She ran a printout of the information, cautious about emailing it to Werner when the criminal enterprise in Bucharest, including the plant manager, had access to the company servers. She left a cryptic text message on Werner’s phone, describing the location of the printout – inside the Italian dictionary on her office shelf. Then she found her coat, walked the few blocks home without remembering having done so and found the door to the town house opening as she climbed up the small flight of stairs.

‘A late night, Miss Hart,’ a man she didn’t know politely said. ‘Would you like some refreshments sent up?’

She shook her head, tried to smile, found herself unequal to the task and managed to whisper, ‘No thank you.’

Three minutes later, fully clothed, she crashed on the puffed-white-satin-covered Marie Antoinette bed and slept through the entire next day.

CHAPTER 3

A musky scent insinuated itself into her consciousness first. Moments later a deep familiar voice breached the remote margins of her brain – an echo of the voice in her passion-filled dream – and she softly moaned.

Dominic recognized the sound and smiled. His new employee, lying face down on the bed in her grey nylon quilted coat, wasn’t all about double-entry accounting. A pleasant thought, perhaps even the reason he’d taken the long way to Hong Kong. But a dangerous one as well. And at the moment, he hadn’t decided what to do about her yet.

He’d have to decide by morning. The Gulfstream was scheduled for take-off at ten. Which was just as well. In his experience, deadlines were a spur to action.

Like now.

He was here to rouse Miss Hart. Unable to wake her, Mrs Van Kessel had asked for his help. Bending down, he repeated, ‘Wake up, Miss Hart. Wake up.’

A petulant groan.

He lightly touched her flushed cheek with the pad of his index finger. ‘People are waiting for you, Miss Hart.’

Touch, smell, sound sluggishly converged, brewed and blended, intensifying her lush dream that had her lying naked on Dominic Knight’s desk top in Palo Alto. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, his soft voice urging her towards orgasm, her whispered response a feverish, racing litany of yeses. His blue-eyed gaze was heated, close, hers half shut to absorb the spectacular, high-pressure sensations as his hips moved in a slow thrust and withdrawal, touching her deeply there and there and oh, oh, oh …

She whimpered as her orgasm began peaking – the irrepressibly feverish sound suddenly shocking her awake with a jolt. Ohmygod! With a startled squeal, she wrenched herself up from the torrid depths of her dream. Someone was here! Where was she? Scrambling to roll over, she became ensnared in the folds of her coat and frantically thrashed about until strong arms lifted her and gently deposited her on her back. ‘There, that’s better,’ said the voice from her dream.

She flushed with embarrassment, keeping her eyes tightly closed in the hope that this cringe-inducing moment would pass. That Dominic Knight wouldn’t notice her hair and everything else was a mess, that she’d probably drooled all over the pillow. Mostly, she just prayed that he’d leave.

‘Coward,’ he said, a note of amusement in his voice. ‘Open your eyes.’

Seriously, were prayers ever answered? She opened her eyes by slow degrees, the brilliant green catching the light at the last. ‘What are you doing here?’

He noticed she didn’t say ‘Get out’, and was strangely pleased – a heresy he chose to ignore. And he answered the specific question rather than the broader one about what he was doing here. ‘I came up because Mrs Van Kessel wasn’t able to wake you. She was afraid you were comatose. You’ve slept for almost seventeen hours, Miss Hart.’ She looked like a rosy-cheeked child just come awake, her hair a tumble of curls, her eyes still half lidded. ‘How do you feel?’

A loaded question, considering her recent dream; any number of answers streaked through her brain. None of them appropriate. So she opted for simplicity. ‘Fine, good. Did you just get into town?’

A casual question, as if they were friends. Apparently Miss Hart could be docile after all. ‘I arrived a few hours ago.’

She flicked a finger in his direction. ‘A power suit. I like it.’ He looked good in grey, but then he looked good in anything.

‘I’ll relay your compliment to my tailor,’ he said with a lazy smile. ‘By the way, congratulations. I’m impressed with your work, Miss Hart.’

‘I’m pleased you’re impressed, Mr Knight.’ With her brain fully functioning now, she knew better than to be tempted by that killer smile. ‘I’ll be sure to add your comment to my résumé.’

‘I’d be happy to write you a letter of recommendation.’ He played the game better than she. Ten years and forty companies better.

‘Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should get out of these clothes from yesterday.’

A small silence fell.

He didn’t say what he was thinking because he was helping her undress in his mind.

Nor did she – her thoughts less decisive but gratuitously sexual nonetheless with her recent dream still vivid in her mind and the living, breathing Mr Beautiful quietly staring at her.

‘One of the women from the office brought over a few things for you. They’re in the wardrobe.’ At her raised brows, he added, ‘You’re the guest of honour at a dinner downstairs.’ He glanced at the bedside clock. ‘In one hour.’