Because of your typing speed, idiot, she told herself. And obviously not her style or appearance. Anyway, she reminded herself, the last thing she wanted was a man like Cormac Douglas to turn his attention towards her. Working for him was difficult enough.

‘Well, then,’ she finally said, a brisk note entering her voice, ‘I’ll do my best to look smart. Was there anything else you needed to discuss with me, Mr Douglas?’

‘You should call me Cormac,’ he replied abruptly, and Lizzie simply stared.

‘Why?’ she asked after a moment, and he gave her a cool look which spoke volumes about what he thought of her audacity in questioning him.

‘Because I said so.’

‘Fine.’ She swallowed any indignation she felt. It was pointless. Cormac Douglas was her boss and he could do what he liked. Even in her own house. ‘Is that all?’ she finally got out in a voice of strangled politeness.

‘No.’ Cormac continued to stare at her, his gaze narrowed and uncomfortably assessing. On the stove the pot of tomato sauce bubbled resentfully.

After a moment he sighed impatiently and, without another word, he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.

Lizzie’s mouth dropped open. ‘Just where do you think you’re going?’

‘Upstairs.’

She followed him up the steep, narrow stairs, unable to believe that he was invading her home, her privacy, in such a blatant and unapologetic way. Yet why should she be surprised? She knew well enough how Cormac Douglas operated. She’d just never been on the receiving end of it before.

She’d never been important enough to merit more than a single scornful glance and a few barked-out instructions. Now her clothes, her home, her whole self were up for scrutiny.

Why?

Cormac strode down the hallway, poking in a few bedrooms, mostly unused and shrouded in dust-sheets.

‘This place is a mausoleum,’ he remarked with casual disdain as he closed the door to her parents’ old bedroom. ‘Why do you live here?’

‘This is my home,’ Lizzie snapped. Her voice wavered and she stood in front of him, blocking his way down the hall towards her bedroom. ‘What are you doing here, Cormac? Besides being unbelievably nosy and rude.’ A disconnected part of her brain could hardly credit that she was speaking this way to her boss. Another part was surprisingly glad. She glared at him.

‘Seeing if you have appropriate clothes,’ Cormac replied. ‘Now, move.’

He elbowed past her none too gently and Lizzie was forced to follow, grinding her teeth as Cormac strode into her bedroom and looked around.

Her bed was rumpled and unmade, her pyjamas still on the floor, along with a discarded bra and blouse. The stack of paperback romances by the bed suddenly seemed revealing, although of what Lizzie couldn’t even say.

She didn’t want Cormac here, looking over the detritus, the dross of her life. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

It was incredibly uncomfortable.

He glanced around once, taking in every salient detail with narrowed eyes, a smile of complete contempt curling one lip, before he strode to her wardrobe and flung open the doors.

Lizzie watched with a growing sense of incredulity, irritation and shame as he thumbed through her paltry rack of clothes, mostly sensible skirts and dresses, a few different blouses to go with her black suit. There had never been any need for anything else.

‘As I thought,’ he said with an aggravating note of cruel satisfaction. ‘Nothing remotely suitable.’

‘I’m your secretary,’ Lizzie snapped. ‘I hardly think you’ll lose this commission because I’m not dressed like—like one of your tarty girlfriends!’

Cormac swivelled slowly to face her, light beginning to gleam in his eyes. ‘What would you know about my girlfriends, tarty or otherwise?’

Lizzie swallowed and shrugged defiantly. ‘Only what I see in the tabloids.’

He laughed softly. ‘You believe that tripe? You read it?’

‘You do it,’ Lizzie snapped back, goaded beyond all sense of caution.

‘Do I?’ He took a step forward, his voice dangerously soft. ‘Is that what you’re after?’

‘What I’m after,’ Lizzie replied, her voice turning slightly shrill with desperation, ‘is getting you out of my bedroom and my house. You may be my boss, but you don’t have any rights in here.’

‘I wouldn’t want any,’ he scoffed, and too late Lizzie realised how it had sounded. Bedroom rights. Sexual rights. With a small smile, he bent down and hooked the strap of her discarded bra on his little finger, dangling it in front of her. ‘A bit too small for my taste.’

She flushed, thought of threatening a sexual harassment suit and knew she never would. ‘Please leave,’ she said in a voice that was entirely too weak and wavery, and realised with a stab of mortification that there were actually tears in her eyes. She was pathetic. Cormac certainly thought so.

‘Gladly,’ he informed her, ‘but you’re coming with me.’

Lizzie blinked. The threat of tears had thankfully receded, leaving only bafflement. ‘Coming with you? Why?’

‘You don’t have the proper clothes,’ Cormac said as if speaking to an idiot, ‘so we’ll have to get you some.’

‘I don’t want—’

‘This isn’t about what you want, Miss Chandler. It’s about what I want. Get that straight right now.’

Lizzie bit hard on her lip. She couldn’t afford to dig in her heels now, not over something like this. She needed her job, her salary, especially now Dani was at university, requiring fees, living costs, books and a bit to enjoy herself with. Lizzie couldn’t afford to antagonise Cormac Douglas, especially not over a few outfits.

‘Fine,’ she finally said, her voice clipped. ‘I assume you’re footing the bill?’

He smiled. It made her insides curl unpleasantly. ‘Of course. You couldn’t afford a pair of panties from the place we’re going.’

‘I wouldn’t want any,’ Lizzie snapped, but he’d already walked out of the bedroom, no doubt expecting her to follow, trotting at his heels.

CHAPTER TWO

LIZZIE sat stiffly on a cream leather sofa while Cormac spoke in a hushed voice to the sales assistant at the expensive boutique he’d brought her to on Princes Street.

What kind of man inspired the respect, awe and, most likely, fear that kept an exclusive boutique open for its only customer at eight o’clock at night?

The answer was right in front of her, in the arrogant, authoritative stance and the assessingly dismissive look Cormac shot her before turning back to the assistant.

‘Don’t let her choose her own clothes. She wouldn’t know what to pick.’

Lizzie pressed her lips together and gazed blindly out of the rain-smeared window. He was right; she wouldn’t know what to pick. But he didn’t have to tell the assistant that, and certainly not in that tone.

On the taxi ride to the boutique, she’d made the decision not to get angry at Cormac’s rude and arrogant ways. She just wouldn’t care.

He was known as ruthless and cold, she reminded herself; he was indifferent to the point of rudeness. He was also respected because of his incredible talent and building designs.

Right now those designs didn’t seem to matter very much.

‘All right, miss.’ The assistant, a sleek woman in a grey silk suit, came forward, smiling briskly. ‘Mr Douglas would like you to be outfitted for the weekend. Will you come this way?’

With a jerky nod, refusing to look at Cormac, Lizzie followed the assistant into the inner room of the boutique.

‘I’m Claire,’ the woman called over her shoulder as she began pulling clothes from the racks. ‘You’ll need at least two evening dresses, some casual wear, a swimming costume…’ The list went on, washing over Lizzie in an incomprehensible tide of sound.

She’d never spent much time or money on clothes, never had the inclination or interest, not to mention the means. Now she reached out and stroked a cocktail dress of crimson silk, the material sliding through her fingers like water.

Why was Cormac doing this? Surely, surely as his secretary she didn’t need clothes like this, no matter how promising or prominent this commission could be.

Did he feel sorry for her? Impossible. Embarrassed for her? By her? Lizzie considered it, but decided Cormac Douglas didn’t have enough sensitivity towards anyone to feel such an emotion.

So why? Because she knew, more than anything, that Cormac didn’t do anything unless there was something in it for him.

‘Miss Chandler?’ Claire indicated the sumptuous changing room and, with a little apologetic smile, Lizzie entered.

An hour later she was trying on the last outfit, a slinky silver evening dress with skinny straps that poured over her slight curves like liquid moonlight.

Lizzie smoothed the elegant material over her hips, amazed at the transformation. Her pale blond hair fell to her shoulders in a soft cloud, and her eyes were wide and luminous. It looked, she thought ruefully, as if the dress were too big for her, even though it fitted perfectly. She looked overawed by the glamour, and she was.

Just what was Cormac trying to turn her into? Because it wasn’t working.

What kind of woman did he want her to be this weekend…and why?

Perhaps she was paranoid to be so suspicious, yet she couldn’t shake the unreality of the situation…the impossibility.

‘Gorgeous,’ Claire murmured, and gestured her to leave the dressing room. ‘Mr Douglas will want to see this.’

‘I don’t think—’ Lizzie began, but Claire was already pulling her hand, and from the corner of her eye she saw Cormac stand up, alert and ready, lips pressed together in a firm, hard line.

She stood in the middle of the room, conscious of the way the dress clung to her body and swirled about her feet, leaving very little to the imagination…to Cormac’s imagination.

He surveyed her from top to toe, his hazel eyes darkening, his face expressionless.

‘Good,’ he said after a moment. ‘Add it to the rest.’

With a nod, he dismissed her. Feeling like a show pony, Lizzie retreated to the dressing room and peeled off the evening gown, adding it to the heap of clothes that had to cost at least several thousand pounds piled next to her.

‘I’ll just take these to the front,’ Claire said, and Lizzie felt she had to protest.

‘I don’t really need…’ she began, and Claire shook her head.

‘Mr Douglas said you might protest, but he was very firm, Miss Chandler. He wants you to be properly outfitted.’

‘Does he?’ Lizzie muttered, yanking her jeans back on. ‘And what Mr Douglas wants, Mr Douglas gets.’

‘That’s right.’

With a little yelp Lizzie whirled around and saw Cormac standing in the doorway of the dressing room.

‘What are you doing here?’ she cried.

‘Telling you to hurry up.’ He braced one hand against the wall, his glinting eyes sweeping over her, his mouth curving in a knowing smile that brought colour rushing to Lizzie’s face.

And not just to her face…Lizzie felt her body react to that assessing gaze, felt her breasts, clad only in a greying, worn bra, tighten and swell. She’d never been looked at in this way by a man—any man—and certainly not by a man like Cormac.

She didn’t like it. Her body might react, treacherous and helpless, but her mind and heart rebelled against the assessing way his eyes raked over her, a mocking little smile playing about his mouth.

She put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. ‘Had a good look?’

She thought she saw a flicker of surprise in Cormac’s eyes before he smiled coolly. ‘Not much to see.’ He turned away before she could reply, and Lizzie put on her shirt with shaking fingers.

Outside the boutique, a pile of boxes and bags at their feet, Cormac hailed a taxi.

Rain still misted down, as soft as a caress, but cold on Lizzie’s face. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said as the driver loaded her parcels into the car. ‘Make sure you bring all of that. I want you dressed properly.’

‘So you’ve said.’ Lizzie realised she should probably say thank-you, as he’d spent a rather indecent amount of money on her, but somehow she couldn’t get herself to form the words. She hadn’t wanted the clothes, and he was too overbearing and obnoxious for her to feel any proper gratitude.

The boxes were loaded, the driver waiting, and still, Cormac paused. ‘That silver evening dress,’ he finally said, his voice gruff. ‘Wear that the last night.’

Lizzie opened her mouth to reply, her mind blank. Nothing came out.

‘See you at the airport.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned away and began walking down the street.

Lizzie watched him go, saw the rain dampen his coat and his hair, and wondered yet again just what kind of man he was…and what she was letting herself in for this weekend.

Lizzie was breathless and flushed when she finally checked in and made her way to the first-class lounge at the airport.

Cormac, the lady at the register had informed her, had checked in half an hour earlier.

Lizzie gritted her teeth. If she hadn’t had all those ridiculous bags, filled with clothes she couldn’t possibly need, she might have made better time.

‘You’re late.’ Cormac looked up from his sheaf of papers, frowning, as Lizzie made her way into the lounge.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m not used to travelling with so much luggage.’

Cormac turned back to his papers. ‘I doubt you’re used to travelling at all,’ he replied, and Lizzie opened her mouth to retort something stinging, but closed it without even framing a response.

What could she say? It was true, and she could hardly argue with her boss anyway. Still, she wished he wasn’t right. She wished he didn’t know it.

She sank into the seat across from him, conscious of the outfit she wore—slim-fitting black trousers and a cranberry silk blouse, unbuttoned at the throat. She’d pulled her hair back with a clip and fine wisps fell about her flushed face. So much for looking smart.

Cormac lifted his eyes, let his gaze travel slowly over her, from her tousled hair to the pair of black leather pumps that pinched her feet. Lizzie tried not to squirm.

‘You should have had your hair cut,’ he remarked, and then turned back to his work.

Stung, Lizzie replied, ‘If you wanted me to have a complete makeover, you should have given me a bit more warning. As it is, I have no idea why the Hassells will be analysing your secretary!’

He continued to scan the papers as he replied, ‘I think I’ve already explained to you what kind of impression I—we—need to make.’

‘And you’re afraid a bad hair day is going to make or break the deal?’ Lizzie jibed, only to fall silent at Cormac’s icy look.

‘Nothing will break this deal,’ he said in a tone that was ominous in its finality. ‘Nothing.’

‘Perhaps you could tell me a little bit more about what to expect, then,’ Lizzie said after a moment. The freezing look in Cormac’s eyes thawed only slightly and she tried for a conversational tone. ‘Will there be other guests?’

‘Later,’ he replied, and she knew she was dismissed.

Sinking back into her seat, she gazed around the lounge, the deep leather armchairs seating a variety of well-heeled travellers. Even in her shiny new outfit, Lizzie felt like an outsider. A misfit. She’d never even been on an aeroplane before.

She turned her attention back to Cormac, sneaked a peep at him from beneath her lashes. He was deeply absorbed in his work, his eyes downcast, his own lashes, thick and dark, sweeping and softening the harsh planes of his face.

He was a harsh man, Lizzie thought, and felt, for the first time, a rush of curiosity about what—or who—had made him the way he was.

Ruthless, ambitious, unfeeling. Cold. The tabloids had used every damning word, delighting in Cormac’s reviled reputation. The women—starlets and socialites alike—flocked to him, to the bad boy they mistakenly thought they could tame.

Now Lizzie wondered why. Why are you the way you are?

Everyone had a past, a story. She thought of her own—her parents’ death ten years ago, Dani’s dependence. The life she’d made for herself, caring for Dani, providing her younger sister with every opportunity and affection.

She’d rung Dani to explain about the weekend, only to have her sister blithely assure her that Lizzie could do whatever she wanted, Dani was already busy with her own life.

Lizzie knew it was ridiculous to feel hurt. Rejected. Yet she did. She was glad Dani was so happy at university. She was thrilled.

She knew she was.

It just didn’t feel that way right now.

Cormac looked up. ‘They’re boarding first class.’

He stood up, putting his papers back in his attaché case. Lizzie saw a glimpse of sketches, strong pencil lines that didn’t look like the usual architectural blueprints, but they were slipped out of sight before she could guess what they were.

Clutching her handbag, she followed Cormac into the queue. They’d already been assigned seats and the airline attendants were cloyingly deferential as they led Cormac to two sumptuous reclining seats in soft grey leather.

Lizzie followed behind, feeling out of place and yet helplessly giddy at the blatant luxury. The feelings intensified when they sat down and an attendant offered them champagne and a crystal bowl full of strawberries.

Lizzie took the flute awkwardly, rotated the fragile crystal stem between her slick fingers. ‘Some service.’

‘First class,’ Cormac dismissed, and pushed his glass away, untouched.

Lizzie took a cautious sip. She hadn’t had champagne in years, not since before her parents had died, and then only a sip or two on Hogmanay or birthdays. Now the bubbles tickled her throat and her nose, made her feel a bit dizzy.

Or was it just the total unreality of the situation, sitting in first class, sipping champagne with Cormac Douglas?

Cormac was staring broodingly out of the window, the bare, brown fields and leafless trees stark against a slate-grey sky. Lizzie put her champagne flute down and glanced around at the other first-class passengers settling themselves.

A polished woman in designer denim shot her a look of pure envy and, startled, Lizzie realised the woman must think she and Cormac were a couple.

Lovers.

She glanced back at her boss, still lost in his own thoughts. His face was in profile and she could see the strong, clean line of his jaw. She was close enough even to see the glint of gold stubble on his chin, the way his close-cropped brown hair was streaked by the sun.

She turned away abruptly.

Soon the rest of the passengers were settled and the plane began to taxi towards the runway. Lizzie leaned back in her seat, her nerves beginning a sudden, frantic flutter in her middle.

Cormac saw her fingers curl around the armrest and raised one eyebrow. ‘Are you nervous?’

‘A bit,’ she admitted unwillingly. ‘I’ve never flown before.’

‘But you had a passport.’

‘I went to Paris by train once.’ As an escort for Dani’s fifth form field trip, but she let Cormac think what he liked.

Apparently he didn’t think much for he raised his eyebrows and murmured, ‘I see.’

Soon the plane was lifting into a steely sky and Lizzie felt her stomach dip. Once the craft levelled out, she felt more relaxed and her fingers loosened on the armrest.

Above the clouds, the sky was a deep, clear purple, a cloak of twilight, smooth and soft. Lizzie let out a little sigh.

The attendant came to take drink orders and she asked for an orange juice. Cormac asked for the same.

Once the attendant had moved on, he turned to her, eyes suddenly flinty and cold. His mouth was set and a furrow was in the middle of his forehead. ‘We need to talk.’

Lizzie set her orange juice down. ‘Okay.’

‘Your role in this weekend’s meetings is…important.’

Lizzie raised her eyebrows, bemused. Shorthand and shuffling papers was important? ‘I understand,’ she began carefully, feeling he required some response, ‘that you want to put forth an impeccable—’

‘Do you know anything about the Hassells?’ he demanded, cutting her off, and Lizzie shrugged.

‘Only what you’ve told me. They own an island in the Dutch Antilles, and they finally want to build a resort there.’

His mouth thinned and he reached down to extract a newspaper clipping from his attaché case. ‘Read that.’

Lizzie took the clipping with cautious curiosity. The Hassells: A Family, A Dynasty the headline read. The article described the family, a Dutch dynasty that had lived on Sint Rimbert for over a hundred years. She read about Jan Hassell, his wife, Hilda, and their three sons, all entrepreneurs in various cities across the globe.

The family was focused on developing the local economy, keeping the island eco-friendly and retaining ‘the family values the Hassells have cherished for a century’. The write-up was glowing indeed, and she looked up to see Cormac scowling at her.

‘Now do you understand?’

She didn’t. ‘They seem like a nice family,’ she said as she handed back the clipping. Not the type of people to care about whether a secretary wore designer clothes, either, although she bit her tongue to stop herself from voicing that thought aloud.

‘Family values,’ Cormac said, glancing down at the article. His voice was a sneer.

His face was dark, as if a storm had gathered in his thoughts. Lizzie struggled for something to say to lighten the mood. ‘They’re clearly not in it just for the money,’ she ventured. The article had described the Hassells’ decision to build a resort—‘a way of sharing the beauty of our island with the world.’A bit saccharine, perhaps, but a pretty sentiment nonetheless.

‘Everyone’s in it for the money,’ Cormac said flatly. He glanced over at her, his expression now alarmingly neutral. ‘The Hassells want an architect with family values, as well,’ he continued. ‘They’ve invited three architects to this weekend—the short-list—including me. As far as I can tell, they want everyone sitting round playing Happy Families and singing campfire songs.’

Lizzie stared at him, wondering what was coming next. Cormac Douglas was about as far from family values as a man could get.

‘They invited you to Sint Rimbert,’ she repeated hesitantly, trying to make sense of what he was telling her. ‘So whatever they think about family values…’

‘They invited me,’ Cormac interjected, ‘because I told them I was newly married and looking forward to having a family.’

Lizzie’s mouth dropped open. ‘But…that’s not true…’

‘It is,’ he replied with a faint feral smile, ‘for the purposes of this weekend.’

Lizzie blinked. Her stomach dipped, dropped. She wanted to make sense of what Cormac was saying, yet she had the odd feeling that if she put two and two together she’d get about twenty. Cormac was gazing at her steadily, coldly, his expression like a vice on her mind. Her soul.

‘So…how…?’ She shook her head, licked her lips. Her mouth was dry and she took a sip of orange juice. It felt like acid coating her throat. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ she finally asked, and her voice came out in little more than a scratchy whisper.

‘I’m telling you,’ Cormac replied with icy precision, ‘that this weekend you’re not my secretary. You’re my wife.’

CHAPTER THREE

FOR one tantalising second the word conjured images in Lizzie’s mind she had no business thinking of. Wife. Entwined fingers, tangled limbs. Marriage, love. Sex.

She blinked. ‘Your wife?’ she repeated. ‘But…how?’ She shook her head. ‘You mean, pretend?’

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