Flame Of Desire

Carole Mortimer is one of Mills & Boon’s best loved Modern Romance authors. With nearly 200 books published and a career spanning 35 years, Mills & Boon are thrilled to present her complete works available to download for the very first time! Rediscover old favourites – and find new ones! – in this fabulous collection…A passionate proposal…Demanding, arrogant artist Luke Vittorio is used to having women fall at his feet. So he’s intrigued when innocent Sophie doesn’t seem to like anything about him! Now he’s determined to make Sophie his…Luke makes Sophie feel alive! No other man has ever aroused that fiery response in her and she can’t help but fall for his magnetic charms. But can she accept his surprising proposal with only the hope that his burning desire will blaze in to more…?

Flame of Desire Carole Mortimer

CHAPTER ONE

SOPHIE’s father put down his newspaper long enough to look at her. ‘If you go out this evening I do not want a repeat of yesterday,’ he said sternly. ‘We have guests arriving this afternoon and I wouldn’t like them to witness a scene like last night’s.’

He looked sceptical. ‘And just whose fault would you say it was? Mine? Your stepmother’s? We weren’t the ones trying to creep into the house at two o’clock in the morning.’

Sophie gave up all pretence of trying to look as if she were eating her breakfast. ‘I’d been to a party, you knew I was going to it.’

Her stepmother pursed her lips. ‘But not the time of morning you’d be arriving home. Really, Simon, this roaming about the countryside at all hours of the day and night will have to stop. After all, Sophie is only nineteen.’

Simon Bedford sighed, beginning to wish now that he hadn’t brought the subject up. ‘I know, Rosemary, I know, and I’ve already made my opinion concerning Sophie’s actions last night very clear. And I trust her to see that it doesn’t happen again.’

‘I should hope so,’ sniffed her stepmother. ‘Why on earth she has to mix with those—those ruffians, I have no idea. Goodness knows we’ve tried to introduce her to the right sort of people.’

‘Oh yes,’ Sophie’s mouth turned back in a sneer. ‘People like Nicholas Sedgwick-Jones. He’s about as exciting as a cold rice pudding!’

Her mother’s eyes snapped angrily, china blue eyes set in a beautiful doll-like face. Rosemary Bedford was small and delicately made, her appearance belied by the streak of ruthlessness predominant in her personality. At thirty-six she looked much younger than her years, often being mistaken for Sophie’s older sister instead of her stepmother. She had married Simon Bedford when only eighteen to his already thirty-seven, and she had exploited his love for her to the full, until now, eighteen years later, that love had turned to amused tolerance. Simon had soon come to realise that his main attraction to his young wife had been the money he possessed in abundance. And he had also realised that he couldn’t hope to compete with the younger men his wife amused herself with from time to time, and had soon even given up trying to do so.

Their marriage might not be the idealistic thing he had expected it to be when they first married, but at least he had Sophie from his first marriage. Of course he and Rosemary had expected to have children of their own, he desperately wanted a son to carry on the family name and fortune, but year after year had passed with no sign of the desired child, and now they had given up hope of there ever being one.

‘Nicholas is a very nice young man,’ Rosemary insisted. ‘And he likes you.’

‘Sophie!’ her stepmother’s voice rose shrilly. ‘Your father didn’t pay for you to go to a private school so that you could come out with things like “as exciting as a cold rice pudding”, and “broke”. You’ve been taught how to talk properly, please do so.’

‘Oh, Mummy, you know I’m right about Nicholas. All he can talk about is his boring old farm.’

Rosemary gave her stepdaughter a cool look. ‘I’m sure his conversation is preferable to anything those hooligans you call friends have to say. Their main topics of conversation seem to be fashion and sex—and not always in that order,’ her nose wrinkled her distaste. ‘And look at you—you even look like them!’

Sophie was aware that her stepmother didn’t approve of her long blonde hair being worn loose, or her choice of denims and tight sweaters as suitable clothing. And she didn’t approve of the friends Sophie had made at the local college either, but she refused to give them up, no matter what the pressures might be.

‘Exactly! You should make an effort to remember who you are. Just think of your father’s humiliation when he sees the people you go about with.’ Rosemary sighed. ‘Well, at least make sure you behave yourself in front of our weekend guests. A lot of them won’t understand your need to rebel in this way.’

‘Just a few friends, about a dozen or so.’ Rosemary studied her painted nails. ‘Luke Vittorio has agreed to come down.’

His wife smiled at him brightly. ‘I thought I’d told you, darling. He’s bringing that girl he’s going about with at the moment.’

‘Eve Jeffers,’ Sophie supplied. ‘She’s one of the leading models in the world at the moment.’ And Luke Vittorio had been the fashionable portrait painter for the last ten years. He was an outrageous extrovert, his exploits almost as well known as his portraits—and his scandals. He was ruggedly attractive, emitting a sensual aura that seemed to act like a magnet on all women. And the women he attracted weren’t always single.

‘I know who she is, Sophie,’ her stepmother snapped. ‘They’ve been seen everywhere together the last few months.’

Rosemary’s mouth turned back. ‘I would doubt it, fashion isn’t your father’s strongest point—or yours either, for that matter. Look at your clothes—if those denims were any tighter they’d be indecent!’

‘She’s slender enough to carry them off,’ Simon remarked from the depths of his newspaper. ‘I couldn’t give a damn what she wears as long as she’s well covered. When did you invite Luke Vittorio down here?’ he demanded of his wife.

‘I can’t remember now,’ she answered vaguely. ‘At Pamela’s party last week, I think. What difference does it make when I invited him? He’s coming, that’s all we need to know.’

Simon scowled. ‘I can’t understand why a man like him would want to come here,’ he muttered. ‘He’ll probably be bored within a few hours. He’s used to much more exciting entertainment than we can offer.

‘Exactly,’ Rosemary’s mouth tightened. ‘He enjoys peace and quiet like the rest of us.’

‘I haven’t noticed you’ve been enjoying it much lately. You’re spending more and more time in town. I suppose the only reason we’re honoured with your company this weekend is because you have all your friends coming down.’

‘Don’t make a scene, Simon,’ his wife said impatiently. ’We’ve been through this so many times. I like the London society, you don’t.’

Sophie stood up, excusing herself before this developed into a full-scale argument. There had been a lot of these arguments of late and she had found it was better to make herself scarce when one was brewing.

‘To see Helen, yes.’ She wouldn’t be drawn into her stepmother’s spiteful mood.

‘One doesn’t ask Luke. He decides who he’ll paint and who he won’t. I merely asked him if he would look at Sophie. He’ll make the final decision.’

‘Daddy?’ Sophie cut in, frowning her puzzlement. ‘Luke Vittorio is going to paint me?’

‘Well, he is the best, chicken. And we would like a portrait of you for the family record. It’s to be your mother’s birthday present to me.’

‘A Luke Vittorio portrait? He’ll never paint me, Daddy,’ she denied. ‘He only paints beautiful women. He’s very exclusive. He’s turned down some really important people merely because he didn’t think them beautiful.’

‘You’re attractive enough when you take the trouble to dress properly,’ her stepmother admitted grudgingly. ‘And he hasn’t agreed to do it yet, only to look at you.’

She had seen him on a chat show on television once, a tall arrogant man who hadn’t lived his thirty-eight years without being aware of his blatant good looks and cashing in on them. And he had the most piercing brown eyes she had ever seen, eyes that appeared to miss nothing, and she felt sure they didn’t. He was an artist, trained to observe and take note.

He had made Sophie feel nervous just looking at him, his self-confidence awe-inspiring. And he was very mocking, making her feel quite sorry for the interviewer by the end of the programme. For someone who was so much in the public eye he was curiously clam-like about his real private life, refusing point blank to discuss any of the women in his life, except to acknowledge that there had been quite a few.

But she hadn’t needed him to tell her that, she had only to open a daily newspaper to see that taunting arrogant face peering back at her, and always with a beautiful companion, and hardly ever the same one twice. He always seemed to be either entering or leaving the country, never in one place for long at a time.

‘You’ll do as your father and I want,’ Rosemary said irritably. ‘If Luke decides to paint you you’ll sit for him. You can’t refuse when it’s to be a present to your father.’

‘Three months away. And Luke can’t paint you overnight. He may not even be able to start right away, in fact I’m sure he won’t be able to. You have to understand that Luke isn’t just any artist, he’s the best of his time, able to dictate his own terms. And you’ll treat him with the respect he deserves when you meet him at dinner,’ she warned.

Sophie couldn’t see anyone treating him any other way, he would soon put them in their place if they did. She could imagine him being quite cruel on occasion; that quirk to his mouth indicated a hardness that was a natural part of the man himself and not something he had acquired.

‘What time is he arriving?’ She intended making sure she wasn’t here, despite her stepmother’s warning. Her father was a rich and important man himself, and she didn’t care to be looked over by anyone.

Her stepmother shrugged. ‘When he feels like it, I would imagine. Luke lives by his own rules.’

‘I’ll be on my best behaviour,’ Sophie promised with a certain amount of sarcasm.

‘That isn’t always good enough. The times you’ve embarrassed your father and me—–’

‘Let the girl go,’ Simon interrupted. ‘You’ll only make her more determined to do the opposite of what you say.’

Her stepmother’s mouth was a thin angry line. ‘Why do you always side with her, Simon?’ she asked petulantly, the easy tears appearing in her china-blue eyes. ‘The two of you always gang up on me. It’s no wonder I spend more and more time in London. I might just as well not bother to come home at all!’

Simon put his newspaper down with a sigh, realising he was in for one of the scenes that always left him feeling drained. Rosemary should never have had to cope with a child, her jealousy and spitefulness towards his only child always making it difficult for him to show any love and understanding for Sophie without a near-hysterical outburst from his wife.

‘Leave us, Sophie,’ he advised, standing up to put his arm about his wife. ‘Now calm down, Rosemary,’ he said gently. ‘You’re ruining your make-up.’

Sophie quietly left the room. Poor Daddy, he was in for a difficult time of it. She wondered what her stepmother would wheedle out of him this time. One of these scenes usually resulted in Rosemary acquiring something blatantly extravagant. The last time it had been a diamond brooch, the diamond being one of the biggest in the world.

She met Mrs Joyce, the housekeeper, in the hallway, a fresh pot of coffee in her hand. ‘I shouldn’t go in there right now,’ Sophie stopped her. ‘Mummy—Mummy’s a little upset.’

Mrs Joyce tutted. A member of the household since Sophie had been a baby, she was as familiar with these scenes as Sophie. ‘What happened this time?’

‘I’m afraid it was my fault, Joycy,’ Sophie used the family name for the housekeeper. ‘Mummy gets upset by my behaviour. I don’t mean to upset her, but I—–’ she broke off as her stepmother left the dining-room, no evidence of tears on her face now as she smiled at them.

‘Mr Bedford’s coffee, Joycy,’ she smiled. ‘He’s never human until he’s drunk several cups of your delicious brew.’ She hummed to herself as she left them.

Joycy watched her mistress leave. ‘I wonder what your poor father has promised her this time,’ she remarked with amused tolerance.

‘Something else she doesn’t need,’ Sophie said dully, aware that once again she had caused her father to be put in an awkward position. It was a terrible way to think, but things were a lot quieter around here when her stepmother stayed in London.

She and her father lived a peaceful existence here, her father travelling rarely to his firm situated twenty miles out of London, and she going to the local college. The two of them spent a lot of time together, a lot of their tastes being similar despite their age difference.

Joycy smiled. ‘I’d better take this coffee in, it should help soothe your father.’

Sophie grimaced. ‘I think he’s going to need it,’ was her parting comment.

Poor Daddy, she thought as she cycled the mile to Helen’s house. He didn’t ask much from life, just a loving wife and daughter and the continuous success of his prosperous firm. But she and her stepmother had never got on. Sophie had spent most of her childhood brought up by servants, and so every time she had met her stepmother the sparks started to fly.

Not that she didn’t care for Rosemary—after all, she was the only mother she had ever known—but to Rosemary she was just a constant reminder of the passing of the years, a reminder Rosemary neither wanted or welcomed. What on earth her stepmother would do if she ever presented her with a grandchild she daren’t think. Not that that was a possibility for years yet; she didn’t even have a boy-friend.

Helen was out in the back garden sunbathing when Sophie arrived. ‘You look hot.’ She poured her out a long cool drink of lime from the jug on the table.

‘I don’t have the concentration. Did you get into trouble for being late last night?’ she changed the subject.

Helen giggled, a petite girl with bubbly red hair and mischievous green eyes. ‘This morning, you mean. Dad was furious! How about you?’

‘About the same. Mummy turned up last night when I was out,’ Sophie added pointedly.

Helen grimaced. ‘The outcome of my late night was that Dad’s forbidden me to go out for a week. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow, but it means I won’t be able to go anywhere tonight.’

‘Neither will I. Mummy’s invited some people down for the weekend, which means I have to stay in to dinner tonight.’ Sophie sighed. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but she will insist on inviting Nicholas as my dinner partner.’

‘Poor you,’ Helen sympathised. ‘Who’s been invited for the weekend? Your mother usually knows the interesting people.’

Helen looked impressed. ‘I saw him on television the other night. God, he’s handsome. He has mesmerising come-to-bed eyes.’

Helen noticed her lack of enthusiasm for the first time. ‘You aren’t looking forward to him being there?’

That must be the understatement of the year! ’Most of Mummy’s friends I can take, but him … Well, it’s like Daddy said, what can we possibly do to entertain him? We aren’t exactly surrounded by night spots.’

‘I should think there must be lots of ways he could be entertained,’ Helen said teasingly. ‘I can think of a few ways myself.’

‘He’s bringing his own girl-friend down for that,’ Sophie informed her with disgust. ‘I don’t suppose he can go for very long without a woman.’

Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘What’s he done to upset you? You don’t usually take dislikes to people like this.’

‘I’m not usually forced into their company,’ she said with ill-humour. ‘Mummy has asked the great man to paint me.’

‘That’s what I said. Oh, he’ll say no, of course, but I don’t like the idea of him dissecting each little part of me before he rejects me. He’s so damned arrogant!’

‘You don’t sound very sure. I’ll tell you what, come over tomorrow afternoon and you can meet him.’

Her friend laughed. ‘Let’s go and have a game of tennis, you can run off some of this steam. Stay for lunch and then go home when Mr Vittorio is safely installed in your house. Mum and Dad have gone out for the day shopping, so we have the house to ourselves.’

They played tennis for a couple of hours before going back to Helen’s and making themselves a hamburger each. It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon by the time Sophie set off for home. She really couldn’t delay any longer, she would have to change before meeting Luke Vittorio.

Her stepmother would be furious if she presented herself in tee-shirt and tight denims, and her hair was completely wild from her exertions on the tennis court. Her face was completely bare of make-up, her skin smooth and creamy, her lips a healthy pink, her violet eyes glowing as she enjoyed her ride back to her home.

She enjoyed the ride back much more than the ride to Helen’s, freewheeling down the long hill that had taken such effort to get up before lunch. What breeze there was whipped through her long silver-blonde hair, her eyes glowing with pleasure.

She was almost on top of the car turning out of the side road before she saw it, and she felt sure the driver of the Mercedes hadn’t seen her at all. The car was turning in from the right and she swerved precariously to avoid it, crashing up the grass verge to land in an undignified heap in a newly ploughed field.

The ground was soft to land on, but nevertheless Sophie felt shaken by the fall, peering over the tiny hedgerow at her bicycle, the wheels still spinning noisily. She sat up, rubbing her elbows which seemed to have taken the main pressure of her fall.

She looked up as a shadow fell across her, unaware of the dusty marks on her now pale cheeks, and her eyes widened with shock as she recognised the driver of the car she had swerved to avoid. Luke Vittorio!

There could be no mistaking that muscular physique clothed in fitted black silk shirt and thigh-hugging black trousers, the forbidding mouth with the full sensuous bottom lip, the hawk-like nose, the magnetic brown eyes, and the dark overlong-styled hair. He was much taller than she had imagined, well over six feet, and his skin was naturally dark instead of tanned, but there could be no doubt that this was indeed Luke Vittorio.

Sophie scrambled to her feet, hurriedly brushing down her denims so that she didn’t have to look into that dark, compelling face.

‘You are unhurt?’ His voice was deep and husky, deeply accented despite his having lived in England and America for the last twenty years.

‘Only a little bruised,’ she muttered, her head bent as she studiously brushed off every bit of dust on her denims.

Nothing had prepared her for the flesh-and-blood sensuality of this man, the blatant sexuality that must surely affect every woman he came into contact with, the deep husky voice that had sexy intonations. There was something wholly primitive about the man, something untamed and untameable, and he had shaken her more than falling off her bicycle had done.

One long sensitive hand came out to grasp her forearm, his shirt sleeves turned back to just below his elbows to reveal the dark hairs against his swarthy skin, made to look even darker by the broad gold wrist-watch on his arm. Sophie couldn’t take her eyes off his hand, a long tapered hand with thin sensitive fingers, an artist’s hand.

Sophie looked up to meet the blaze of his mesmerising brown eyes head on, deep brown eyes with a lighter brown circle around the iris. ‘I’m fine,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I just didn’t see you until it was too late.’

The hand dropped away from her arm. ‘I am well aware of that.’ His voice was curt, losing its silky quality. ‘You were completely out of control as you came down that hill. I am only surprised there was not more damage done than there was.’

His censure angered Sophie, all the more so because she knew he was right. ‘To me or to your car?’ she asked sarcastically, her head thrown back, her hair streaming down her back.

She picked it up, noticing the slightly bent handlebars but determined not to tell this arrogant man. ‘It seems all right to me,’ she told him moodily.

Luke Vittorio sighed. ‘I did not know if you felt too shaken to cycle the rest of the way to your home. You live on one of the hillside farms, perhaps?’

She almost laughed at his wrong assessment of her. He obviously considered her to be a simple farm girl, the thought of her being the daughter of Simon and Rosemary Bedford not even crossing his mind. It wasn’t surprising considering her clothes and the fact that she was riding a dilapidated bicycle, nevertheless she found his condescension annoying, determined not to tell him of her identity and surprise him at dinner this evening. She would love to see this man squirm, and perhaps this incident had given her the ammunition to do just that.

‘I live not far from here,’ she evaded. ‘I can make it there all right.’

‘You may suffer some delayed injury. I will of course check up on your health.’

Sophie smiled, a taunting smile that held little humour. ‘If I suffer any delayed injury you can be sure I’ll let you know, Mr Vittorio.’

His brown eyes narrowed speculatively, sweeping over her slender figure, violet eyes and long silver-blonde hair with slow insolence. ‘You know who I am?’

He appeared unimpressed by her attempt at breathless adoration. ‘Nevertheless, I think it would be better if I knew where you live.’

‘There’s really no need.’ She concentrated on checking her cycle over, her hair falling forward in a straight gleaming curtain. ‘There’s really nothing wrong with me.’

Her head shot up at the unexpectedness of his question. ‘Well, it isn’t dyed, if that’s what you mean,’ she said resentfully.

She was surprised he had noticed her hair, let alone the colour of her eyes. The artist in him again, she supposed. ‘They’re natural too, I’m afraid,’ she answered tauntingly.

Sophie’s attention was caught by the girl stepping elegantly out of the passenger side of the Mercedes, a girl who was instantly recognisable as Eve Jeffers. This girl was so beautiful, her features so perfect, her hair a black shining cap, her figure faultless, that she almost didn’t look real.

She came to stand next to Luke Vittorio, her lacquered nails resting intimately in the crook of his arm. ‘It’s getting late, Luke darling,’ she purred in a voice that grated on Sophie’s nerve-endings. ‘We should be on our way.’

Sophie bristled angrily. No concern for her health here, not even a polite query. This girl might be beautiful, but there was something about her that Sophie didn’t like; perhaps it was the coldness in her eyes or the faint hardness to her mouth, but whatever it was she didn’t like her.

Luke Vittorio nodded. ‘You go back to the car, I will be with you in a moment.’

‘We wouldn’t want to keep our beautiful hostess waiting.’ Eve arched an eyebrow at him. ‘I’m sure she’s just longing for you to arrive.’

Luke’s mouth tightened. ‘Go back to the car, Eve. I want no more of your innuendoes today,’ he added harshly.

‘I’m sure Rosemary wouldn’t consider them innuendoes,’ she purred. ‘And then there’s that brat of hers to look at,’ she taunted before walking gracefully back to the car.

Sophie’s anger had been increasing by the second. What did this girl mean by these remarks about her stepmother? Of course Rosemary was looking forward to her weekend guests’ arrival, but why should the model imply that she was especially looking forward to Luke Vittorio being there? She didn’t like the implication behind that at all—or the implication that she was a brat.

‘There’s no need.’ He would know soon enough! And so would Eve Jeffers, although she felt sure the other girl wouldn’t give a damn.

Sophie watched the car speed out of sight before making some attempt to straighten the handlebars on her bicycle. They wouldn’t straighten up completely, but at least it was rideable now. She would get Martin to have a look at it when she reached home.

The Mercedes was parked alongside several other cars in the driveway as she pedalled round to the back of the house to enter through the kitchen. Her stepmother would never forgive her if she let any of the guests see her like this.

Joycy was arranging the tea things as she came into the room, but stopped what she was doing to stare at Sophie. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Again?’ Joycy shook her head. ‘I’ve told you so many times not to use that contraption. It wobbles terribly and the brakes don’t work properly.’

Sophie knew that, now. If the brakes had been working properly she wouldn’t have come off the damn thing. ‘Perhaps Martin could take a look at it for me.’ Martin was Joycy’s husband, and her father’s chauffeur and butler.

Joycy laughed. ‘If I remember correctly the last time he looked at it he told you it was ready for the scrap heap.’

‘Transport of my own,’ Sophie said patiently. ‘While you take the tea things into the lounge I think I’ll try and sneak up to my room.’ She ran one of her dusty hands down her denims. ‘I’m not really presentable.’

‘Only dented my pride a little. Flying over the handlebars of a bike isn’t exactly the height of elegance.’

Sophie grinned. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind one or two of your delicious scones to tide me over until dinner.’

‘There can’t be much wrong with you if you still have your appetite.’ Joycy picked up the tray in preparation to leaving. ‘You know where they are.’

Sophie took two of the still warm scones out of the tin, buttering them hurriedly before making her way to her room. She was going to look her very best tonight, show Luke Vittorio exactly what he would be turning down when he refused to paint her. She would show him that it wasn’t only women like Eve Jeffers and her stepmother who could look beautiful. She could look quite attractive herself if she really tried, and tonight she intended trying.

She washed her hair first, drying it before she took a long leisurely bath. She came out of the bathroom smelling deliciously of pine bath-oil, the delicate perfume absorbed into her skin. The next thing to do was curl and style her hair, the natural staightness of it soon taking on a more attractive wave, two wings of hair pulled back at her temples from the centre parting to be secured loosely by two gold slides. The simplicity of the style emphasised her high cheekbones, enlarging her wide violet eyes.

She wasn’t the sort of girl who usually bothered with all the feminine foibles, spending most of her life as a tomboy, but today she was making a special effort. She manicured and painted her nails a light peach colour before applying a light powdering of make-up, the lip gloss she wore exactly matching the nail varnish and the dress she had decided to wear. Her eyelashes were naturally long and dark, but she applied a light dusting of brown eye-shadow to add depth.

The peach dress was one her stepmother had taken her out and bought for her on one of her rare visits up to see her in town. Rosemary had indulged her for once, preening visibly as the saleswoman assumed them to be sisters.

The gown was Grecian in style, with a wide band of silver brocade surrounding her narrow waist. The light tan she had acquired during the last couple of months was shown to advantage against the peach chiffon, a thin delicate gold chain about her throat the only jewellery she wore.

What her stepmother and father would make of this transition she could only guess, but for all her natural poise and confidence it took great effort to go down to dinner that evening.

She smiled politely at several of the people she recognised who were gathered in the lounge, accepting the sherry Martin handed her with a broad wink in his direction. He frowned at her levity before turning away. Dear Martin, how she loved to tease him!

Luke Vittorio was already deeply engrossed in conversation with a group of people on the other side of the room, although perhaps that wasn’t quite the right description. There was a tolerant smile on his dark face, but Sophie felt sure he regarded the woman talking to him with amused contempt. It was there in his eyes, in his very stance, and Sophie felt sorry for the woman as she obviously tried to make an impression on him.

He looked even more attractive than he had this afternoon, the blue velvet jacket fitting tautly across his wide powerful shoulders, the white shirt flamboyantly frilled at the front although not effeminately so. He wore black trousers, his legs long and muscular beneath the fitted material.

She turned sharply at the sound of that huskily accented voice, the man she had been talking to drifting off as he knew himself overshadowed by the other man. As she had been standing with her back towards him she had no idea how Luke Vittorio had known it was her.

‘Please, call me Luke,’ he invited smoothly. ‘And I may call you—–?’

‘Ah, Luke,’ her stepmother came over to them, extraordinarily beautiful in the flowing red figure-hugging gown. ‘I see you’ve met my little Sophie.’

Sophie cringed, feeling about five years old. But then her stepmother would probably have preferred it if she were, much less ageing to herself. She looked up into the narrowed brown eyes of Luke Vittorio with defiance. ‘Mr Vittorio and I haven’t yet introduced ourselves, Mummy,’ and she gave him a challenging smile.

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Flame Of Desire - Кэрол Мортимер - Flame of Desire Carole Mortimer Читать онлайн любовный роман

Мортимер Кэрол

Аннотация к роману
«Flame Of Desire» - Кэрол Мортимер

Flame of Desire Carole Mortimer

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

Flame Of Desire - Кэрол Мортимер - Flame of Desire Carole Mortimer Читать онлайн любовный роман

Мортимер Кэрол

Flame Of Desire

Аннотация к роману «Flame Of Desire» - Кэрол Мортимер

Flame of Desire Carole Mortimer

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

Аннотация к роману
«Flame Of Desire» - Кэрол Мортимер