Claimed by the Wealthy Magnate

Indecision etched her face and her hands smoothed the skirt of her dress, her fingers outlining first one printed blue flower then another, and then she shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes, it does.’

And it did. As he looked at her he could see hurt in the strain that lined the green of her eyes and the uncharacteristic slump to her posture.

‘Tell me.’

‘Leave it, Daniel. It’s not important.’

‘It is to me.’

‘Why?’ The syllable was tart, almost a challenge. ‘If you’re worried that it will impact the ball, it won’t. I’ll come up with a plausible reason.’

‘I don’t care about the ball. I care about—’

You? No.

‘I care about the fact that a colleague of mine will miss out on an opportunity to experience something wonderful. Plus, I believe that you want to go. So what’s stopping you?’

‘It’s personal, and you and I don’t do personal.’

Of course he knew he should leave it, but he couldn’t—the knowledge that he was near to an important tr

uth was something he couldn’t ignore or impede.

‘Maybe we should change that.’

She shook her head, and a short, mirthless laugh dropped from her lips. ‘By which you mean I should share something personal with you, not vice versa.’

The truth caused heat to warm the back of his neck. Touché. Now he really needed to back off. But the glint in her eye, the challenge, brought out the advocate in him.

‘I can do personal. I just choose not to. You don’t do personal because you don’t trust anyone. You think if you confide in me I may use the information—go public, tell the reporters... I won’t. You have already trusted me with Barcelona—why not go a step further?’

‘Why does it matter to you?’

‘Because I want you to see the Doge’s Palace.’

Keep it casual.

‘And you think that if I confide in you the issue will go away?’

‘It’s worth a shot.’

A long silence and then, ‘It won’t, but you’re right. You already have so much power over me, one more item is neither here nor there.’ Hands in her lap, she took in an audible breath before saying, ‘I suffer from panic attacks.’

The words took a couple of seconds to register—given the serenity and calm for which Kaitlin was famed, they seemed incredible. But then he remembered Barcelona—his first glimpse of ‘Lynette’—remembered Kaitlin’s frenzy when she’d fallen into the water, her over-the-top preparations for Scotland and Venice. Admiration touched him at her courage in taking on both places.

‘I’m so sorry, Kaitlin. I wish I could say more, but it makes everything you have achieved even more impressive.’ He rose to his feet, squashed the urge to go and sit next to her, put an arm around her and tell her he’d make it all OK, and started to pace instead. ‘I’m guessing water and new places trigger the attacks?’

‘Anything can trigger the attacks.’ There was bitterness and resignation in her tone. ‘But, yes, I find unfamiliar places overwhelming—and as for water...I do my best to avoid it.’

‘Is that what you’ve been advised to do? Avoid anything that might trigger the panic?’ He was no expert, but that tactic would surely impose nigh on impossible limitations.

‘It’s what I’ve worked out for myself.’

There was defiance in the jut of her chin and defence in the folding of her arms as she glared at him in a clear dare to challenge her.

It was a dare he was more than happy to take up. ‘How long have you had these attacks?’