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  He supposed it was K’s lack of sexual experience that had made kissing her and caressing her so memorable. He couldn’t help smiling as he recalled how amazed she’d looked when he’d kissed the tip of her small breast.

  “I’m glad to see you’re enjoying yourself,” Veronica said as she turned in his embrace.

  The smile disappeared as he acknowledged how totally Kristin Lassiter had been dominating his thoughts.

  The knock came again.

  The statuesque blonde in his arms stared at the thick, wooden-planked door, with its enormous black wrought-iron hinges and said, “I thought you said we were the only guests at the Abbey.”

  “We are.” He’d told the reporter he was a distant cousin of the Duchess of Blackthorne’s estranged husband, and that the duchess had offered to let him stay as a guest at the Abbey. He’d learned from bitter experience that he couldn’t trust a woman’s feelings when she knew from the outset that he was the youngest son of the infamous Bella and Bull.

  Max blessed his mother for the diligence she’d used in keeping photos of her children out of the papers and off the internet. With some fancy footwork during his brief junior tennis career that included refusing to pose for photos or turning his head when the cameras flashed during the trophy presentation, he’d remained virtually invisible both in print and online. There were pictures, but not good ones.

  “I heard you tell the butler we didn’t want to be disturbed,” Veronica said. “Who could it be?”

  “Ignore it,” he murmured, brushing aside her silky blond hair and teasing her ear with his teeth, determined, this time, to banish K from his thoughts.

  The knock came again, cracking like thunder.

  And he bit Veronica’s ear.

  “Ouch!” Veronica grabbed her ear as she pulled away and shrugged her blouse back onto her shoulders. “Answer the damned door, Max,” she snapped, turning her back as she rebuttoned her blouse.

  Since she was dressed again, he sighed and headed for the door. When he opened it, he found the Blackthorne butler, whose forebears had worked at the Abbey since medieval times, wearing formal clothes and holding a silver platter containing a blue-tinged white envelope. The word TELEGRAM, framed by four red stripes, was written in blue on the upper left hand corner.

  “I presume that’s for me, Smythe,” Max said quietly.

  “Yes, your lordship,” the butler replied, just as quietly. “It was delivered by personal messenger.”

  It was impossible to get Smythe to call him Max. He’d been trying since he was a boy of six. It was Lord Maxwell, or your lordship, as though they were living a century or two in the past. Considering the English laws of succession, there was no way he should be a lord.

  It was Smythe who’d explained to him how, thanks to his courageous ancestors—and an act of Parliament—he remained fourth in line to inherit the Blackthorne dukedom.

  It was a pretty good story, actually. One of K’s favorites, back in the days when they were speaking to each other.

  When all the male Blackthorne heirs had died heroically during the Battle of Britain in the Second World War, Parliament had amended the Letters Patent creating the Dukedom of Blackthorne so the title would pass “to all and every other issue male and female, lineally descending of or from the said Duke of Blackthorne, to be held by them severally and successively, the elder and the descendants of every elder issue to be preferred before the younger of such issue.”

  Which meant that either males or females could inherit the dukedom. This prevented the title from being extinguished by the death of the last male Blackthorne during the war. It was the first time such a thing had been done since the Dukedom of Marlborough was preserved in the same way for similar reasons in 1706.

  As the elder of twin sisters, his mother was the current holder of the title. Max’s eldest brother, Oliver, would succeed her as the next Duke of Blackthorne. As the eldest son, Oliver currently held one of the Duke of Blackthorne’s lesser titles, Earl of Courtland, and was often referred to simply as Courtland.

  Max stared at the note on the silver platter and said, “This couldn’t wait, Smythe?”

  “It is a missive from Her Grace.”

  Max knew that as far as anyone at the Abbey was concerned, communication from the duchess was like word from on high. He thought back to the last time his mother had gotten in touch with him. It was six months ago, when she’d emailed to ask if he was coming home to Blackthorne Abbey for Christmas. He wasn’t.

  He was only here now because his mother was not. And because he’d hoped the exotic locale would help him seduce Veronica—and forget K.

  He’d failed miserably on both counts.

  “Thank you, Smythe,” he said, taking the note from the tray.

  The butler bowed, then took an arthritic step back, before turning and limping away. As he retreated, his uneven cadence echoed off the high stone ceilings in the hall.

  The instant the door was closed, Max crushed the missive, dropped it onto an ivory-inlaid chess table and said, “Where were we?”

  But Veronica the Reporter was curious. She crossed the Aubusson carpet to the table, picked up the crushed paper and pressed it flat across the front of her skirt. “It’s a telegram. From America.” She turned to Max and asked, “Why would anyone send a telegram in this day and age? I mean, why not phone or fax, or text or email?”

  It wasn’t until she pointed it out that Max realized just how odd his mother’s missive was. He took the telegram from Veronica and tore it open. He crossed to the windows edged with ivy on the outside and hung with gold brocade curtains on the inside and held the note up where it could catch the last rays of daylight.

  Veronica followed him. “What is it, Max? Who’s it from?”

  Max let out a sigh of relief, crushed the note once more and tossed it onto an ancient oak chest that ran below the mullioned windows. “It’s nothing.”

  “Mind if I look?” She didn’t wait for permission, just picked up the discarded paper, straightened it out for a second time and began to read.

  Max grimaced, knowing what was coming.

  She gasped and turned to stare at him. “The Duchess of Blackthorne is your mother?”

  He met her gaze and shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

  “Don’t try using those innocent baby blues on me,” she said sharply. “Your mother’s not just famous, Max. She’s infamous.”

  Which was why he never mentioned the connection. “So?”

  “So? So?” she repeated incredulously.

  Max knew exactly what was running through her mind. He’d lived through some of it and heard stories all his life about the rest. Seventeen-year-old Lady Isabella’s fairy-tale romance and rocky marriage to twenty-nine-year-old American banking heir Bull Benedict had been tabloid fodder for years.

  First, Bella had stolen Bull away from her twenty-one-year-old second cousin, Lady Regina Delaford, daughter of the Marquess of Tenby, whom Bull had been courting. To add insult to injury, Bull and Bella had married barely a month after they’d met. The poverty-stricken duchess had even agreed to sign a prenuptial agreement to prove she wasn’t marrying the banking heir for his billions.

  Eyebrows rose at the birth of their first child a mere eight months later. The public gasped each time Bella showed up at some charity function wearing the priceless jewels—each with a legend attached—that Bull had given to his wife during their marriage: rubies, pearls, sapphires, emeralds and diamonds.

  Last, but not least, the public had devoured news of Bull and Bella’s antagonistic separation after twenty-five years of marriage. Gossip said Bull hadn’t divorced his wife because after twenty-five years of marriage, the prenup became null and void, and Bella could lay claim to as much as the English courts decided to give her of Bull’s tremendous fortune.

  Even though they were separated, they continued to show up at the same charity, political and business functions in England, Europe and America, providing more delicious ti
dbits for the gossips.

  As though to goad her husband, Bella never failed to wear one of the fabulous jewels Bull had given her during their marriage as a sign of his enduring love—when she walked in on the arm of another man.

  “Are you going to America for Mother’s Day?” Veronica asked as she crossed to him.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  She pressed her abdomen against his as she slid her arms around his neck. She played with the straight black hair at his nape, sending a shiver down his spine.

  It seemed his seduction of the reporter was back on track.

  Max leaned forward to kiss the beautiful woman in his arms but hesitated when she whispered, “I can’t believe I’m kissing the Duchess of Blackthorne’s son.”

  He lifted his head and stared down at her with the cynicism he always felt when someone seemed awed by who he was. Or rather, who his mother was. No one knew the real Max Benedict.

  Except K. She’d known exactly who he was.

  And rejected you.

  The boy. She’d rejected the boy. He was a man now. Would K see that if she got to know him again? Would she be able to love him again? Did he want her to love him again? The thought was dizzying. Intriguing. And terrifying. He’d simply have to be sure this time, if it came to it, that he was the one doing the rejecting.

  Even K—Agent Lassiter—had believed the carefully cultivated common belief that he was a care-for-nothing playboy, a reckless rogue who’d learned his hedonism from Bull and Bella in their heyday. Despite what K might think of his behavior, the deception made him a very good spy.

  Not that he worked all the time. Or even every time the CIA—or some other American governmental organization identifying itself with capital letters—asked. But he was a valuable asset.

  As he’d pointed out to K, by virtue of his pedigree, he had access to the very wealthy, which included drug czars and their sons and daughters, and munitions dealers and their sons and daughters, and of course, wealthy Arab potentates who might be funding terrorist activities and their sons, if not their daughters.

  It was amazing how much information was dropped over a drink after a game of polo. Or during one of his seductions.

  The sad thing was, Max hadn’t wanted information from Veronica Granville. He’d simply liked the way she looked. He’d liked how bright she was, how witty she’d been at the bar where they’d crossed paths. He’d hoped for some good sex, along with some intelligent company.

  Now she had stars in her eyes, put there by his mother’s infamy. From now on, he would question whether her interest in him wasn’t really interest in getting closer to his mother.

  But he wasn’t going to turn down the sex just because it might come with a few strings attached.

  “Max,” she whispered in his ear. “If you go to America, will you take me with you?”

  “We can talk about that later,” he said, used to negotiations where he promised nothing but the promise of something that might be offered in the future. “We have more important things to focus on right now.”

  Max captured her mouth with his as he pulled her close. She rubbed herself against him like a cat drunk on catnip. He felt a little sad when he realized he didn’t trust her enthusiastic response.

  He cleared his mind and focused on sensations. The softness of her breasts against his chest. The sweet taste of her mouth. The heat that surged through his veins, causing almost instant rock-hard arousal. The throbbing need he would soon slake inside her hot, wet, willing body.

  Insidious thoughts crept back in. Of K lecturing him on how lucky he was to have a mother. And how if she still had a mother, she’d treasure every day she had with her. He’d argued that his situation was different. That the duchess hadn’t been a mother for many years. Just like K’s mother, when Bella had left his father, she’d left her children, as well.

  So why, after all these years, had the duchess invited him to spend Mother’s Day at The Seasons? He had boy hood memories of holidays spent there with his brothers and his four male cousins, Nash, Ben, Carter and Rhett, Foster’s sons with his first wife, Abigail.

  When Foster had divorced Abby, they’d divided their four sons between them. Foster got Ben and Carter. Abby got Nash and Rhett. Both parents had remarried and had more kids. Max and his brothers hadn’t been back to The Seasons since his parents had separated ten years ago. So what was his mother’s invitation all about?

  “Max? Is something wrong?”

  Max realized he’d stopped kissing Veronica and was once again staring out the window over her shoulder.

  Damn you, Mother. You’re worse than K. Why can’t you stay the hell out of my life!

  Max let go of the reporter and took a step back. “I’m sorry, Veronica. Maybe we can do this another time.”

  “What?”

  He could see she was annoyed. He didn’t blame her. He was more than a little annoyed himself at the distraction K—and his mother’s telegram—had created.

  “I’ll drive you back to London.” He was glad now he’d decided to make the hour drive south on the M20 motorway from London, rather than taking the train with Veronica from Victoria Station.

  Her hands shot to her hips. “I thought we were going to spend the weekend here, Max. Why the sudden change in plans?”

  She would have done better kissing him again, Max reflected. He didn’t have much tolerance for female indignation. Although, he supposed she had a right to be upset.

  She narrowed her eyes and said, “It’s that telegram, isn’t it? Is something going on with the duchess? I could use a scoop, Max. What do you know? Or think you know?”

  “There’s nothing going on with my mother except a desire to keep all her lambs in the fold,” Max shot back.

  “What mother wouldn’t want her children with her on Mother’s Day?” Veronica pointed out.

  “Mine.”

  Max didn’t elaborate. He wasn’t about to tell a reporter from the Times how seldom he’d seen his mother since his parents had split up. How visits with her, from the age of seven onward—when he’d been shipped off to boarding school—had been prized, because they’d been so few and far between. And how often those visits had been canceled.

  He and his brothers had spent their lives in one English or European or American boarding school after another. There had been so many because whenever one or another of them had done something to get himself thrown out, the others had refused to stay where they weren’t all welcome. As the youngest, Max had created his own share of the carnage.

  None of them had held a candle to Oliver. Oliver had a gift. He could destroy as easily with words as with a blow.

  But, of course, Oliver had a greater burden to bear than any of the rest of them.

  Max had heard the rumors about who’d really sired his eldest brother, who had dark brown eyes, rather than blue or gray, like both of their parents and the rest of his siblings. Max wasn’t sure what he believed. But he’d more than once defended both his mother’s—and his brother’s—honor.

  Max had been lonely at the end, because he was five years younger than his next older brother, Payne. His brothers had all gone on to university—or not—and he’d been left behind. Sometimes he wondered how Lydia had managed. Being the only girl, and nearly two years younger than he was, she’d been all alone from the start.

  “You’re not being fair, Max,” Veronica said with a petulant pout that made him realize how much he would have enjoyed having that mouth, with those full lips, taking full advantage of his body.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” he said.

  “Promise you’ll bring me back here?” she said, moving close again.

  Rather than reply in words, he took her in his arms and kissed her, giving the effort his full attention. And comparing the kiss, inevitably, with kissing K. He and K definitely had unfinished business. Whether she came to work with him or not, he hadn’t seen her for the last time. He realized the woman he held in his arms wasn’t the one h
e wanted to be kissing and let her go.

  “You won’t forget me, Max,” Veronica said in a breathy voice when he released her.

  “Believe me, Veronica, you’re unforgettable,” Max said with a teasing wink. He would never forget how difficult it had been to concentrate on this woman when he was thinking about another.

  Veronica smiled and he watched her shoulders relax.

  “Excuse me while I visit the powder room,” she said. She turned and he realized she had no idea where it was.

  He pointed her in the right direction. “In there.”

  He almost groaned with regret as he watched the sexy sway of her hips as she walked away. He was sure she had the sexual sophistication to please him a great deal in bed. Veronica turned to glance at him over her shoulder, her long blond hair swinging free, and smiled. The invitation remained.

  He should take advantage of it. He should cross the room and take her in his arms and finish what he had, by God, started.

  But there was no way he could enjoy partaking of such delicious fruit until he’d settled things one way or the other with K. He was going to have to talk with her again. He was going to have to convince her to work with him. If for no other reason than to prove to himself that the woman wouldn’t—simply couldn’t—live up to his memories of her.

  Maybe he ought to go to America for Mother’s Day. He could stop by The Seasons and find out what the hell his mother wanted.

  More importantly, he’d be on the same continent as K. He could take a flight down to Miami and talk some sense into her. Because he wasn’t going to have any peace until he did.

  5

  “Another gift has arrived, Your Grace, along with a note declining your invitation.”

  Bella growled with frustration, then put a hand to her heart, which was beating hard enough from anxiety to hurt. What if none of her children showed up? She couldn’t bear the thought. Did they despise her so much? Or were they truly as busy as they claimed to be?