in a neat and demure French plait at the back of her head, with more than a touch of resigned contempt in the blue gaze.

‘Blonde-haired bombshell’. The words spoken with such raw harshness came back to her. Well, she had blonde hair, that much was for sure, and she’d die before she apologised for the fact, especially to a male chauvinist pig like this one.

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Mr Strade,’ she said coolly, blessing the impulse that had made her wear her best suit that morning instead of the usual blouse and pencilslim skirt she favoured. The expensive material and beautiful cut of the suit always made her feel good, and she had felt, after the agency had rung, that she might need something of a boost if she was stepping into the domain of such an illustrious and well-known mogul as Strade of Strade Engineering. Little had she known then how right she was! ‘I did not burst into your office, as you are well aware. The door was open and I had been asked to wait just outside, where every word of your conversation with Mr Connoly was received loud and clear. In view of the fact that I only qualify on one of the requirements you laid out in such graphic detail, I assumed there was no point in my continuing to wait.’