The Innocent's One-Night Confession: The Innocent's One-Night Confession / Hired to Wear the Sheikh's Ring

‘I believe your father is a lawyer,’ Niamh Harrington remarked as she handed back Alanna’s cup. ‘One of the great professions, I always think. My cousin’s son is Dermot Connor-Smith, QC who’s made a great name for himself at the criminal bar. I expect your father knows him well.’

‘I doubt they’ve ever met,’ Alanna returned composedly after another fortifying sip. ‘My father isn’t a barrister, and he doesn’t work in London.’

‘Not in London?’ Mrs Harrington’s brows rose. ‘Isn’t that a strange choice?’

‘Not at all. He’s a partner specialising in probate and family law at a firm based in a small market town called Silworth.’ Alanna paused. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of it?’

Mrs Harrington appeared to consider. ‘It doesn’t spring to mind. And he finds enough to occupy him there?’

Alanna smiled. ‘Oh, yes. He’s always busy.’

‘And your mother. Does she also have a job?’

‘She does part-time work in a charity shop for the homeless, but she’s also very involved with the local Women’s Institute, and both she and Dad are keen gardeners.’

And so the inquisition continued, demonstrating to Alanna with needle-sharp accuracy just how provincial her background would seem to the Harringtons of Whitestone Abbey.

By the time the meeting drew to its close and she was graciously released—‘I think some of the others are playing croquet on the lawn, my dear. I’m sure you’d be most welcome to join them...’—Alanna’s blood was close to boiling.

Whatever she’d resolved privately, it was still not pleasant to be dismissed in such a cavalier fashion. Treated as if she didn’t matter, she thought as she stormed upstairs. As if, God help her, she’d somehow been tried and found wanting.

As for croquet, she thought savagely, watch out, world, and Niamh Harrington in particular, if she got her hands on a mallet any time soon.

She flung open the door of her room and marched in, stopping herself just in time from slamming it behind her in case the sound echoed as far as the library and told Gerard’s grandmother that her knife had found its target.

Nor did she intend to permit herself to cry, although she knew tears were not far from the surface. She would not, she decided, grant Niamh Harrington that much of a victory either.

She stalked furiously into the bathroom and began to run water into the tub, adding a generous capful of gardenia bath oil, before stripping off her clothes and fastening her hair into a loose knot on top of her head with a small silver comb.

She slid down into the water, closing her eyes and resting her head against the small towelling pillow attached to the back of the bath, feeling the heat permeate through every inch of her chilled and shaking body. Relaxing gradually as she inhaled the fragrance of the gardenia and began to breathe softly and evenly again.

And there she remained, adding more hot water when necessary until she’d recovered a measure of calm, even managing to smile again as she thought what she’d have to tell Susie—strictly edited, naturally. Zandor Varga, if she mentioned him at all, would feature only as Gerard’s arrogant boss. Their previous acquaintance would still stay strictly taboo.

And one day, sooner rather than later, she would be able to erase his memory from her life altogether.

As the water drained, she dried herself slowly with one of the soft, fluffy bath towels provided, moisturised her skin with her Azaleabody lotion, then wrapping herself, sarong-style, in another towel, she sauntered back into her bedroom, removing her comb and letting her hair tumble round her bare shoulders as she went.

‘Ah,’ Zandor said softly. ‘So there you are.’

He was standing by the bedroom door, leaning a casual shoulder against its frame.

Alanna started violently, dropping the comb and clutching at the towel, which had begun to slip.

She said hoarsely, ‘You. How dare you come in here? Get out at once.’

‘It didn’t require any particular daring.’ He shrugged. ‘I came to return some lost property.’

He pointed to the bed and, turning, Alanna saw the sweater she’d dropped in that headlong dash across the common draped neatly across the pillow.

Damnation, she thought, and lifted her chin. ‘Then you should have knocked.’

‘I did. You didn’t seem to be here. And the door was not locked.’ He paused. ‘Unlike last night.’

So it was you. She managed just in time to choke back the words.

Oh, God, she thought. Why didn’t I think of it this morning?

‘And you don’t need to thank me.’ He allowed his gaze to travel over her slowly and appreciatively. ‘I am already sufficiently rewarded, believe me.’

She felt her skin warm. ‘In that case, kindly leave.’ She spoke crisply. ‘I’d like to get dressed.’

‘Then do so,’ he drawled. ‘After all, watching you put your clothes back on again is one of the few things I haven’t yet enjoyed in your company.’

The breath caught in her throat. She said unevenly, ‘If you don’t get out now, I’ll scream the house down.’

His brows lifted mockingly. ‘Rather extreme action to take with someone you supposedly met only twenty-four hours ago,’ he commented. ‘How would you explain it?’

‘I wouldn’t have to,’ she said defiantly. ‘Your reputation with women apparently speaks for itself.’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘But gossip certainly does. My Cousin Joanne has been busy.’

She said huskily, ‘Or perhaps she speaks from bitter experience.’

‘No.’ His tone was harsh. ‘She does not.’ He paused. ‘I admit I considered it at one time, but then I remembered I used to be fond of her.’

Alanna drew a ragged breath. ‘Whereas with me you didn’t even have that excuse.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘With you, my lovely one, I had no excuse at all. None.’

He straightened. Came away from the door.

Alanna shrank. ‘Keep your distance. Don’t dare to lay a hand on me.’

‘Now you are being absurd.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It is barely an hour until lunch.’ He sent her a crooked smile. ‘Certainly not time for anything I might have in mind. As you may remember.’

‘You,’ she said unevenly, ‘can go to hell.’

He opened the door. Looked back at her. He said quietly, ‘“Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.” I am sure you recognise the quotation.’

And went, closing the door behind him.

For a long moment, Alanna remained exactly where she was, staring at the solid wooden panels. Then she stumbled across the room and—belatedly—turned the key in the lock once again.

Better safe than sorry, she thought, and knew just how ridiculous that was. Because she certainly wouldn’t be safe until she left the abbey behind her for ever. And it was equally certain, she told herself, that her meeting with Zandor Varga was something she’d regret for the rest of her life.

* * *

It was almost time for the midday buffet on the terrace that Gerard had mentioned on the journey down when she eventually went downstairs, casually dressed in a brief khaki cotton skirt and a cream short-sleeved top, her hair brushed back and confined at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell clasp.