Jordan St Claire: Dark and Dangerous

Three arrogant aristocrats—ready to marry!

Don’t miss any of Carole Mortimer’s
fabulous trilogy:

January—
JORDAN ST CLAIRE: DARK AND DANGEROUS

February—LUCAN ST CLAIRE

March—GIDEON ST CLAIRE

And read where it all began—with
The Notorious St Claires,
in Regency England!

Only in Mills & Boon® Historical Romance,
out next month
LADY ARABELLA’S SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE

‘I
THINK
I should warn you, Miss McKinley—at the moment my brother is behaving like an arrogant lout!’

Must run in the family, Stephanie thought wryly as she looked across at Lucan St Claire, who was sitting behind his desk in the London office of the St Claire Corporation. Tall, dark, and aristocratically handsome, with a remoteness that bordered on cold, he wasn’t loutish at all—but this man had to be the epitome of arrogant!

The fact that he showed absolutely no interest in her as a woman might have something to do with Stephanie’s unkind thoughts—but, hey, a girl could dream of being hotly pursued by a mega-rich, tall, dark and handsome man, couldn’t she? That Lucan St Claire had more money than some small countries, and reportedly only dated leggy blondes—as opposed to women like Stephanie, with her average height and flame-red hair—probably had something to do with his lack of interest. Also, if that weren’t enough strikes against her, she was merely the self-employed physiotherapist this man intended hiring—she hoped—to aid his younger brother’s recuperation.

She steadily returned the piercing darkness of his
gaze. ‘Most people in pain tend to become … a little aggressive in their behaviour, Mr St Claire.’

The sculptured lips curved in a humourless smile. ‘I believe you will find that Jordan’s a
lot
aggressive.’

Stephanie mentally sifted through the relevant facts she already had on the man who was to be her next patient. On a personal level, she knew Jordan St Claire was thirty-four, and the youngest of three brothers. Medically, she knew Jordan had been involved in some sort of accident six months ago, resulting in his having broken almost every bone down the right side of his body. Numerous operations later, his mobility still impaired, the man had apparently retreated from the world by moving to a house in the English countryside, no doubt with the intention of licking his wounds in private.

So far Stephanie found nothing unusual about his behaviour. ‘I’m sure that it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with in other patients, Mr St Claire,’ she said confidently.

Lucan St Claire leant his elbows on the leather-topped desk to look at her above steepled fingers. ‘What I’m trying to explain is that Jordan may be … less than enthusiastic, shall we say? … even at the mere thought of having yet another physiotherapist working with him.’

As Stephanie had never thought of herself as ‘yet another physiotherapist’, she found the remark less than flattering. She was proud of the success she had made of her private practice these past three years. A success that had resulted in almost all her clients coming as referrals from doctors or other satisfied ex-patients.

From what Stephanie had read in the medical file that now sat on top of Lucan St Claire’s desk—a confidential file that she was sure he shouldn’t even have had access to, let alone a copy of—the surgeons had done their
work, and now it was up to Jordan St Claire to do the rest. Something he obviously seemed less than inclined to do …

Her eyes narrowed as she studied the aristocratically haughty face opposite her own. ‘What is it you aren’t telling me, Mr St Claire?’ she finally prompted slowly.

He gave a brief appreciative smile. ‘I can see that your professional reputation for straight talking is well earned.’

Stephanie was well aware that her brisk manner, along with her no-nonsense appearance—her long red hair was secured in a thick braid down her spine, and there was only a light brush of mascara on the long dark lashes that surrounded cool green eyes—invariably gave the impression she was less than emotionally engaged. It wasn’t true, of course, but inwardly empathising with her patients was one thing, and allowing them to
see
that empathy something else entirely.

As for her professional reputation.

Thank goodness Lucan St Claire didn’t give any indication that he had heard any of the rumours concerning Rosalind Newman’s recent accusation—that Stephanie had been involved in an affair with her husband Richard whilst acting as his physiotherapist. If he had, then she doubted he would even be thinking of engaging her.

‘I’ve never seen any point in being less than truthful.’ She shrugged. ‘Especially when it involves my patients.’

Lucan nodded in agreement. ‘Jordan wouldn’t accept anything less.’ He sat back in his black leather chair.

‘And …?’ Stephanie pierced him with shrewd green eyes. If she was going to work with this man’s brother
then she needed to know everything there was to know about him—and not just his medical background.

He gave a heavy sigh. ‘And Jordan has absolutely no idea about my intention of engaging you.’

Stephanie had already had a suspicion that might be the case. It made her job more difficult, of course, if the patient was hostile towards her before she had even begun working with him, but she had worked with difficult patients before. In fact most of Stephanie’s patients were difficult; her reputation for being able to deal with ‘uncooperative’ patients was the reason there had been no shortage of work since she had opened her small clinic.

‘Can I take it from that remark it’s your intention to present him with a
fait accompli?’

He grimaced. ‘Either way, he’s as likely to tell you to go away—impolitely—as he is to let you anywhere near him.’

Stephanie pursed her lips. ‘If you engaged me we would just have to make it impossible for him to tell me to go away—impolitely or otherwise. I believe you said that the house where he’s staying in Gloucestershire is actually owned by you?’

Lucan eyed her warily. ‘It’s part of an estate owned by the St Claire Corporation, yes.’

‘Then as the head of that corporation you obviously have the right to say who does and does not stay there.’ Her gaze was very direct.

He looked at her appreciatively, those dark eyes gleaming with hard humour. ‘You wouldn’t have a problem just turning up there and facing the consequences?’

‘If my patient leaves me with no other choice, no,’ she assured him bluntly.

He smiled slowly. ‘I do believe that Jordan may have more than met his match in you!’

Stephanie brightened. ‘You’ve decided to engage me to work with your brother?’

‘Working
with
Jordan might be an exaggeration,’ Lucan drawled ruefully. ‘He’s been very vocal in not wanting anyone else “poking and prodding” him about, as if he’s a specimen in a jar.’

‘I never poke or prod, Mr St Claire,’ Stephanie said dryly, her interest in the case deepening as she considered the hard work ahead of her. ‘I can begin next week, if that would suit you?’ She had absolutely no intention of allowing this man to even guess how relieved she felt at the thought of getting out of London for a while.

Away from Rosalind Newman’s nasty—and totally untrue—accusations that Stephanie had had an affair with her husband.

‘Very much so.’ He looked relieved that nothing he had told her about his brother seemed to have succeeded in deterring her.

Stephanie understood that relief only too well—knew that very often a patient’s inability to deal with their illness affected close family as much as it did them. Sometimes more so. And, for all that Lucan St Claire was known for his coldness and arrogance, he obviously loved his brother very much.

‘I will need a key to the house where he’s staying, and directions on how to get there,’ she said. ‘What happens next you may safely leave to me.’

Jordan St Claire didn’t know it yet, but the immovable object was about to meet the unstoppable force!

‘W
HO
the hell are
you?
And what are you doing in my kitchen?’

Stephanie had arrived at the gatehouse of Mulberry Hall an hour or so ago, and had rung the bell and knocked on the door before deciding that either Jordan St Claire wasn’t in or he was just refusing to answer. Either way, it left her with no choice but to let herself in with the key Lucan St Claire had given her. Once she had walked into the kitchen and seen the mess there she hadn’t bothered going any further. The dirty plates and untidiness were a complete affront to her inborn need for order and cleanliness. She doubted Jordan had bothered to wash a single cup or plate since his arrival here a month ago!

‘This
is a kitchen?’ She continued to collect up the dirty crockery that seemed to litter every surface, before dropping it gingerly into the sink full of hot, soapy water. ‘I thought it was a laboratory for growing bacterial cultures!’ She turned, her gaze very direct as she raised derisive dark brows at the unkempt man who stood in the doorway, glaring at her so accusingly.

Only to feel the need to steady herself by leaning against one of the kitchen cabinets as she instantly recognised him. Despite the untidy overlong dark hair, the
several days’ growth of beard on the sculptured square jaw, and the way the black T-shirt and faded blue jeans hung slightly loose on his large frame, there was no mistaking his identity.

It took every ounce of Stephanie’s usual calm collectedness to keep her expression coolly mocking as she found herself looking not at Jordan St Claire but at the world-famous actor Jordan Simpson!

Admittedly, the shaggy dark hair and the five o’clock shadow that looked more like an eleven o’clock one managed to disguise most of his handsome features—which was perhaps the intention. But there was no mistaking those mesmerising amber-gold eyes. Reviewers’ descriptions of the colour of those eyes differed from molten gold to amber to cinnamon-brown—but, whatever the colour, the descriptions were always preceded by the word
mesmerising!

As a fan of the English actor, who had taken Hollywood by storm ten years ago when, as a relative unknown, he had been given the starring role in a film that had been an instant box office hit, Stephanie knew exactly who he was. She should do, when she had seen every film this man had ever made—twenty or so to date. A couple of them had even resulted in him winning Oscars for his stunning performances, and she would have recognised those chiselled features in the dark. In her many fantasies involving this man it had always been in the dark.

Added to which, she knew Jordan Simpson had fallen from the top of a building six months ago, whilst on the set of his last film. The newspapers had been full of sensational speculation at the time, hinting that Jordan had been severely disfigured. That he might never walk again. That he might never work again.

No doubt about it, Stephanie accepted, as her heart continued to beat rapidly and her cheeks started to feel hot, he might be walking with the aid of a cane, but the man in front of her really
was
the incredibly handsome actor she had obsessed over for years. A little fact that Lucan St Claire had forgotten to mention to her the previous week, she thought with annoyance. She’d rather have been forewarned!

‘Very funny!’ Jordan rasped in response to her remark about the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on the ebony cane he had necessarily to carry around with him everywhere nowadays if he didn’t want to end up falling flat on his face. ‘That still doesn’t tell me who you are or how you got in.’