Claimed by the Wealthy Magnate

Daniel’s frown deepened. It didn’t make sense that she’d gone from being a motivated, ambitious kid to someone who had drifted into a job that clearly did not set her world on fire.

‘Then look around. You’re twenty-seven years old—the world is your oyster. You can still be a dancer, a singer, a doctor or a scientist. That’s the message we want to give those teenagers—that no matter what your background you need to strive to be what you want to be. It doesn’t matter if it’s a lawyer or a shop assistant—it needs to give you satisfaction.’

Kaitlin’s expression shuttered and she glanced away, out of the window, just as the pilot announced their descent. ‘I’ll do my best to get that message across.’

* * *

The other message she had best get across to herself was to stop talking—cease conversation with Daniel. Perhaps it was the lawyer in him, but the man had an uncanny knack of extracting information from her she had no wish to share. Somehow her lips opened and out came the words; she pitied any witness who came up against him.

Which was exactly why she had feigned sleep for the entire car journey from the airport to their destination. A location she had spent a considerable time researching—enough so that she knew she’d need to filter out the background noise of the Caledonian Canal that ran along the edge of the spacious garden that graced the property.

Instead, as she alighted from the car with a theatrical stretch that Daniel surveyed with a scepticism that suggested he had seen straight through the fake nap, she focused on the cottage itself.

Lush vegetation nestled around white walls that gleamed bright through the mizzle of rain that hazed the air and contrasted with the dark orange of the roof, whilst large glass windows indicated that the inside would prove spacious and light.

‘It’s even prettier than the photographs on the website.’

Pictures Kaitlin had studied until her eyeballs ached in the knowledge that the more prepared she was the more likely it was she could stave off panic. It was a strategy that worked—as they entered she felt in control, with not so much as a twinge of nerves daring to show.

‘I asked for food to be left for us, so there won’t be a need to go out unless you want to,’ Daniel said as they entered the well-equipped kitchen.

‘Nope. Sounds great. I’m happy to stay in.’

At least in theory. In reality the idea of staying in with Daniel made her feel...jittery, and awareness slid over her skin.

Both stood frozen to the linoleum floor, eyes locked, until Daniel spun on his heel in an abrupt movement and headed to the fridge, yanked it open with a jerk.

‘Yup, plenty of provisions. I could make us a three-cheese omelette with ham, or spaghetti carbonara? Your choice. Unless you want to cook?’

‘Cooking isn’t one of my talents—so an omelette sounds great, if you don’t mind.’

‘No problem. It’ll be ready in half an hour.’

‘Great.’ Which was apparently her new word for the evening.

Goodness knew she needed that thirty minutes to think, to work out how to get through a cosy, domestic dinner without disgrace.

A shower and a change of clothes undoubtedly helped. Ruffle edged shirt tucked into smart casual black trousers cinched at the waist with a simple buckled brown belt. The ensemble would hopefully ditch any semblance of ‘cosy’ and the near severity of her chignon, softened by the release of only a few stray tendrils of hair, conveyed business.

One final deep breath and she entered the kitchen, from where a truly tantalising scent wafted, along with the strains of a classical music radio station.

‘That smells glorious.’

‘Thank you. Help yourself to wine.’

‘Great.’

Really, Kaitlin? Get yourself a thesaurus.

Opening the fridge, she located an open bottle of white wine and poured herself a glass. ‘Can I help?’

‘You can set the table.’

‘No problem.’

A surreal feeling hit her as she carefully arranged placemats and cutlery, carried the blue glass salad bowl heaped with spinach, its dark green leaves sprinkled with shavings of parmesan, to the square wooden table. She was trying to convince her brain that this was no different from a business dinner—it was only the setting that gave it this false sense of domesticity.

Yet once she was seated her brain scrambled for any conversational topic, and for once in her life came up short. It seemed as if Daniel was suffering from a similar affliction, and she could only be thankful for the music, which was at least filling the void of silence.