The Flaw In His Red-Hot Revenge by Abby Green

CHAPTER ONE

Four years later...

ITWASAwarm late summer’s evening and Ashling Doyle was half walking, half running down a Mayfair street, white stucco houses towering over her on each side. She imagined all the windows were like eyes, judging her for sullying this exclusive part of London with her bedraggled, sweaty self.

She felt a bubble of hysteria rise up from her chest, but she pushed it back down. It was only masking the severe anxiety that had been gnawing at her insides since her best friend Cassie had asked her to do her a favour. A very doable, innocuous favour.

All she had to do was pick up and deliver a tuxedo to Cassie’s boss for a function that evening. She couldn’t have refused. Not when she knew her friend’s PA was out sick and Cassie was under pressure—she’d left London earlier that day to go to the United States for a two-week work trip.

Ashling also couldn’t have refused because Cassie would have wondered why on earth she couldn’t do this really minor little thing.

But Cassie had no idea why this was not a minor little thing. It was huge. And it was the reason why, ever since Cassie had started working for her boss, and had then worked her way up the ranks to become an executive assistant, Ashling had always found an excuse not to come to Cassie’s workplace or attend any social work events.

Cassie had put it down to Ashling’s distaste for all things corporate and regimented.

But that wasn’t the reason why Ashling had to avoid Cassie’s boss. Zachary Temple. A man who had single-handedly become one of the most powerful financiers in the City of London. Temple Corp dwarfed every other financial institution with its innovative ways and ruthless ambition.

Zachary Temple was the man the government called on for help. He was the man who, with a click of his fingers, could make economies falter. And what he could do for the companies he invested in didn’t bear thinking about unless he thought they were worth it.

He was also, far more importantly, the man who Ashling had hoped never, ever to meet again. The man she had confronted at an event four years ago, when she’d been just twenty years old and dabbling in amateur dramatics.

She’d only realised who he was when Cassie had pointed out a picture of him in a newspaper, saying, ‘That’s him! That’s my new boss.’

Ashling had told her friend about that night after it had happened, but of course she hadn’t had a name for the man then. Now she did. A feeling of sick dread had sunk into her belly. Guilt. She hadn’t had the guts or the heart to tell Cassie that he was the man she’d publicly shamed for no good reason.

Her guilt and shame had only grown over the years, as Cassie had spoken of Temple in hushed, reverential tones. She’d never been able to understand Ashling’s antipathy or studied lack of interest in the man. ‘Wow, he really gets up your nose, doesn’t he, Ash?’ her friend would say. ‘You’ve never even met the man!’

But it didn’t stop Cassie blithely tell Ashling about his legendary attention to detail, which extended beyond the office to his personal life, and to the women he carefully chose to take as his lovers—none of whom seemed to last long.

Ashling could recall only too well the woman at his side that evening, and she’d barely glanced at her. Tall, Hitchcockian blonde. Refined. Sophisticated. Everything Ashling hadn’t been that night. And still wasn’t.

She slowed to a walk. Temple’s house was in front of her now. It stood on its own among other houses. A detached townhouse in the middle of London would be worth more money than she could earn in about ten lifetimes. Not to mention, according to Cassie, Temple’s palatial country home outside London, his penthouse apartment in Manhattan and his pied-à-terre in Paris.

Ashling doubted she’d amass enough money in this lifetime even to buy a modest studio flat. Oh, she earned enough money to support herself, and she was proud of her independence. But her payment came in in fits and starts, due to the nature of her myriad revenue streams.

Trepidation pooled in her belly at the thought of seeing the man face to face again. At the thought that he might somehow recognise her, even though she looked nothing like she had that night four years ago.

She had blonde bobbed hair, currently pulled back into a messy ponytail. No make-up. Athleisure wear instead of a black minidress. She still cringed when she thought of all the other women that night, in their long evening gowns.

She forced herself to walk up the steps. As it was, she was late with the tuxedo, and she did not need to add fuel to her reputation for scattiness, which Ashling always thought it was a bit unfair—until Cassie invariably pointed out the numerous occasions when Ashling’s attention to detail had been somewhat lacking. Like the time she’d left Cassie sitting in a restaurant for an hour because she’d been so engrossed in a book at the library. Or when she’d forgotten to stock up on milk. Or missed her bus stop because she’d been too busy daydreaming.

She shoved aside the reminder that she was behaving true to form and regarded the massive matt black front door in front of her. It was flanked on either side by small potted trees. She instinctively reached out and touched a leaf, to see if they were real, and at the same moment the door opened—which was just as well, because Ashling hadn’t seen any sign of a bell or knocker.

She blinked at the uniformed butler. He looked exactly the way she would have imagined a stern, silver-haired butler to look.

‘Good afternoon—’ She winced inwardly. ‘I mean, evening. I’m Ashling Doyle—Cassie...er... Cassandra James’s friend—Mr Temple’s executive assistant? She asked me to bring a suit for him, for an event.’

Ashling lifted her arm to indicate the suit draped over it in its protective black zip-up bag.

She could have sworn she saw the butler wince as he reached for it, saying, ‘Mr Temple is most anxious for this as he’s already late—’

‘Peters, was that the door? Is that the damn girl with my tuxedo?’

Ashling’s insides dropped at the censorious tone. She’d hoped that she would be able to get away without seeing him.

At that moment Zachary Temple appeared behind the butler, towering over the older man, who was saying, ‘Yes, sir, it’s your suit. I’ll deliver it to your suite right away. The car will be in front in fifteen minutes.’

Ashling was left standing in the doorway, looking up into the forbidding features of Zachary Temple, who was as darkly gorgeous as she remembered. She felt as if she was trapped in the blinding beam of powerful headlights. Unable to move. His dark eyes were totally unreadable, just as they’d been that night four years ago.

She didn’t see a spark of recognition, and wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed—ridiculously. Not disappointed, she assured herself. She definitely did not want this man to recognise her.

He seemed taller than she remembered. Broader. The muscles of his biceps bulged from beneath his black polo shirt sleeves and the open buttons drew her eye to the bronzed column of his throat. His chest was wide, and the shirt did little to disguise taut musculature underneath.

The thick dark hair was still kept almost militarily short but even with that she could see that it had a tendency to curl. And for some reason that detail made her pulse trip even faster. His jaw was as hard as granite, and at that moment she recalled how his stubble had felt against her lips when she’d pressed her mouth there.

But then he spoke. ‘You’d better come in—you look hot.’

Ashling blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and became all too conscious of her ‘hot’ state. She’d all but run here from the local tube station. She must be a sight in her three-quarter-length joggers, sneakers, and a bra top under a loose singlet. It was, after all, still close to thirty degrees on a hot London summer evening.

No wonder he didn’t recognise her...

But she couldn’t risk it by hanging around. She backed away. ‘It’s fine. Cassie just wanted me to deliver the suit and I have—’

‘About an hour late.’ Zachary Temple looked pointedly at the watch on his wrist.

A shiver skated over her skin as she recalled how he’d looked at her before and said, ‘I would never touch a woman like you.’

Ashling stopped in her tracks. She bit her lip. A nervous habit. ‘I’m sorry... I was on my way to the dry cleaners straight after my class, but one of my students—’

Temple frowned. ‘Students?’

‘I teach yoga.’

He said nothing to that, so Ashling did what she did best whenever an awkward silence grew. She filled it.

‘Like I said, I was leaving to go straight to the cleaners, but one of my students started having a panic attack, and I had to wait with her and help her breathe through it, and then I stayed with her until her boyfriend came to collect her... I couldn’t leave her on her own in that state.’

Temple arched an unamused brow. ‘Isn’t yoga meant to have the opposite effect on people?’

‘Actually, a practice or class can bring up a lot of emotions for people.’

He looked at her as if she’d just spoken in an incomprehensible dialect. But then he stood back from the door. ‘You should have some water—you look like you need it.’

Contrary to what her head was telling her to do—which was politely decline and leave, and hopefully not lay eyes on this man again for at least a decade—Ashling found her feet moving forward and into the hushed and blessedly cool entrance hall of Zachary Temple’s home.

It was a huge space, with a black and white chequered marble floor leading up to a central staircase. The sunlight caught the crystals of a massive chandelier overhead and sent out shafts of iridescent light just before Temple shut the door behind him, effectively muting the sounds of the city.

He must have telepathically communicated to a member of staff, because at that moment a maid in a black short-sleeved shirt and trousers appeared and handed Ashling a glass of water with ice and lemon.

‘Thank you...’ She took it from the young woman, who then vanished back down a corridor—presumably to wherever the kitchen was. She took a gulp to try and cool down.

Ashling wasn’t used to being around someone as coolly impassive as Temple. She was an animated person and generally used to putting others at ease—the benefits of a peripatetic upbringing with a single mother who’d had a tendency to befriend total strangers.

She risked a look at him, to find him staring at her as if she was some kind of alien object. No wonder... He was used to mingling among people who looked a lot more put-together. She couldn’t imagine Cassie, for instance, appearing before Temple in anything less than her sleek, elegant, business-suited perfection.

‘You live with Cassie...you’re her childhood friend.’

He stated this and Ashling nodded, mentally cursing her friend for asking her to do this favour. ‘Yes, we’ve been friends since we were eight. My mother worked for her father as his housekeeper for about five years, so we lived together.’

Ashling blushed when she thought of how that sounded. ‘Well, obviously not “together” like equals, because Mum and I lived in a flat in the basement beside the kitchen, but Cassie never made me feel less than—even though she went to the fancy day school and I went to a different one...’ She trailed off. She was gabbling again.

‘I really should let you get on with your evening, Mr Temple. I’ve delayed you enough. Sorry about that again.’

Ashling drained the icy glass of water in one go, which gave her brain-freeze for a few seconds. As she looked around helplessly for somewhere to deposit the glass Temple said, ‘Here, I’ll take it.’

She handed it to him and their fingers brushed against each other. The fleeting physical contact made Ashling jerk her hand back so fast that the glass almost slipped between their hands to the marble floor, but Temple caught it.

Before she could react to that, he said, ‘The delayed tuxedo isn’t my only problem.’

Ashling looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

He looked even more unamused now. ‘Cassie’s PA—Gwen—was meant to come with me to the function this evening, to take notes. Obviously she can’t as she’s unwell.’

‘Oh, of course...’ That was why Ashling had been drafted in to pick up the tuxedo at short notice.

Abruptly Temple asked, ‘Can you take notes?’

Ashling had not been not expecting that. Almost automatically she responded, ‘I’ve worked as a temp and a secretarial assistant—of course I can take notes.’

‘Then you’ll come with me this evening.’

It took a few seconds for what Temple had just said—announced, actually—to sink in.

‘You want me to come with you?’ Ashling’s voice was a squeak. She balked at the thought of such a preposterous suggestion. At the thought of going anywhere with this man who she should be avoiding at all costs. Any more time spent in his company risked him recognising her.

‘You did Cassie a favour by bringing the tuxedo...late, I might add...but without Cassie or her PA I’m still down a member of staff for the evening.’

At that succinct summary, Ashling couldn’t think of anything to say. She had no plans for the evening other than to sip a cold glass of rosé while reading a good book on the terrace of the flat she shared with Cassie, but that looked elusive now, when she thought of Cassie, blissfully unaware of the fact that her boss was not happy.

Also, Ashling didn’t really relish the prospect of Cassie getting to say I told you so when she found out about the delayed tuxedo. If she did this then surely the delayed tuxedo would be forgotten and all would be well again?

‘I... Okay, I guess... If you really need someone.’ She couldn’t have sounded more reluctant.

Temple’s dark, unreadable gaze looked her up and down. ‘Do you have anything to wear? It’s black-tie.’

Ashling went cold all over as she was reminded of that sparkly black dress. Too short and too tight. But, as it happened, she did have some clothes with her.

Cassie was due to attend a fancy wedding in San Francisco on her arrival in the States, and as her self-appointed stylist—because she knew more about fashion—Ashling had found her some options of outfits to choose from. She still had the rejected dresses in her bag as she’d been planning on returning them to the vintage shop, and luckily they had the same size feet.

And, as much as Ashling was tempted right now to say, no, she didn’t have anything to wear, in a bid to get out of accompanying Temple, her innate honesty, coupled with her desire to prove—even just to herself—that she could be counted on, made her say, ‘I do, actually. But it’s a cocktail dress. Would that be suitable?’

‘That’ll be fine.’ Temple headed towards the marble staircase. ‘Follow me. I’ll show you to a guest suite where you can get ready.’

She followed him up the stairs, her eyes on the broad back narrowing down to slim hips. The material of his black trousers hugged his buttocks as if tailored just to fit his muscular contours.

She almost ran into those muscular contours when he stopped suddenly at a door. She hadn’t even realised they were in a long corridor, plushly carpeted in slate-grey, with doors leading off either side.

He opened the door and stood back. ‘You can use this suite.’

She walked in, taking in the opulent luxury of the room.

He said from behind her, ‘Have we met before? Perhaps with Cassie?’

Ashling was glad she was facing away from him, so she could school her features before she turned around. ‘No,’ she said, while mentally crossing her fingers, ‘I’ve never met you with Cassie.’ Which, technically, was not a lie. She hadn’t met him with her friend.

He looked at her for a long moment, as if not entirely convinced. Then he glanced at his watch again. ‘You have fifteen minutes. Come down when you’re ready.’

The door closed and Ashling sagged. He hadn’t recognised her. Now all she had to do was get through this evening and hope that nothing sparked his memory.

He’d recognised her as soon as he’d laid eyes on her.

Zachary Temple paced back and forth in the reception hall a short time later. Anger bubbled in his blood. Anger and something a lot more disconcerting.

Awareness.

The moment he’d seen her standing in the doorway, in spite of the fact that her hair patently wasn’t long and flowing and red, the sense of déjà-vu had almost knocked him over.

He’d sworn he’d never forget that oh-so-innocent face and those huge blue eyes...that lush mouth that had stayed emblazoned in his mind for days afterwards.

And he hadn’t.

He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to contain his rage just now, but it had taken levels of control he hadn’t had to call on since he was a teenager, being goaded by the school bullies because he’d been an outlier in their midst.

Ashling Doyle was her. The mystery woman who had appeared and disappeared like a faery sprite four years ago, teaching him an important lesson in never being complacent and always watching his back.

That night four years ago Zach had been publicly humiliated. Exposed. His years of working so hard to prove himself had almost come to nothing. His success had still been a fragile thing, easy to dismantle. He’d had to work twice as hard to build his reputation back up again. Restore people’s confidence in him.

He never would have known that the friend Cassie spoke of so fondly as she described her various scatty escapades was the same woman who had left such a trail of destruction in her wake.

The two women had known each other since they were children. What did that say about Cassie? He trusted her implicitly, but if this woman was her friend... He went cold inside at the thought that she might know.

He suddenly regretted his impetuous decision to take Ashling Doyle with him. To toy with her. He didn’t have time for this. He should have confronted her straight—

But then he heard a sound from behind him. He turned around slowly, the back of his neck prickling with some kind of strange foreboding.

There was a woman standing at the top of the stairs in a black silk dress, and for a second Zachary wondered who the hell this stranger in his house was—before he realised it was her.

She was coming down the stairs slowly, because of her vertiginous black heels. His eyes travelled up from her feet, taking in slim calves and a toned thigh, peeking out from the slit in the dress. Gone were the hot pink Lycra leggings and the yellow singlet worn over an even more lurid purple sports bra.

She was transformed.

Cinched in at her waist, black silk clung to her breasts and then went over one shoulder, leaving the other bare. A vivid pink flower was pinned to the dress at the waist on one side. Her skin was lightly golden. Her hair was pulled back into a rough chignon, showing off the delicate bone structure of her jaw and face. Subtle make-up made her eyes huge, her lashes long and dramatic.

But it was her mouth that Zach couldn’t take his eyes off. The mouth that he remembered so well.

It took a second before he realised the sound of roaring in his head was his blood.

He told himself it was anger. Not desire.

But he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he’d seen her transformed before.

He looked at the flower. It should look gaudy, but somehow...it worked.

She looked nervous—which was patently an act.

She gestured towards the flower. ‘The dress just felt a bit...too black. I can take it off.’

That caused a vivid image of this woman stepping out of the dress, standing there naked, to enter Zach’s mind. He cursed it and said frigidly, ‘It’s fine.’

She said, ‘I’ve left my things upstairs... I’m not sure what to do with them.’

Suspicion coursed through Zach’s veins. She was already sizing up the opportunity this turn of events had afforded her. He was doing the right thing. He wanted to see just how long she would keep up this charade.

‘Leave them there. You can pick them up later or we can arrange to have them delivered back to you.’

‘I don’t want to cause more hassle...’

He curbed an urge to laugh at her theatrics. She really was very plausible. But then she’d had four years to hone her skills.

Zach put out a hand to indicate that they should leave. ‘My driver is waiting.’

As she walked out ahead of him he noticed a sparkling diamanté clip holding her hair up at the back. A light but evocative scent of roses and something a little spicier caught his nostrils. It hinted at the sensuality she was hiding under her Who me? surface.

It wasn’t usual for Zach to be taken by surprise by anyone or anything. It had happened once and never again. Even though it had only been a couple of minutes in time, four years ago, he’d never forgotten her—not her face, or how she’d felt pressed against him. Her soft mouth on his jaw... Her scent clean and fresh...

So different from the women he’d found himself surrounded by as his success had grown. As he’d become a man who was desired and sought after. As he’d become a target.

Ashling Doyle had reminded him that night that he was always going to be a target. She clearly had no idea of the damage her actions had done.

But she would.