‘Just because I let you make love to me the last time you were here it doesn’t mean I’ll do it again!’ she retorted angrily, despising herself and him in equal measure.

‘Well, forgive me,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Only it’s hard to feel sympathy for a woman who’s cheated on her husband in the past.’

‘You know nothing about my marriage to Harry.’

‘And I don’t want to know,’ he retorted, reaching for his jacket. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should get out of here.’

‘Perhaps you should,’ said Abby, striving for indifference.

But before Luke could grab his jacket and leave he trailed his strong fingers down her sleeve and flipped them beneath the hem of her shirt. She tried to back away from him, but the temptation of Luke’s touch was too much for her.

And when his hand spread against her bare midriff, warm and possessive against her soft flesh, every nerve in her body went on high alert. She wanted him to touch her, she admitted despairingly. Her limbs were melting in anticipation of his caress.

Without giving her a chance to break his hold, he pulled her down onto the sofa again and, pressing her back, covered her body with his.

ANNE MATHER and her husband live in the north of England in a village bordering the county of Yorkshire. It’s a beautiful area, and she can’t imagine living anywhere else. She’s been making up stories since she was in primary school and would say that writing is a huge part of her life. When people ask if writing is a lonely occupation, she usually says that she’s so busy sorting out her characters’ lives she doesn’t have time to feel lonely. Anne’s written over 160 novels, and her books have appeared on both the New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller lists. She loves reading and walking and browsing in bookshops. And now that her son and daughter are grown, she takes great delight in her grandchildren. You can email her at [email protected].

To Sally Fairchild, for her encouragement, and to my editor, Joanne Grant, for making the book live.

PROLOGUE

LUKE NOTICED HER as soon as he went into the wine bar.

She was anchored to a stool next to the bar, a cocktail glass with slices of fruit curving over the rim and a tiny coloured parasol propped inside beside her hand.

She didn’t appear to have drunk

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