Get a grip, she told herself impatiently. She peered through a window, but saw no signs of life inside the house. Damn it! Where was Nicolo Chatsfield? Christos had only spoken to him on the phone a few hours ago.
She had a perfectly legitimate excuse to drive back to London and tell Christos that she had been unable to find Nicolo, but giving up wasn’t in Sophie’s vocabulary. Ten years ago she had needed every ounce of determination and tenacity while she had fought for her life. Being diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer when she was sixteen had been a shattering blow. One minute she had been a happy, carefree teenager, and the next she had been facing the very real possibility that she might die.
She had never forgotten the sickening lurch of terror in the pit of her stomach when the consultant had given her the news, the fearful expression on her mother’s face. At that devastating moment Sophie had vowed to herself that if she survived her illness and the high doses of chemotherapy that were her only hope of a cure, she would live her life to the fullest, seize every opportunity and never be deterred by any problem, however insurmountable it might seem.
After everything she had been through, a solid door barring her entry to Chatsfield House was simply a minor inconvenience, she thought wryly.
Following a gravel path, she eventually came to the back of the house and found a huge, overgrown garden. She imagined the lawn must once have been trimmed regularly, but now it had turned into a wild meadow, and the roses in the flower beds were being strangled by weeds.
The air of abandonment was tangible. She tried the back door and found it was unlocked, which suggested that Nicolo could not be far away. After a moment’s hesitation she stepped into the kitchen and her attention was immediately drawn to the cast-iron range that looked as though it was an original feature.
‘Hello, is anyone home?’
As she continued her exploration of the house her voice echoed hollowly around the wood-panelled hall. Various reception rooms led off the hall, all filled with exquisite antique furniture, including a grand piano in one of the rooms. She walked over to the piano and lifted the lid. Running her fingers over the smooth keys she was reminded of her father playing the piano at the house in Oxford where she had grown up.
She had loved to listen to him. They had been happy times, Sophie thought wistfully. Her early childhood had been idyllic, and as far as she knew her parents had shared a loving relationship. But her cancer had spread a dark cloud over all their lives and ultimately had destroyed their once-happy family. Her father’s betrayal had been the hardest thing to cope with, even worse than her illness. He had abandoned Sophie when she had needed him most, and the hurt still lingered deep in her heart.
Abruptly she closed the piano lid and shut a mental door on painful memories. A sixth sense warned her that she was no longer alone seconds before she heard a low growl that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle. She spun round and snatched a startled breath at the sight of the man and dog blocking the doorway. Both were big, dark and menacing—although on balance the dog looked slightly less terrifying than its master, Sophie decided.
The only photograph she had seen of Nicolo Chatsfield was an old press cutting from a decade ago that Christos kept on file. At the time the picture had been taken Nicolo had been a reprobate playboy who had seemed intent on blowing his sizeable trust fund on fast cars, vintage champagne and glamorous women. In his early twenties he had possessed the stunning looks of a male model from one of the glossy magazines where he often featured in the gossip columns. There had been no sign in the picture of the terrible scars he was reputed to have been left with after he had been burned in a fire.
Like his brothers and sisters, Nicolo’s behaviour had attracted the sort of scandalous headlines that had helped ruin the Chatsfield brand name. But a few years ago he had suddenly dropped out of the media spotlight.
The man in front of Sophie bore little resemblance to the old photograph. His handsome features had hardened, and his slashing cheekbones and square jaw were as uncompromising as granite. He looked older than his thirty-two years and his unsmiling mouth spoke of a world-weary cynicism that was reflected in his curiously expressionless eyes. His thick, dark brown hair fell to his shoulders, and the black stubble shading of his jaw gave the impression of a man who did not give a damn what others thought of him.
Sophie swallowed. She was not afraid, but for a moment she felt overawed by Nicolo’s formidable masculinity. He had not spoken and his silence was unnerving. With an effort she regained her composure and smiled at him.
‘I expect you’re wondering what I’m doing in your house?’
‘I know what you’re doing.’ Despite the curtness of his tone, Nicolo’s deep voice was laced with a sensual huskiness that sent a tingle down Sophie’s spine. ‘You’re trespassing.’
‘I’m not exactly.’ Sophie took a step forward and hesitated when the dog gave a warning growl. She eyed the animal warily. She recognised the breed as an Irish wolfhound—with emphasis on the wolf side of its personality, she thought ruefully. The dog was so enormous that if it stood on its hind legs it would easily be taller than her five-foot-four frame. Deciding not to provide the hound with an early supper, she remained perfectly still as she spoke to Nicolo.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sophie Ashdown, and I am Christos Giatrakos’s personal assistant. Christos sent me here to ask you—’
‘I know what Christos wants,’ Nicolo interrupted. ‘My answer is the same as I told him on the phone earlier. You’ve had a wasted journey, Miss Ashdown. Shut the door on your way out.’
‘Wait …’ Sophie cried as he swung round and strode out of the room with his hound following faithfully at his heels. ‘Mr Chatsfield …’ She hurried across the hallway after him but he took no notice of her as he walked into another room and shut the door firmly behind him.
‘Well, of all the …’ Sophie stared at the door and her temper simmered. She had never experienced such rudeness before and without pausing to consider her actions she grabbed the door handle and turned it.
Evidently this was Nicolo’s study. As she crossed the threshold she glanced around the large high-ceilinged room where the walls were lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets. On the desk was an impressive computer system with eight monitors displaying constantly changing columns of figures and graph lines. She recalled Christos saying that Nicolo had built a career as a hugely successful financial trader. He owned a hedge fund company called Black Wolf Asset Management and was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the city.
He certainly did not appear to spend any of his fortune on clothes, Sophie thought, running her eyes over him. His long black waxed coat had seen better days, and his calf-length boots were scuffed. Curiously he wore a leather glove on his left hand only. If she had not recognised him from the newspaper photo she could easily have mistaken him for a gamekeeper, especially when he was accompanied by the hound from hell.
The dog was growling deep in its throat and the sound reverberated through Sophie’s body. Nicolo was standing by the desk, studying the various computer monitors, and did not look round even though he must have heard her enter the room.
‘Goodbye, Miss Ashdown,’ he said in a soft voice that held a definite hint of danger.
Sophie’s patience was wearing thin. ‘Mr Chatsfield …’
The wolfhound bared its teeth. Nicolo continued to ignore her, and Sophie wondered if he would be even mildly interested if the dog ripped her to shreds in front of him.
This was ridiculous. She could not begin to persuade Nicolo to listen to her while she was staring literally into the jaws of a savage beast which had its hackles raised and its black eyes fixed hungrily on her. Sophie’s only experience of dogs was her beloved Yorkshire terrier, Monty, who had been her childhood companion, but she was sure she had read somewhere that Irish wolfhounds were gentle giants with a friendly temperament. The dog’s gums were drawn back to reveal a worryingly sharp set of teeth. There was only