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CHAPTER ONE

GOLD lettering shone on the grey marble walls of Thorne Industries Ltd. Natasha crossed the busy London street, morning sunlight in her eyes, and smiled politely at the young man who held the door open for her.

He gave her a rather unpleasant smile.

She shrugged and walked into the palatial foyer, chandeliers glittering overhead as she crossed to the lifts. As the lift doors slid open, two men in suits walked out, saw her, and laughed secretively, whispering to each other. Natasha ignored them.

It seemed that all the men who worked for Thorne Industries were gradually becoming more and more sexist—or was it more and more blatantly rude? Certainly, their sexual attention to her was becoming annoying.

With her striking Russian colouring of dark red hair, almond-shaped green eyes and high Slavic cheekbones, she had always attracted male attention. The pout of her dark red lips also made men stare, for it showed a deeply passionate nature at odds with her tall, slender body, and the inborn elegance that was almost balletic.

It was a legacy, her mother had always told her, from her great-grandmother, who had been a ballerina in St Petersburg before the revolution.

It was, however, becoming a nuisance, and one which she tried hard to cover up by wearing severe tailored suits, pulling her long red hair back into a stark chignon, and never wearing make-up to work.

Her tactics didn’t appear to be working, though, she thought with an irritable sigh, because the men just kept on staring and whispering every time she passed.

Trying to shrug it off, she stepped into the lift.

‘Hold it!’ A dark, authoritative voice bit out across the foyer.

Natasha looked up, startled, to see Dominic Thorne himself running towards her. Her eyes widened as she stared at this legendary, never-before-seen figure.

He was genuinely gorgeous, and looked just like his newspaper photographs: fierce blue eyes, tough mouth, dramatic bone structure. He could almost have been Russian, she thought, with such stark and powerfully dramatic good looks.

She watched him admiringly, for he was impossibly tall, his hair jet-black, and his powerful body moved like an athlete’s, muscles rippling beneath the expensive black suit as a gold watch-chain flashed across his taut, formal waistcoat.

‘Thanks.’ He strode into the lift as though he owned it—which indeed he did. He owned this whole building, and the business it networked across the globe.

Natasha studied him from beneath her eyelashes. ‘The chairman’s floor, sir?’

‘Yes, please.’ He looked at her, a tough smile on his mouth, and the blue eyes roved with dazzling sexual appraisal over her striking beauty and slender, elegant body. ‘Do you work here? For me?’

Natasha laughed and pressed the buttons for floor six and then the chairman’s floor. ‘Yes, I’ve been here for about six months.’

‘On floor six?’ His eyes grew intent. ‘That’s Leachman’s department, isn’t it?’

‘I’m his secretary.’

The steely eyes glittered like blue fire, lit from within as he stared down at her, hard lips parting, and drawled, as though in shocked wonderment, ‘My God…you’re Natasha Carne!’

She caught her breath in shock, doing a double-take. How did he know her name?

‘Pleasure to meet you at last,’ drawled Dominic Thorne with a flash of serious sexual interest in his eyes and deep, sexy voice. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve heard about you!’

The lift doors slid open at floor six, but Natasha couldn’t move because she was still rooted to the spot with shock. The chairman? Dominic Thorne himself had heard so much about her that it was a pleasure to meet her at last?

‘I’m sure we’ll meet again, Miss Came,’ he said softly, ‘but in the meantime, I believe this is your floor.’

‘Yes.’ Her green eyes stared, slanting, almond-shaped and strangely hypnotic. ‘Thank you, sir. Enjoy your day.’

She stepped out in her elegant grey pin-striped skirt suit. Dominic Thorne watched her with glittering blue eyes and a mocking smile as the lift doors slid shut.

What on earth had all that been about? she wondered as she walked across the open-plan area towards her office.

As always, all the men watched her as she passed, and it irritated her to be scrutinised constantly by them. One or two of them sniggered as she walked past.

Natasha, as always, ignored them, her face icy.

Reaching her office, she went inside and wondered again what that had been about with Dominic Thorne. Well, try as she might, she would never find out through telepathy.

But she allowed herself an admiring little smile, thinking of his dramatic looks, the stark power of those strong bones beneath tanned skin, and the flash of fire in his steel-blue eyes.

Could almost be Russian himself, she thought again, grinning like an idiot, and then shook herself angrily.

Indulging in romantic daydreams was so dangerous to her that she ought to be shot for allowing herself to do it over a man she didn’t know. When would she learn?

Determined not to fantasise about the gorgeous Mr Thorne, she went into work mode, put her handbag beside her desk, switched on the computer, checked the answering service, filled the coffee-machine, and then watered the row of plants on the white windowsill before busying herself opening the morning post.

‘Morning, Miss Carne.’ Ted Leachman came in just as she finished opening the last letter.

‘Morning, sir.’ She barely smiled, because she didn’t much care for Ted Leachman.

He was a sly, lecherous man of about fifty with a bald head, a paunch, and a taste for smelly cigars. If she hadn’t been made redundant from her previous job six months ago, she would leave without a second thought. But as it was, redundancy had shaken her confidence temporarily, and she wasn’t prepared to walk out of this job just yet.

‘Bring the post in. Let’s see what we’ve got…’

Natasha took the post into his office, aware of his nasty dark eyes roving over her as she sat opposite, taking dictation. They worked well for twenty minutes, but he had to ruin it by being personal.

‘I’d love to know what you looked like with your hair down,’ said Leachman with an oily smile. ‘Especially in a sexy little off-the-shoulder number…’

Natasha’s green eyes grew icy. ‘Is that sort of remark acceptable in the workplace? I’ll have to check with Personnel to see if my rights are being infringed.’

His face went an ugly red. ‘I was just trying to be nice. When a man flirts with you, it’s not exactly an insult, you know!’

Natasha’s full dark red mouth tightened. He’d been like this since she had first arrived. So had all the other men in the office. Asking her out all the time, making passes, innuendoes, sly suggestive remarks.

She wouldn’t have minded if they took no for an answer and left her to get on with her life the way she wanted to live it. But they didn’t take no for an answer. If anything, no seemed to be the green light for sexual harassment—or something that came perilously close to it.

‘The letter, sir,’ she said, tapping her pad with her pencil.

‘To hell with the letter!’

Natasha arched haughty brows. ‘Very professional!’

‘A man can’t be professional all the time,’ he snapped. ‘What’s wrong with you? I thought you had Russian blood? Aren’t you supposed to be passionate under that cold, Slavic exterior?’

‘If you don’t stop making personal remarks,’ she said icily, ‘I will have no choice but to pursue this matter through official channels.’

His eyes flared. ‘You make me so angry I don’t know whether to hit you or kiss you!’

‘I know precisely which I’d like to do to you,’ she retorted curtly, ‘and I will, I assure you, if you don’t stop this! A good slap in the face, followed by a lengthy court case over sexual harassment. Unless, of course, you prefer to apologise and return to a more professional footing?’

Suddenly, he blurted out, ‘I’m beginning to think they’re right about you!’

‘Mr Leachman, I really can’t——’

‘You don’t like men, do you?’

Her lashes flickered as the atmosphere tilted abruptly into one that promised something unpleasant.

‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve rejected every man in the building for the simple reason that you’re frigid.’

She felt breathless with shock.

‘We’ve all been trying to seduce you like mad, as you know very well, and we thought one of us, just one, might turn out to be your type. But you don’t have a type, do you? You’re a frigid little iceberg with no time for anything but your pathetic little career, which is cold comfort on those long, lonely nights, isn’t it? But what else can you do? You don’t like men, don’t like sex, don’t like——’

Natasha got to her feet. ‘Apologise or I’ll report you!’

‘Go ahead and report me. Every man in the building knows already!’ He laughed nastily. ‘They call you Natasha Can’t!’

She caught her breath and her face drained of colour as everything suddenly fell into place: the sly looks, the sniggering behind hands, the coy whispering and the——

Oh God, the way Dominic Thorne had looked at her with sexual mockery, smiling as he recognised her position, and realised who she was, the famous frigid fool on floor six.

Natasha Can’t.

No, no, no, no, no…!

They’ve all had bets on you,’ sneered Leachman. ‘Who’d be the lucky guy to make you thaw out with a quick kiss? I might as well tell them to up the stakes to a million to one, because any man who—’

The telephone jangled.

He picked up the receiver. ‘Leachman.’

Natasha stood rooted to the spot with horror, appalled to realise she was shaking, a mixture of rage and humiliation flooding her with such force that she didn’t know whether to scream bloody murder or burst into tears.

‘Yes, sir,’ Leachman was saying into the phone. ‘Right away, sir.’ He banged the receiver down. ‘My God…that was the chairman! Dominic Thorne himself! He wants you to go up to his office, right away.’

It was the last straw for Natasha. Something in her exploded with boiling rage, and she said shakingly through her teeth, ‘Does he?’

Turning on her heel, she stormed out of the office, thinking, So Dominic Thorne has decided to get in on the act, too, has he? Asking me up to his office to make a pass at me and see if the rumours are true?

She slammed out of the office, glaring at the men who sniggered as she passed. This is it, she thought furiously. I’ve had enough. I’m leaving this hell-hole, walking out, job or no job to go to!

But before I do, she thought, jabbing angrily for the call button, I’m going to kick up the biggest scene Dominic Thorne has ever seen.

She knew she was over-reacting, knew her emotions were flying out of her control, but there was nothing she could do about it.

It was all too familiar—the sense of humiliation and helpless rage. To be surrounded by hundreds of people, all of whom had been sniggering at her behind her back, talking about her, placing bets on her, calling her horrible names like Natasha Can’t.

It reminded her of Tony.

That was the problem. It reminded her so vividly of what had happened with Tony that she was completely overpowered by the waves of humiliation and rage—she lost all common sense.

She stormed out of the lift into the luxurious corridor of the chairman’s floor.

Frigid, am I? Well, I suppose it’s better than last time. At least I’m not mad, completely round the bend, a stupid, over-emotional obsessive who everyone knows got fixated on Tony Kerr.

How the memory of Tony suddenly filled her. It ripped aside the icy façade she had built up over the last four years, and made her body shake as the adrenalin pumped violently into her blood and she stormed towards the chairman’s office, thinking, I’ll teach Dominic Thorne a lesson he’ll never forget.

‘Good-morning.’ The secretary smiled politely as Natasha strode like an avenging angel towards her. ‘You must be Miss——’

‘Can’t!’ she bit out thickly. ‘Natasha Can’t!’

The secretary stared as she strode to the door. ‘Miss Can’t…?’

‘Is he in there?’ Natasha asked rawly, not altering her stride.

‘Yes he is, but——’

Natasha strode faster and wrenched open the door. ‘Don’t worry! I’m quite sure he’s expecting me!’

Dominic Thorne was seated at an oval desk, leaning back in a black leather winged chair, a panoramic view of London behind his dark head.

‘Good-morning, Mr Thorne,’ Natasha said through her teeth.

‘Miss Carne.’ Dominic got to his feet.

‘Some mistake, surely?’ she flared passionately. ‘I thought my name was Miss Can’t!’

‘Whatever your name is,’ he drawled sardonically, blue eyes glittering as he strode round the desk towards her, ‘I told you we’d meet again.’

‘She just barged in, sir!’ The secretary was hovering in a panic.

‘Yes, that’s quite all right, Miss West. You can go. I’ll deal with Miss Carne.’

‘Oh, you’ll deal with me, will you?’ Natasha said in a shaking voice as the door closed and she was alone with him. ‘You’ll deal with me, will you, Mr Thorne?’ Her hands flew to her hair, to the severe chignon. Unpinning the clips, she tossed them on to the floor. ‘You’ll deal with me, will you?’

‘I——’ He was staring at her in some confusion.

‘Maybe I’ll deal with you!’ Her dark red hair tumbled free, silky curls falling to her waist as her green eyes spat fire. ‘Maybe that’s precisely what you need!’

‘Miss Carne, I really——’

‘How’s this?’ She unbuttoned her grey jacket, too angry to think about what she was doing, and the powerful dark-haired man in front of her caught his breath as her cream camisole was revealed, full breasts rising and falling below the thin silk and lace.

He stared, a dark flush rising on his cheekbones.

‘And this!’ She reached up, caught him by the neck, and pulled his dark head down to kiss him fiercely, angrily on the mouth.

Dominic Thorne swayed on his feet.

‘See?’ She shoved angrily at him, her eyes blazing. ‘I do like men! I just prefer to select my own!’ Turning on her heel, she stormed over to the door. ‘And by the way—you can take your job and stick it up your exhaust pipe, because I won’t be staying here another second!’

‘Wait!’ A strong hand slammed the door shut just as she opened it, and she looked up furiously to see him towering beside her, blue eyes glittering in heavy-lidded, black lash-fringed sockets. ‘What the hell am I supposed to make of all that? Why are you giving up your job here? What was all that about?’

‘Oh, come on, Mr Thorne! Don’t tell me you don’t know? You made yourself very plain in the lift this morning. A pity I didn’t recognise your smutty tone of voice for——’

‘I am never smutty,’ he bit out harshly. ‘And I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!’

‘The rumours that I’m frigid!’ she spat, quivering, red hair blazing around her slim shoulders, strands of it soft against the creamy swell of her breasts, the severe grey jacket open still to reveal the hidden sensuality of her silk camisole. ‘That I don’t like men, don’t like sex, and deserve the nickname Natasha Can’t! Just because I’ve turned you and all your despicable locker-room friends down——’

‘Now wait just a minute! It’s true that I had been told you’d turned down every man in the building. But I did not know they were calling you either frigid or Natasha Can’t!’

‘Liar!’

‘Why should I lie?’

‘To avoid a nasty court case?’ Her voice was fierce with the threat. ‘Do you have any idea how completely against the law this behaviour—?’

‘If you’re threatening a lawsuit, I’d very much like to know what kind. Are you frigid?’

Natasha tried to slap his face, her eyes blazing.

He caught her hand easily, strong fingers biting into her wrist, eyes overpowering hers, commanding authority easily over her with his superior male strength.

She wriggled angrily. ‘Let me go!’

‘A charge of sexual harassment,’ he bit out, ‘is going to be damaging to both my reputation and that of this company. Now, I want to know exactly what I’ll be facing if you do decide to make an official complaint. Is the treatment you’ve received a genuine case of harassment? And if so, how severe? What precisely has happened? Have the men hounded you for sexual favours? Have they tried to use power over you within the company in exchange for sex? Has anyone assaulted or molested you?’

‘Nothing like that!’ she said rawly. ‘But they have asked me out continually, made insulting remarks when I refused, and now this vile nickname, all the sniggering behind my back, calling me frigid and——’

‘Well? Are you frigid?’

‘No, I am not!’ she shouted hoarsely, mouth shaking, and suddenly the flash of vulnerability in her green eyes made her tear her gaze from his, looking down, suddenly afraid she might burst into uncontrollable tears at any moment.

He stared down at her bent, fiery head for a second in silence.

Natasha struggled not to cry. It was very hard. Waves of emotion, pain and rage and humiliation, were flooding her. Both from the past, and from the present. Suddenly she could see nothing ahead, either, but more pain and rage and humiliation.

Suddenly she couldn’t bear her life any more, or what she’d become, because of that swine Tony Kerr.

‘Hey…’ Dominic Thorne became gentle as he saw her tears and the effort she was making to control them. ‘Please don’t cry.’

‘I’m not going to cry!’ Her voice shook with rigid pride.

‘OK…’ He stared intently at her, compassion darkening his blue eyes. ‘But you’ve been shaken up and you’re reacting emotionally. Come on…don’t let them get to you.’

Natasha wanted to cry even harder. But she was afraid to accept his tenderness, because it reminded her stingingly of the pity one or two people had shown her four years ago, and it made her feel it was still here, it would never end, she would never, ever be free of it.

‘If you’re so damned sympathetic,’ Natasha asked rawly, stepping away from him, her face hurt and pale, ‘and you genuinely don’t know anything about this—why did you ask me up here?’

‘To offer you a job,’ he drawled with a sardonic twist to his hard mouth.

It was such a shock that she just stood there, staring at him.

‘I certainly didn’t expect this kind of reaction from you, but clearly something else has been going on in this building that I ought to know about.’ He watched her with those hypnotic blue eyes and said coolly, ‘So why don’t you sit down, calm down, and let’s discuss the matter properly?’ He put strong hands on her shoulders and led her over to the chair opposite his desk.

‘I’m not a helpless child!’ she said, prickling against any show of kindness or compassion.

‘No, you’re a tempestuous female,’ he drawled sardonically, and then ran one strong hand over her rigid, angry neck-muscles, ‘and you’re horribly tense.’

‘Wouldn’t you be?’ she spat, hating him.

‘Probably,’ he drawled, ‘but I always have the most satisfying option of punching men in the face when they annoy me. You can hardly do that, can you? So I recommend a good stiff drink to calm you down. What’ll you have?’ He crossed the room to a drinks cabinet. ‘A shot of brandy?’

‘I never drink brandy.’

‘High time you started, then.’ He poured some into a tumbler.

Natasha was still trembling, her slim white hands clutching the open lapels of her grey jacket to hide the silky camisole. She knew she couldn’t do the buttons up just yet. She was still shaking too much, so she just sat there, clutching her lapels, and wondering what on earth he had really asked her up here for. Was he serious about offering her a job, or had that been a ruse to stop her filing an official complaint and taking his precious company to court?

‘So who, precisely, is behind this sexual harassment?’ Dominic strode over to her with a glass of brandy. ‘Tell me the names of the——

‘Later,’ she said, eyes suspicious in case he was trying to soften her up. ‘First tell me about this job you planned to offer me. What exactly does it entail?’

‘It’s a secretarial position, working privately for a bestselling historical novelist.’ He perched on the edge of the desk, watching her with a cool smile. ‘My mother, in point of fact.’

Natasha just stared at him in disbelief. ‘Your mother?’

‘I understand you wrote to her a month ago.’

‘I wrote to your mother?’ she echoed, baffled.

‘Yes. Xenia Valevsky. Countess Valevsky. The author.’

She caught her breath, mind reeling as everything slotted into place. Xenia Valevsky was her favourite author, and had been for seven or eight years. She wrote intricately detailed books on imperial Russia, some set in the time of Peter the Great, some Catherine the Great, some leading up to the revolution, but all deeply embedded in Russian life, folklore, language, and richly encrusted with the extravagance of the aristocracy and Imperial families.

Natasha had read every single one of her books, some several times over, and felt deeply connected with her because of it. Eventually, she had written a long fan letter, telling Xenia Valevsky how she admired her, and mentioning that she currently worked for Thorne Industries.

‘I have your letter here.’ Dominic reached behind him on to the desk, picked up a black file, extracted the piece of paper.

Natasha took it and stared at her own handwriting. ‘Xenia Valevsky is your mother…?’

‘She has been for some time,’ he drawled sardonically, blue eyes glittering, and Natasha felt her pulses race, because he really was wickedly attractive.

‘But why the different name? I thought she really was a Russian countess, that her name really was Valevsky.’

‘Yes, but it’s her maiden name. She married my father, remember, an Englishman called Jack Thorne. As for the title, it’s genuine all right, and inherited from her parents. But the land that goes with it is in Russia and now the property of the state, which renders the title almost defunct.’

Natasha nodded, fascinated. ‘I’m amazed to discover I’ve been working for her son all this time without realising it. It’s never been mentioned around the office, or in the Press.’

‘Well, I’m proud of her, of course, but she prefers to keep her English identity—that of Xenia Thorne, my mother—reasonably quiet. Her public image is so strong. Tragic Russian countess turned best-selling novelist, parents escaped during the revolution, et cetera, et cetera. It’s a great image and it sells.’ He laughed drily. ‘Much more romantic than being born in London, marrying my father, Jack Thorne, an industrial factory owner.’ He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘And of course, although I’ve rebuilt the company since my father’s death, it nevertheless remains a basically British firm, for all its international tentacles. So she keeps me out of the imagepicture, too.’

Natasha stared. ‘But—but I would have thought you’d enhance her sales.’

He laughed again. ‘How on earth could I do that?’

Unguardedly, she blurted out, ‘Because you’re so good-looking and so successful!’

His dark lashes flickered, and the blue eyes gleamed as he smiled, a smile so charming that it made her temporarily breathless. ‘Why, thank you, Miss Came.’

A slow burn turned her face a delicious shade of pink. ‘At any rate—what exactly will this job with your mother entail?’

‘Taking dictation, answering the phone, typing up notes, helping with research.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘The usual secretarial bit. But there’s rather more to it than that, particularly at this point. You see, you will be expected to go to Russia with her.’

Natasha caught her breath with excitement.

‘To St Petersburg.’

Her green eyes glittered like emeralds in her white, Slavic face, and she had no idea how beautiful she looked in that moment, how Russian, how feminine, how completely romantic: strange almond eyes shining with excitement, dark red mouth curved radiantly, long red hair spilling around her porcelain skin.

Dominic Thorne stared at her, smiling too, looking suddenly as though what he wanted most in the world was to fall into her eyes.

Natasha blushed again, astonishingly, and said in a strange, husky voice, ‘I—I don’t know what to say. I’ve wanted to go to St Petersburg since I was born. It’s the most magical-sounding name in the world to me.’

‘Then you want the job?’

‘Oh, yes, of course! I’d do anything to get it!’

‘Good.’ He smiled long and slow, his eyes moving over her face, then said, ‘Because you seem perfect for it, and I’m certain you’ll get on famously with my mother. I had you checked out, you understand. An elementary precaution.’

‘You had me checked out…?’

‘Yes.’ He picked up the black file again, flipped it open, reading aloud. ‘Your grandmother was one Anastasia Malakova——’

Natasha gasped.

‘Born April 7, 1913 in St Petersburg, the illegitimate daughter of Marie Malakova, a ballerina at the Kirov and your great-grandmother, and her long-term lover, Prince Sergei Kallensikov——’

‘How did you get all that information?’ Natasha could hardly believe her ears as she heard him reading out the details of her grandmother’s birth. ‘My God, I haven’t told anyone in this office that my grandmother was illegitimate! Let alone the illegitimate daughter of a ballerina and a prince of Russia!’

‘I had you traced back to the village in Kent you were born in,’ Dominic said coolly, and then nearly jumped out of his skin.

‘How dare you?’ Natasha shouted, leaping to her feet, eyes blazing like a tempestuous Russian princess’s. ‘How dare you investigate me like that? Going back to my home town, digging up dirt, making me——’

‘Now, just a minute!’ he bit out forcefully, standing up and dwarfing her with his extraordinary height. ‘I had to have you checked out if I was going to agree to hire you to——’

‘You had no right to go to my home town!’ Her voice shook with appalled emotion. ‘What else did you find out about me? Come on! Tell me! They all talked their heads off, didn’t they? Everyone in that stupid little town! They told you all about Tony Kerr, didn’t they?’ She tried to grab at the black file on the desk. ‘Let me see it! Let me see what lies they’ve——’

‘Who the hell is Tony Kerr?’ he demanded, slamming a strong hand on the file to stop her picking it up, his eyes blazing furious blue. ‘And who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like this?’

Natasha’s heart was pounding violently with rage and fear. The thought of him knowing something about Tony Kerr, about the way she’d fallen so obsessively in love with him, humiliated herself in front of the town—well, it was a nightmare even to think about.

‘Answer me!’ Dominic Thorne bit out harshly. ‘Who is Tony Kerr?’

At once, she looked away, breathing hard. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He clearly didn’t know, and if she had any sense she wouldn’t push it, or he might just decide to find out.

‘It obviously matters a great deal to you.’ He watched her with narrowed eyes. ‘Who is he? What has he done to make you react like——?’

‘Nothing.’ Her face was tight with emotion. ‘Anyway—I need to know the details of this job with your mother. When would I go to St Petersburg?’

He watched her for a long time, eyes shrewd, and he was clearly aware of her deliberate change of subject, also of the way she was struggling to remain calm in the face of what was clearly extreme provocation.

Suddenly, he seemed to come to a decision to let it slide. ‘You’ll go to St Petersburg in two weeks,’ he said briskly. ‘But first, you’ll have to meet my mother for a preliminary interview. Shall I arrange it for tomorrow morning, eleven sharp?’

‘That’s wonderful.’

‘Very well. Be at this address——’ he handed her a

business card ‘—at eleven tomorrow.’

‘Thank you.’ She put it in her top jacket pocket. ‘I’ll be there. But I must stress that I fully intend to resign from my position here as of this moment—whether I get the job with your mother or not.’

He nodded, unsmiling, and his eyes were very dark. ‘I accept your resignation. Consider yourself free to go. But before you do, I want the names of everyone involved. Tell me precisely what happened and who was directly responsible.’