Sweet Sinner

Sweet Sinner
Diana Hamilton

9 to 5 MEMO Private & ConfidentialTo: Mr. Cade From: Zoe Kilgerran, your employee I find this difficult to say and don't know where to start, so I'll take a deep breath and begin! I'm afraid you've formed the worst possible impression of me and even branded me a heartless tramp with no morals.Your opinion means so much to me. Can I ever convince you that you are so wrong? Perhaps we could meet and talk it through… .

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#u8ee8a19c-66fd-5610-aee2-a8bbc6ac6757)

Excerpt (#u105b82e2-993c-5257-bb25-1096419499d3)

About the Author (#uf2047b81-bae7-5e98-b8a2-7e06d3a9d390)

Title Page (#u317509c8-a729-5b82-9040-9aa5965e40bc)

CHAPTER ONE (#u69a3dd6d-dba1-5fb9-a828-68647505968f)

CHAPTER TWO (#u1b84410e-caa9-5bd0-a751-458e052f22f0)

CHAPTER THREE (#ucbab35ce-9e8c-587d-8d97-aa328d120f29)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“I won’t go to bed with you, Mr. Cade.”

Zoe felt herself drown in confusion as a vivid mental picture of the two of them together, naked limbs entwined, presented itself with shocking clarity.

“I wasn’t asking you to,” James mocked. Zoe felt herself cringe at the pointed putdown. “But if the time ever came when I did want to go to bed with you, I would. Make no mistake about that, Miss Kilgerran!”

DIANA HAMILTON is a true romantic at heart and fell in love with her husband at first sight. They still live in the fairy-tale Tudor house where they raised their three children. Now the idyll is shared with eight rescued cats and a puppy. But despite an often chaotic life-style, ever since she learned to read and write Diana has had her nose in a book—either reading or writing one—and plans to go on doing just that for a very long time to come.

Sweet Sinner

Diana Hamilton

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_ed406f0c-4d19-55c5-82f1-f11221d7b38a)

‘TAKE your hands off me!’ Zoe twisted her legs away from the driver and endeavoured to cover the expanse of her fishnet-covered thighs with the skirt of the coat she wore flung casually over her shoulders just as the souped-up Mini took a corner on two wheels, the dipped headlights revealing yet another narrow London back street, a figure, gender unguessable-at, leaning against a darkened, vandalised lamp-post.

‘Off, I said!’ Small though she was, Zoe could shout vhen she had to. She pushed at the groping hand. She couldn’t remember his name, but he had to be drunk, or mad. She ground her teeth with rage as she heard him say thickly, ‘Quit foolin’ around. You’re after a bit of fun and I’m equipped to provide it. What the hell else do you think we’re doing here?’

She was not going to answer that. And yelled instead, ‘Stop the car!’ And much to her surprise, and deep relief, he did, brakes screeching, rubber burning on to tarmac.

Scrabbling to unfasten her seat-belt, reaching for the door release, her fingers all panic-stricken thumbs, she felt herself helped out with a violent shove of his hands, heaving her on to the pavement—which was now miraculously fully illuminated—her handbag following and landing on top of her inelegantly sprawling form, his voice slating as he shouted, ‘Little cheat!’ before shooting away with a roar of protesting horsepower.

Her breath sobbing between her teeth, Zoe got shakily to her feet, pushed the wildly curling mane of bright blonde hair out of her eyes and bent to retrieve the scattered contents of her handbag. Her coat fell away from her shoulders, pooling on the ground as she hauled herself upright again, only now recognising the source of that sudden illumination. The long, slinky lines of a stationary vehicle were just discernible behind the glare of headlights.

For a moment she was too petrified to move, her heart thumping as if it would beat its way right out of her chest. And her knees were grazed where they’d taken the brunt of her ignominious landing. She couldn’t have run if someone had paid her.

Out of the frying pan…All alone and no one in sight…Even the lamp-post-leaner had disappeared. No taxis cruising this area. No one came to these mean streets in one of the least salubrious parts of London unless they lived here or were driving through, taking a short cut.

Someone exited the car. She heard the expensive clunk of metal and saw the impressive height, the intimidating breadth of the man as his shadowed form moved forward into the beam of the lights.

Green eyes widened between thickly mascaraed lashes and stayed that way as she fought to compress the trembling of her lush scarlet mouth. For the first time in her twenty-five years she was frightened witless. Back in the car, with that nameless creep, she had been angry and outraged. But this was different. And she was too terrified to take her eyes from the menace of his measured approach to retrieve her coat to cover herself…

One small hand tugged ineffectively at the narrow tube of tacky black satin that barely covered the crotch of her fishnet tights while the other flew to cover the cleavage afforded by her black, sequinned top. Heavy gilt bracelets jangled and she swayed on her spindly scarlet heels and desperately wished she had secreted a hat-pin about her scantily clad person.

‘Were you hurt?’ The dark, gravelly voice was abrasive and she took a small, defensive backward step, shaking her head, just wanting him to go away, shivering uncontrollably now despite the heavy warmth of the June night air. ‘There have to be better ways of earning a crust.’ The wide slash of his mouth indented cynically. ‘Don’t you understand the risks you’re running?’

Mutely staring at him, Zoe tried to find a tart streetwise comment to throw in his face. She failed, her quick wits deserting her, hysteria threatening as immediate fear receded just a little.

She would never forget his face. Never. Thrown into harsh relief by the lights, his features were too austere to be handsome in the popular sense. Arrogant selfassurance rode on slanting cheekbones, on the long straight line of his nose, the determined sweep of his jaw, while the incisive moulding of his mouth was an essay in cruel sensuality and the gleam of his eyes was pure, unadulterated cynicism.

Wide shoulders swooped as he bent to pick up her coat, flinging it at her, dark hair gleaming in the lights.

‘Cover yourself. If you’ve got a shred of sense you’ll get back home, out of harm’s way. How old are you, anyway? Fifteen?’ He didn’t wait for an answer; his sort never did, she thought as she clutched the edges of her coat tightly together and heard him ask, ‘Where do you live?’

‘Peckham Rye,’ she managed squeakily, because this time it seemed he did expect an answer and if he thought she would accept his offer to take her there then he would have to think again. She’d rather take her chances and walk. She had never felt so demeaned in the whole of her life.

The offer, however, failed to materialise. He told her instead, ‘I’ll get you a taxi. I take it you’ve earned enough to cover the fare.’

He strode away and, her cheeks burning beneath her heavy make-up, she teetered after him, her mental faculties regrouping at long last. She was going to tell him a thing or two! What gave him the all-fired right to sit in judgement?

But he was feeding terse directions into the handset of his car phone and when he had finished she spluttered out, ‘The way I earn my living is nothing to do with you! And anyway, you’ve got everything wrong. I’m—’

‘Save the justifications. I don’t want to know. A taxi should be here in a matter of minutes. I’ll wait until it gets here.’ He left the car again, towering above her, his features a mask of bored indifference now as he told her, ‘Next time you let yourself get into the kind of trouble you were in tonight just remember that the odds against someone happening by to pick up the pieces are extremely long. A million to one, at a guess.’

He looked as if he deeply regretted the impulse to stop and investigate, to make sure that the tarty object he’d witnessed being hurled out of a barely stationary car hadn’t sustained any incapacitating injuries.

Zoe turned huffily away, uncomfortably aware that the few words he’d allowed her to get out must have reinforoed his definition of her morals. Non-existent. She was not going to thank him for finding her a taxi. Why should she? The opening to lecture and moralise, jump up on his high horse, was all the recompense he could look for. She was far too sore in mind and body to look at the situation from his point of view.

Too drained by events to argue further, she waited in defeated silence until the black cab arrived, gave the driver her home address and climbed into the back with her nose at a haughty angle, not looking at her pious knight-errant because she knew she would die of embarrassment if she did. And sat in the back devising a hundred and one ways of doing Gary Fletcher to death.