Tycoon's Choice: Kept by the Tycoon / Taken by the Tycoon / The Tycoon's Proposal

She was a free agent, Mrs Rampling had made that clear, and if ‘the master’ had any ideas to the contrary…Well, he wasn’t employing her, she reminded herself, and, if the worst came to the worst, she could always leave.

Irritated with herself, she sighed. She’d only just got here. Why was she thinking of leaving before she’d even met the man?

It wasn’t like her.

Deciding that it was simply because she was so tired, she pushed her irritability aside and glanced around the living room once more.

On the far wall, a door with irregular panels of old glass gave access to an outside stone stairway guarded by a wrought-iron rail.

The doors to the bedroom and kitchen were plain oak, while the door to the main part of the house was handsomely carved. As she admired it she noticed there was no key in the ornate lock, and felt a faint stirring of unease.

Be sensible, she scolded herself; as the flat was part of the house, there should be no need to lock the door. Yet still that slight feeling of unease persisted, refusing to be banished.

A closer inspection showed that, though the door leading to the stone stairway was securely locked and bolted, neither it, nor any of the internal doors, boasted a key. Not even the bathroom.

But if the lack of keys became a problem she could always talk to Mrs Boyce about it, she decided as she went through to the bedroom.

Much too weary to do all her unpacking, she dug out a change of clothing for the evening, her night things, her sponge bag, her cosmetic purse and her alarm clock.

As she stripped off her clothes and donned her nightdress she saw with delight that it had started to snow, big flakes that drifted down like feathers from an angel’s wing.

From being a child, she had always loved snow, and for a short time she watched the magical sight before closing the curtains.

To make certain she didn’t sleep too long, she set the alarm for six-thirty, then climbed thankfully into bed.

Madeleine had been asleep for some time when she began to dream. She heard a noise in the outer room, the faint click of a latch as a door was opened and closed quietly. That was followed by the stealthy brush of footsteps crossing a carpet, and in the way that dreamers did she knew that something menacing was standing just outside her bedroom door.

She got out of bed, but couldn’t bring herself to open the door and confront whoever or whatever stood there. Instead, she went through a door on the far wall and found herself in a dark, narrow corridor. Almost immediately she heard the footsteps behind her and fear clutched at her heart…

She began to run blindly, down endless pitch-black corridors, the thing at her heels getting closer…gaining on her…She could hear whatever it was breathing now…

Abruptly the corridor came to a dead end. She was feeling frantically for a door, or some other way out, when a cold hand reached out of the darkness to touch her…

With a half-stifled scream she woke up, shuddering and panting, her heart thudding against her ribcage.

As consciousness kicked in the nightmare faded, and just briefly she was disorientated until she remembered where she was.

Reaching for the light switch, she flooded the room with light, blinking a little as her eyes adjusted to the brightness.

A glance at the clock showed it was just turned six. Thankfully she realised that there was ample time to shower and change before she had to go down to dinner.

She would have much preferred to stay in the flat and have a snack in front of the living-room fire rather than dining with the family, but as she would be living in their house it would make sense to start off on the right foot.

In spite of the abrupt awakening she felt rested and refreshed, and, turning off the alarm, she stretched luxuriously before climbing out of bed and heading for the bathroom.

Through the frosted glass she could make out that everywhere was covered with a white blanket and it was still snowing heavily. It looked as though Noel had been right when he’d forecast a white Christmas.

By half-past six she was showered and dressed in a simple dinner dress in a silky grey material, her make-up in place and her blonde hair taken up into a gleaming coil.

Intending to make a quick phone call to Eve, she went through to the living room, which was still comfortably warm though the fire had burnt out, and looked around for her handbag.

Her flight bag was there but not her handbag. Where on earth had she put it?

A brief search revealed no sign of it. Neither did a more thorough one.

She could almost have sworn that she’d brought both bags up, but she’d been so dazed with tiredness, she couldn’t be absolutely sure.

Had she left it in the car?

No, she thought with certainty, she could definitely remember having the two bags with her in the living room. She had put them down between the side of the chair and the coffee-table, so she must have only picked up her flight bag and left her handbag behind.

But there was plenty of time to fetch it and still have a word with Eve before dinner.

Everywhere was still and silent, not a soul in sight, as she descended the stairs. Through the diamond-leaded panes of the landing window she could see that the snow was coming down even faster and a rising wind was whipping it along.

As she crossed the hall she paused for a moment to admire the Christmas tree with its gleaming star on top and all its candlelights glowing. For anyone to have gone to so much trouble, there must be children in the house.

Unwilling to burst in on the family unexpectedly, when she reached the living room she knocked.

There was no answer, and she opened the door to find that the room was deserted. Crossing to the chair she’d sat in earlier that day, she bent to pick up her bag.

It was no longer there.

For a moment she was nonplussed.

But of course the housekeeper must have found it and, unwilling to disturb her, taken charge of it.

Oh, well, she thought philosophically, she could always ring Eve after dinner.

When she reached the study she found that too was deserted. It was a comfortable, homely room. Built-in bookcases flanked the fireplace, and in the corner a grandfather clock ticked sonorously. Next to it, an octagonal table held a phone and a silver-framed photograph of a gentle-faced woman with greying hair.

Several standard lamps cast pools of golden light, and a log fire blazed and crackled on the wide stone hearth. Below the mantel were bright garlands of holly and mistletoe and ivy.

On the far left, through a partly open door, Madeleine glimpsed an adjoining office with an imposing desk that held a computer and an array of state-of-the-art equipment.

She glanced at the clock and, finding it was still only ten minutes to seven, sat down in one of the deep leather armchairs drawn up to the fire.

As she gazed into the flames, her thoughts went back to an old pub near Rye that Rafe had taken her to more than a year ago. It had been a chilly September day and they had lunched in front of a blazing fire.

She could see his face with the firelight flickering on it. Visualise the tiny crescent-shaped scar at the corner of his mouth, the way he tilted his head, the quick, sidelong smile, the tough male beauty that never failed to make her heart beat faster…

Though she hadn’t heard anyone come in, some instinct made her lift her head and look up.

A tall, dark-haired man stood only a couple of feet away, his eyes fixed on her face.

Shock hit her in the chest like a clenched fist.

But it couldn’t be Rafe. It couldn’t.