Alexandra Scott - A Reckless Affair

“And what other secrets have you been hiding from me, Miss Martyn-Browne?” “And what other secrets have you been hiding from me, Miss Martyn-Browne?” For a moment her heart seemed to stand still, then it was racing hectically. But, with an effort, she forced herself to answer lightly. “So many, I don’t know where to begin.” It was a relief to see him smile, and she felt she could hurry on. “You know, you are very trusting, Jake. You have only my word that I am who I say I am. I could be perpetrating the most enormous con trick.” “I’ll lock my door tonight as a precaution.” Now his look was teasing but with a hint of a challenge. “I promise you are quite, quite safe.” “You disappoint me.” Ginny found herself maneuvered against the bole of one of the ancient oaks, and as he spoke in that low disturbing voice, he placed one hand flat against the trunk and hooked the other against her waist, pulling her into the curve of his body, effectively overpowering her. “Jake.” It was a gasp of fear and longing. “lake, don’t.” And gently, gently, all his attention on her mouth, he lowered his mouth to hers. About the Author Alexandra Scott was born in Scotland and lived there until she met her husband, who was serving in the British army, and there followed twenty-five years of travel in the Far East and Western Europe. They then settled in North Yorkshire and, encouraged—forcefully—by her husband, she began writing. Her other interests include gardening and embroidery, and she enjoys the company of her family. Title Page A Reckless Affair Alexandra Scott www.millsandboon.co.uk CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

“And what other secrets have you been hiding from me, Miss Martyn-Browne?”

For a moment her heart seemed to stand still, then it was racing hectically. But, with an effort, she forced herself to answer lightly. “So many, I don’t know where to begin.” It was a relief to see him smile, and she felt she could hurry on.

“You know, you are very trusting, Jake. You have only my word that I am who I say I am. I could be perpetrating the most enormous con trick.”

“I’ll lock my door tonight as a precaution.” Now his look was teasing but with a hint of a challenge.

“I promise you are quite, quite safe.”

“You disappoint me.”

Ginny found herself maneuvered against the bole of one of the ancient oaks, and as he spoke in that low disturbing voice, he placed one hand flat against the trunk and hooked the other against her waist, pulling her into the curve of his body, effectively overpowering her.

“Jake.” It was a gasp of fear and longing. “lake, don’t.”

And gently, gently, all his attention on her mouth, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Alexandra Scott was born in Scotland and lived there until she met her husband, who was serving in the British army, and there followed twenty-five years of travel in the Far East and Western Europe. They then settled in North Yorkshire and, encouraged—forcefully—by her husband, she began writing. Her other interests include gardening and embroidery, and she enjoys the company of her family.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

GINNY MARTYN-BROWNE paused for a mere second beside the enormous plate glass windows, scarcely aware of her reflection in that instant and moving on before she could be intimidated and turn tail. For the hundredth time since leaving Heathrow she questioned the logic of what she was doing—the morality, even. There was little doubt that her actions placed the happiness of other people in jeopardy but she had come too far, suffered too long, to consider turning back now.

HUGO VANBRUGH ASSOCIATES. Directly in front of her eyes, embossed in gold on the smoked plate glass, it was enough to intimidate the most supremely confident, and to Ginny, with her toe on the second or third rung of the legal ladder, it caused a distinct tremor in the pit of her stomach... Nevertheless she straightened her spine, averted her gaze from the crushing superiority of the gold lettering and refused to be deflected from her purpose—not at this late stage, when she had just arrived in the Big Apple. Perhaps a few days ago, before she had made her impulsive decision would have been the time for second thoughts, but now...

Now was a moment for a final check on her appearance, and the dark glass was ideal for that purpose. Not too bad, in spite of her fatigue—the hasty shower back at her hotel had helped to hold that at bay...

Hmm. The business trip to Paris last month had not been entirely wasted. The exorbitantly priced, sleekly fitted trousers had been worth every sou, their burnt-cream colour blending perfectly with the multicoloured silk of her blouse and simple dark waistcoat. Make-up was freshly applied and understated. She was pleased with herself, and with the confidence she found to sweep past the uniformed doorkeeper.

She gave a flash of her business card and declared, ‘Miss Virginia Martyn-Browne of Brockway and Laffan, London, to see Mr Hugo Vanbrugh.’ Amazing what a little fabrication and a super-confident manner could achieve.

A moment later she’d been taken into the lift, and she stood there, heart hammering, palms damp while the attendant pressed buttons and they were whisked upwards.

She made an effort to divert her thoughts from the immediate, stomach-churning future. At least now she could return to being plain Ginny Browne, forget the self-importance of Virginia Martyn-Browne. And that might open an escape route—another comforting idea—if she should take an instant dislike to the man she had come to see. She could think up some excuse and leave, and he would be none the wiser.

But it was useless—she found herself gazing at her own reflection in polished copper walls which were a little distorted but all the more realistic for that. What she saw was far from reassuring: all her assumed insouciance began to evaporate.

Deep-set dark eyes, which she had been told could seduce and entrance, were now wide with shock and terror, and she could no longer understand or even begin to recall the primitive urge which had brought her here in search of her elusive background. As if it had any importance—it wasn’t that she had been de-prived...

Lips pale, she saw the tip of her tongue slip over them, her face colourless, drab. She very much doubted that Mr Hugo Vanbrugh would be impressed by her appearance. Only the dark hair, belling above ashen features, hidden gleams hinting, wrongly, at hours spent in front of a cheval glass with a silver brush, gave any distinction.

‘Mr Hugo’s offices.’ She had missed the soft warning ping of the lift but the attendant’s voice drew her attention to the now open doors and, further, to the spacious landing, deep carpeting and bowls of flowers. ‘His secretary’s door is at the far side. Thank you and have a nice day.’

And that, decided Ginny as she advanced into the silent world of antique side-tables, elegantly shaded lamps and discreet paintings, was very much a forlorn hope, but... It would be madness to chicken out, having come so far, having spent so many lonely, distressed hours tossing and turning, trying to reach a decision. She strode forward, fastened a confident smile on her face and opened the door that the attendant had indicated.

‘May I help you?’ Everything about the woman—clipped voice, perfectly smooth blonde hair brushed back from regular features—was straight out of Hollywood. Even the wonderfully plain navy suit with its short jacket and sparkling white blouse was perfect for her-role. Ginny had the feeling that when she stood her legs would be long, like those of a ballerina.