That had stirred long-buried memories. Of Joanna at fifteen—all skin and bone, turning in on herself rather than facing the selfish demands of their parents. Parents who’d never given a damn about either of their children, except as weapons in their vindictive, ongoing battle against each other.

Holding Leila, feeling the tremors running through her, evidence of the weakness she strove to hide, Joss had been hit by a surge of protectiveness he hadn’t known since he was ten, wanting to save the big sister who had wasted away before his eyes.

But Leila wasn’t Joanna. Leila wasn’t some wounded teenager. She was a grown woman, well enough to sell herself for an easy life of wealth.

It was no concern of his if she’d overdone the pre-wedding dieting. Yet he found himself checking. ‘You’re better today?’

‘Much better, thank you. The wedding preparations must have tired me more than I knew.’

The kettle boiled and clicked off. ‘Would you like something? I’m making chamomile tea.’ She favoured him with one of those small, polite smiles. The perfect hostess.

‘Sounds appalling. I’ll stick with coffee.’ He strode to the door, ready to call his housekeeper, only to find her scurrying towards him.

‘What can I get you, Mr Carmody?’

‘Coffee and a sandwich. My wife will have chamomile tea and…?’ He raised an interrogative brow.

‘Nothing else, thanks. I’m not hungry.’

Joss surveyed the demure beige silk dress hanging loose on her. She’d lost weight since they first met. Then she’d been slim but rounded in all the right places. Now even the line of her jaw was stark, too pronounced.

His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t just the weight loss that disturbed him. She looked…drab. He was no fashion expert but even he could see that shade leached the colour from her face. The dress was completely wrong, suited to an older woman rather than a young and pretty one.

At least her legs were as delectable as he recalled.

At their first meeting he’d been distracted, enjoying the counterpoint of her sexy legs and lush mouth with her composed, almost prim demeanour. Plus there’d been those tiny flashes of spirit that had reassured him she had the capacity to hold her own as the society hostess he required.

She was a fascinating combination of intellect, beauty and cool calm. Or she would be to a man who allowed himself to be fascinated.

Joss wasn’t in that category. He had no intention of disrupting a sound business arrangement with anything like an intimate relationship.

He strictly separated his business and private lives. Though physical intimacy probably rated in the business side of his life: sex for mutual pleasure plus the expensive gifts and five-star luxury he provided to whatever woman he chose to warm his bed.

‘Mr Carmody?’

Joss found his housekeeper surveying him curiously.

‘I leave it to you, Mrs Draycott. Just bring a selection that will tempt my wife’s appetite.’

Leila’s stare sharpened. That look provoked a tiny sizzle of pleasure in his gut, like anticipation at the beginning of a new venture.

‘Of course, sir.’

‘We’ll be in the small sitting room.’

Leila held his gaze unblinkingly. Then without a word she crossed the room, her head regally high, her walk slow, drawing attention to the undulation of her hips.

But Joss kept his gaze on her face, trying to read what lay behind her calm countenance. For there was something. The frisson of energy that charged down his spine when his gaze locked with hers proved it.

He could almost hear the words she wasn’t saying.

Almost, but infuriatingly not quite.

He followed her, stopping abruptly as she halted in the doorway.

Her scent invaded his nostrils, not the heavy attar of roses from the wedding, but something light and fresh, barely discernible as he tilted his head towards her neat chignon.

This close he felt it again as he had on the runway yesterday: tension crackling in the air as if she generated some unseen power that magnetised his skin.

What was it about Leila that drew him?

‘Which is the small sitting room? You have several.’

‘To the right,’ he said. ‘Third door along.’

Following, Joss allowed his gaze free rein, cataloguing each dip and sway as she moved. His wife didn’t flaunt herself with an exaggerated strut. Yet with each slow step the slide of silk over her backside and flaring around her legs screamed ‘woman’ in a way that had all his attention.