The Millionaire's Daughter

Annis worked hard at feeling affronted. It was better than noticing that his outdoor tan went as far down his chest as she could see. Or that the work clothes revealed muscles that she had only guessed at in the soft lights of her stepmother’s drawing room.

Konstantin shut the door behind them. The noises of the outer office were muted but not extinguished.

Annis dragged her mind back to the issue in hand and sat down without waiting to be invited.

‘I don’t do time and motion,’ she said calmly. ‘That’s just common sense. This place is appalling.’

‘What?’

It was nice to disconcert him.

‘Appalling,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s no room, no method, no sound insulation. The filing is all over the floor and nobody seems to realise that for telephones to work you have to answer them.’

He stared. Too shocked to reply, she thought.

‘I cannot believe that you run a serious business here.’

His mouth twitched suddenly. ‘Haven’t you heard of creative chaos?’

‘No,’ said Annis baldly. She looked at her watch. ‘I’m wasting my time here. You don’t need me. You need someone with a clipboard and a floor plan. And a lot of dustbin bags, probably.’ She got up. ‘Good day.’

He threw the umbrella away.

‘Don’t go. I do need you. Really.’

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Why?’

He gave her a charming smile. It crinkled up the green eyes, making him look guileless. Annis did not trust him an inch.

‘The business has grown without me really planning it. It needs some—refocusing.’

She looked at him in deep suspicion. ‘Oh?’

He propped himself on the edge of a table littered with plans and drawings. He had not fastened his cuffs and they fell back to reveal muscular forearms. Her mouth dried. Annis whipped her gaze away fast.

Kosta caught the momentary flicker in her eyes. It surprised him. He had been beginning to think he was wrong, that there was nothing to this woman but her needle-sharp brain and a temper like an ice pick. That tell-tale shiver encouraged him.

But he was much too experienced to let it show.

‘I never meant to be international,’ he said ruefully. ‘Even with e-mail and scanners, I sometimes think it’s more nuisance than it’s worth.’

He could see she was intrigued.

‘Where is the main office?’

‘Milan. That’s where I started.’

‘You’re Italian?’

He liked her surprise. It meant that she had been thinking about him, in spite of all appearances to the contrary.

‘I’m a mongrel.’ Something prompted him to add, ‘I set my own rules.’

Her eyes gave that little flicker again. He liked it. No, she was not as cool as she wanted him to think, businesslike Annis Carew.

‘What sort of mongrel?’

‘A wandering one.’ To his surprise, he found himself giving her the full story. ‘My mother came from a village on the coast in what is now Croatia. My father was on holiday from Italy when they met. She went to Australia when I was three.’

Annis looked puzzled. ‘Australia? You don’t sound Australian.’

‘I took off round the world when I was fourteen,’ he said, watching her. ‘I’ve lived all over. I trained in Boston. But my first big job was in northern Italy. Milan is a great city and the Italians really care about their buildings. So I thought, why not stay?’

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