Deepest thanks to my husband and soulmate, who claims that inside my head is the scariest place on earth but loves me unconditionally anyway. Special thanks to the generous, supportive South Australian Romance Authors for their encouragement and steadfast belief in me.

And to Flo Nicoll, who saw beyond my raw writing and gave me the courage to drastically cut and revise and produce a story worth telling.

CHAPTER ONE

THIRD DOOR ON the left. Why the hell hadn’t he given in to his original instinct, phoned the hotel with a refusal, then binned the short letter hand-delivered to his office? He’d never heard of Alina Fletcher—didn’t have the time or energy for enigmatic invitations.

Except one phrase, vaguely referring to his family, had captured his interest five weeks after his sister and brother-in-law had died in Barcelona, less than two since his second trip to Spain regarding their estate.

He felt drained. Flying overseas and coping with local authorities while handling the glitches regarding his latest hotel acquisition had been exhausting. The basic Spanish he’d acquired on other trips had helped; deprivation of sleep didn’t. He desperately needed a break to enable him to grieve for Louise, and for Leon, who’d been his best friend since primary school. Any additional angst was definitely unwelcome.

The open doorway allowed him a clear view of the woman facing the window. Slim build. Medium height. Short dark brown hair. His gaze slid rapidly over a sky-blue jacket and trousers to flat shoes. Unusual in this time of killer heels.

‘Ms Fletcher?’ He was curter than he’d intended, influenced by a hard clench low in his abdomen.

She turned slowly and his battered emotions were rocked even more. Pain-filled eyes underlined with dark smudges met his. Widened. Shuttered. Reopened, clear and steady. Whatever had flickered in their incredible violet depths had banished his lethargy. His dormant libido kicked in, tightening his stomach muscles, accelerating his pulse.

Inappropriate. Inexcusable.

‘Ethan James? Thank you for agreeing to meet me.’

No welcoming smile. Did he detect a slight accent? He’d have to hear more—wanted to hear more.

He cleared his throat. ‘Did I have a choice?’ Moving forward with extended hand, he frowned at her hesitation. She was the one who’d requested the meeting.

After a cool, brief touch she gestured to the seating. ‘Coffee? Black and strong?’

His eyes narrowed at her assumption of his preference, flicked to the wedding ring she wore. Married. Why did he care? The perfume she wore didn’t suit her. Too strong. Too exotic. He wasn’t thinking clearly—hadn’t been since that devastating early-morning phone call.

‘What do you want?’ No games. Either she told him the reason they were here or he walked. ‘You’ve got two minutes to convince me to stay.’

She met his glare unwaveringly. ‘Then you’d better start reading.’ Perching on the front of an armchair, she pushed a buff-coloured folder along the low table before pouring coffee into a cup.

His muscles tensed. She appeared confident, was counting on him thinking he’d always wonder if he left without an explanation. He grudgingly picked up the unnamed folder and sat, stretching out his long legs.

Once she’d placed the drink in front of him she took a book from the bag by her side and settled into the chair to read.

He pulled the file out, glanced at the front sheet—and his already shattered world tilted beyond reality. He flipped the pages, studied the signatures. Scowled at the seemingly composed female ignoring him. A fist of ice clamped his gut. His heart pounded. Not true. Not believable. Though the signatures were genuine. He’d seen enough of them in the last few weeks to be absolutely certain.

Why? There’d been no indication.

He reached for his coffee, drained the hot liquid in one gulp while glancing at Alina Fletcher. Not so serene on further scrutiny. The fingers on her left hand were performing a strange ritual. Starting with the littlest, they curled one by one into

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