Back in the Headlines

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‘I’ll find a hostel,’ she mumbled. ‘Just for the night.’

She began to haul her heavy suitcase down the street, not stopping until she reached the bus stop and was certain she was away from Annabella’s pitying stare. And when the bright red double-decker bus stopped, she bought a ticket planning to travel as far away from this privileged area of West London as possible. Because she didn’t belong here. Come to think of it, she didn’t really belong anywhere.

Somehow she found a hostel, not caring that it was right by a busy Tube station or that to get there she had to pass three people sitting on a pavement, asking passers-by for money.

She just needed to sleep, that was all. In the morning she would feel better—and after that she would find somewhere to live. She wondered if the desperation showed on her face or whether it could be heard in her croaky voice—but something in her heartfelt appeal must have worked, because she was given a bed.

It was an iron bedstead with a lumpy mattress, in a dormitory with twenty other women—some of whom seemed to be withdrawing from alcohol. Their delusional screams about yellow ants pierced the night and ordinarily Roxy would have been terrified. But the pounding in her head was pretty much all she could think about right then—until she remembered that she’d left no forwarding address and that she was expecting a much-needed cheque. And that she wouldn’t put it past the hateful Titus Alexander to throw it in the bin, out of spite.

With trembling fingers, she scrabbled around in her bag until she’d found the arrogant aristocrat’s card, then fumbled him a text, before flopping back against the flat pillow.

She’d never felt so ill in her life. The walls were closing in on her. Her skin was growing hot. And just before her eyelids fluttered to a close, she cursed the tawny-headed man whose cruel behaviour had brought her here.

CHAPTER THREE (#uead48278-f3d2-5770-821d-f45a4a24c91f)

A FADED denim crotch swam into view and Roxy’s heavy eyelids slowly fluttered open. Narrow hips framed the crotch like a prize exhibit at an art show and for a moment she was so disorientated that she simply stared at it. Slowly, she moved her gaze upwards to meet the shuttered gaze of Titus Alexander.

‘You’re awake, I see,’ he remarked acidly.

Roxy blinked. She felt warm and comfortable and the room was strangely quiet. Yet she remembered going to sleep on a lumpy mattress with the sound of demented voices all around her. More memories began to crowd into her befuddled brain. The sleepless night which had turned into a sleepless day. The pounding in her head and the terrible aching in her throat—followed by the soaring bewilderment of a high fever when her skin had felt as icy as if she’d spent the night in the Arctic. The hostel!

Despite the restrictive heaviness of her limbs, she sat up in bed and her eyes narrowed in disbelief as she looked around. No, definitely not the hostel. She was in a huge room, with light streaming in from equally huge windows. Gone was the dormitory with its rows of sardine-packed beds—and in its place was a tranquil bedroom, decorated entirely in white. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and the bed in which she was lying was covered with crisp and deliciously clean linen.

Roxy stared up at the Duke’s striking aristocratic features, her heart pounding with confusion. ‘Where am I?’ she demanded.

‘In my London home.’

‘How did I get here?’ she questioned, her voice rising on a slight note of hysteria.

‘You don’t remember?’

‘If I remembered, then I wouldn’t be asking, would I?’

Titus felt his mouth harden. Ungrateful little witch. He should have left her in the hostel where he’d found her! ‘I brought you here,’ he said flatly. ‘You’ve been ill.’

Roxy slumped back against the billowy bank of pillows. Illness would explain this strangely weak and woozy feeling—but it didn’t explain why Titus Alexander was standing next to the bed and glowering down at her. She stared at him suspiciously. ‘What do you mean—you brought me here?’

‘I mean,’ said Titus, with a growing feeling of impatience that he should have to explain himself to her after all he’d done, ‘that I went to the hostel where you were staying, to give you some letters which had been delivered for you. And that’s when I found you delirious with fever and looking quite shockingly ill—with no proper medical care or attention. So I put you in my car and brought you back here.’

She blinked at him as more fragments of memory began to piece themselves together in her mind. She remembered feeling icy cold, but her body being drenched with sweat. At one point, her teeth had been chattering so loudly that she’d been afraid she might shatter them. There had been wild voices shouting out all around her—or had one of those voices been hers? And then someone picking her up. Someone very strong. She vaguely remembered slumping against a rock-hard chest as she’d been carried out of that scary place and put into a car. Her eyes narrowed as she met the Duke’s cool expression.

‘It was you. You rescued me,’ she said slowly.

Titus gave a cynical laugh, because the last thing he needed was for her to start building schoolgirlish fantasies about an episode he would rather hadn’t happened. ‘I felt duty-bound to get you out since I felt partially responsible for you being there,’ he growled. ‘Though, of course, if you hadn’t made such a complete mess of your life—then you wouldn’t have been there in the first place. So I brought you back here and had my friend Guy Chambers look you over—’

‘Look me over?’ she breathed. ‘What do you mean, look me over?’

‘He’s a doctor,’ he answered as he read the suspicious look in her eyes. ‘Not some kind of voyeur. He diagnosed you with pneumonia, he prescribed antibiotics and rest—and that’s what you’ve been getting ever since.’

But she must have been getting more than rest, mustn’t she? Her hair and body felt scented and clean and...Roxy placed her hand over her racing heart, only to encounter the slippery feel of silk against her fingers. Pulling the sheet away by a fraction, she stared down at the apricot sheen of a nightdress which must have cost a fortune. She could feel the delicate fabric brushing against her bare knees and the deep scoop of its low-cut back and she clutched onto the sheet as she looked at him with renewed suspicion.

‘What am I wearing?’ she demanded.

‘What does it look like?’ he growled, furious with his body’s instant reaction to the provocative outline of her breasts.

‘But I didn’t arrive with a silk nightdress! I don’t even possess a silk nightdress. Whose is it?’

‘It’s yours now. I had someone from the store deliver a few, the morning after you arrived—since you seemed to have only one of your own, which, frankly, was well past its sell-by date. And I decided that clothing you was better than seeing you naked, every time I walked past.’

‘You mean you...you stripped me off and dressed me?’ she demanded, her heart beginning a ragged thunder.

Titus gave a short laugh. ‘Actually, I employed a nurse to do that. I haven’t quite reached the point of dragging sick women back to my house so that I can have my wicked way with them.’ He paused as he flicked his eyes over her. ‘Added to which, I’m afraid that you’re just not my type.’

Roxy’s face didn’t betray any kind of reaction, but stupidly his remark hurt. It was bad enough being made to feel like a complete waif and stray without it being implied that you were hideously unattractive. Anyway, it was obvious what sort of woman he would go for. A starchy aristocrat like Titus Alexander would be attracted to someone like Annabella, her ex-next-door neighbour, with her perfect pedigree and clothes which always looked like an upmarket uniform.

‘Well, you’re not my type either,’ she said defensively, putting her hand over her mouth as she began to cough.

‘Really? I’m crushed!’

‘I don’t go for toffee-nosed, stuck-up aristocrats who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth!’

‘I suppose the fact that I’m single must also be a bit of a barrier,’ he offered sarcastically. ‘Because you seem to like the buzz of the forbidden. I can’t think what else attracted you to my father’s accountant. Was it just the cheap rent which won you over, or did his large beer-gut play a part in luring you into his bed?’

‘I didn’t go to bed with Martin Murray!’ she snapped, but the effort of having a row with him was too much and she slumped back against the pillows to see him watching her from between narrowed eyes. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘Five days.’

Five days? Roxy’s feeling of disorientation increased and it wasn’t helped by her sudden acknowledgement of how long it had been since she’d been alone in a bedroom with a man. And the even more unwanted acknowledgement of just how sexy a man he was. His soft, dark sweater sleeves were rolled up to reveal hair-roughened arms and his jeans were close-fitting and faded. Effortlessly, they emphasised the narrow jut of his hips and the taut definition of his powerful legs. How weird it was to think that this man was actually a Duke when he looked more like some pin-up of a rock-star. ‘That’s a long time,’ she observed, her skin prickling with unwanted awareness.

Tell me about it, Titus thought grimly. Five days of trying not to focus on that amazing body which had clung to him as he’d carried her inside on that frosty night. Or to remember the brief glimpse of her cherry-tipped nipples when she’d torn her nightdress off in the middle of her delirium. It had been that fever-fuelled gesture which had made him instantly decide that he needed a nurse there.

He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the fact that her hair was tumbling over her narrow shoulders or that those cherry nipples were now outlined by the silk of her nightgown. He shouldn’t be thinking about what it would be like to explore all that soft and silken skin. She was trouble in every sense of the word and the thing he needed to do now was to get her out of here and out of his life. Only this time, for good.

‘So how are you feeling?’ he forced himself to ask.

Roxy gave a shrug, knowing that he wasn’t interested in hearing her worries about what had been happening work-wise during the five days she’d been out of it. Or her concerns about what the cleaning agency would make of her unplanned absence. Her inbuilt survival system took over and she even managed a watery smile. ‘Hungry.’

‘Good.’ He nodded, as if that was the first sensible word she’d uttered. ‘So why don’t you get dressed and I’ll fix you some breakfast?’

Roxy nodded, hearing the note of closure in his voice. No doubt he would send her on her way after a hearty breakfast. A last meal for the condemned woman. ‘Okay.’

‘You’ll find your clothes in the wardrobe over there,’ he said abruptly, on his way out of the bedroom. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I had them sent out to be laundered.’

What could she say—that he made her feel a bit like some feral animal who’d needed to be hosed down and disinfected? Roxy waited until he’d gone before gingerly getting out of bed, but her legs felt wobbly and she was decidedly weak as she showered and washed her hair. She remembered losing her job at the Kit-Kat Club and wondered what on earth she was going to do. More importantly—where on earth she was going to go? Pulling on a deliciously fresh-smelling sweater, she wriggled into her jeans—except that there wasn’t much wriggling to be done because they slipped on much too easily. No woman ever wore her jeans this big, she thought—adding a belt to cinch them in as she wondered just how much weight she had lost.

She made the bed and tidied up the room, but she knew she couldn’t keep putting off going downstairs and facing her bleak future. Her heart was pounding as she followed the sound of clashing pots to find Titus cooking breakfast.

The kitchen was situated right at the back of the house and contained all the usual luxury components of a no-money-spared environment. There was a big, scrubbed oak table and a beautiful dresser crowded with china which looked scarily valuable. At the other end of the room, two squashy sofas overlooked a garden which was huge, by city standards. It was like one of those rooms featured in the lifestyle magazines you sometimes found lying around in the dentist’s surgery. Only they didn’t usually feature someone like Titus Alexander standing stirring something over a huge range.

It made an incongruous image to see the powerful aristocrat doing something so domesticated as cooking and for a moment Roxy stood watching him, her feeling of trespassing growing by the minute. And not just of trespass... She found her eyes straying to the dark, beaten copper of his ruffled hair and the broad back which tapered down to a perfect bottom and once again she felt a powerful rush of lust. Did he have a lover? she wondered. And if so, wouldn’t she have minded him giving some complete stranger house-room for nearly a week?

He must have heard her—or sensed her presence—because he turned round, his expression shuttered as he surveyed her.

‘Sit down. I’m fixing you some eggs.’

She noticed he didn’t bother asking her whether she liked eggs. ‘Where’s my phone?’ she questioned as she sat down at the table.

‘Eat first,’ he said, walking over and sliding a plate of scrambled eggs towards her.

She didn’t like his autocratic attitude one bit, but the sight of the food he’d placed in front of her stopped Roxy from saying so. She must have been hungrier than she’d thought because she gave a little moan of greed and ate every scrap, followed by two slices of toast and jam and a large cup of strong black coffee. When she’d finished, she looked up to find Titus leaning against the range, watching her—still with that shuttered expression on his face.

Suddenly the false intimacy of the scene made her feel a stupid pang of wistfulness and she wondered where that had come from. But the thoughts carried on coming, no matter how hard she tried to stop them. Was this what he did for his girlfriends? she found herself wondering. Cook them breakfast after spending the night making love to them? And would he make love as superbly as he scrambled eggs?

You bet he would.

‘Better?’ he questioned laconically.

‘Much. Thank you. You cook a mean egg.’ She forced a smile. ‘Now, can I have my phone please?’

‘Of course. Your handbag’s over there, by the sofa.’

Slowly, Roxy got up from the table, her mind racing as she tried to work out what she was going to do. Could she throw herself on the mercy of one of her old band-mates? Tell them she’d reached rock-bottom and could they please give her a bit of respite while she sorted her life out? But Justina might still be involved with that tyrant of an Italian, mightn’t she? Roxy doubted whether he’d welcome a semi-permanent house-guest which might cramp their sexual Olympics. And she hadn’t heard from Lexi in ages.

Acutely aware of Titus Alexander’s searing gaze, she withdrew her phone from her bag with trembling fingers, but she could see instantly that the screen was completely blank. Turning her back on him, she stared unseeingly out at the wintry garden as she went through the pantomime of punching out some numbers.

Closing her eyes, she clamped the phone to her ear, waiting for a moment or two before she started exclaiming in a bright voice, ‘Justina, hi! It’s Roxy. Yeah, yeah—I’m great. Great. Well, actually not so—’

But at that moment the phone was plucked from her hand and when she whirled round, it was to see Titus standing holding it, a grim expression on his face as his grey eyes bored into her.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.

‘Why are you pretending to have a conversation?’

‘I’m not pretending to have a conversation!’

‘Really? Then you must have communication skills beyond the reach of most mortals, Roxanne—since the phone battery happens to be dead!”

Roxy had been in enough tight corners in her life to know that you couldn’t go wrong with the old truism of attack being the best form of defence. ‘And how do you know that?’ she raged. ‘Have you been rifling through my handbag while I’ve been ill?’

‘Believe me, sweetheart, I’ve got better things to do than go through your damned handbag,’ he swore. ‘I happen to know because just before it died, it kept ringing and ringing. I thought it might be something important—but it was just your lover trying to get hold of you.’

‘My...lover?’ questioned Roxy faintly.

‘Murray.’

‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ she grated. ‘That he is not and never has been my lover.’

‘No? So how come he let you pay peanuts for your rent?’

Roxy hesitated as she met the accusatory glitter of his eyes. ‘Because...because he was being kind to me, I suppose.’

At this, Titus gave a cynical laugh. ‘Oh, come on, Roxanne, you’re not that naive,’ he said as he looked into her amazing blue eyes and thought how they could blind a man with their beauty. ‘Ruthless businessmen like Murray aren’t “kind” for no reason. The guy had the hots for you. And maybe you decided that humping him wasn’t too high a price to pay to live in one of the smartest areas in London—even if he did have a wife at home. You wouldn’t be the first woman to do it and you certainly won’t be the last.’

‘You’re disgusting!’ she spat back.

‘Maybe I am.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Or maybe I’m just speaking the truth and you can’t bear to hear it. Unless you’re denying that he wanted you?’

Again, Roxy hesitated. When those steely eyes were boring into her like that, it was difficult to look away—and she got the terrifying impression that he knew exactly what the set-up had been. Besides, she wasn’t trying to impress him, was she? Who cared what Titus Alexander thought of her? It was what she thought of herself that mattered. ‘Yes, he wanted me,’ she admitted baldly.

‘Of course he did. Let me guess,’ he mused silkily. ‘You didn’t actually go to bed with him, but you left him dangling with the hope that one day you might?’

Roxy flushed as his words hit home with an accuracy which made her feel uncomfortable. She had told the accountant very firmly that she didn’t date married men and that much was true. But most men had uncrushable egos, didn’t they? Perhaps he had thought that persistence might wear away her resistance and perhaps it had suited her to let him think that.

‘I can’t control what goes on in people’s minds,’ she retorted.

And neither could he, thought Titus reluctantly. He couldn’t even control what was going on in his own mind. Because why the hell was he looking at her calculating little face and wishing he could wipe away her defiance with a hard and punishing kiss? What was it about bad girls like Roxanne Carmichael, which always made men hunger for them? Angrily, he swallowed down the lump which seemed to have lodged in his throat—wishing it were as easy to rid himself of the hard aching in his groin.

‘So what are you going to do now?’ he questioned unsteadily, wishing he could just wave a wand and magic her out of his life.

His words brought with them an element of reality and feeling a bit wobbly again, Roxy quickly sat down on the sofa. ‘I haven’t decided,’ she said, aware of how ridiculous she must sound. As if she had a million choices ahead of her instead of none at all. ‘But first I need to get my phone working.’

‘Superior communication skills suddenly failing you, Roxanne?’ he mocked. ‘Here, give me the charger.’

With shaky fingers she fumbled around in her handbag and handed it over to him, watching as he plugged it into the socket. She realised how shockingly easy it was to defer to him and wondered if people always did. Or did his natural dominance come as much from the power of his personality as from the title he had inherited?

He straightened up to meet her gaze. ‘You can use my phone,’ he said.

Realising that she had no choice, she took it—even though she hated the idea of him listening into her conversation. She punched out the number but could tell instantly from the tone of the woman who answered that things weren’t good. In fact, that was the understatement of the year. Pressing the phone tightly to her ear, she hoped that Titus wouldn’t hear the tirade of complaints which were now being launched against her. That she had let down several of their biggest clients by not bothering to show up for work.