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your clit to send you over the edge?”
      Eva knew, from the throb and ache between her thighs, that just the one stroke would be enough to send her hurtling into a bone-melting orgasm.
      She didn’t know this man. And what she did know she didn’t like. Finn Devlin was a—
      Finn Devlin?
      Was it possible this man was Finn Devlin ?  
      The Finn Devlin?
      In none of the photographs she had seen of him had his hair been this long and unkempt. And he had always been formally dressed, usually in a designer-label suit and silk shirts, or tailored casual trousers, also with a dark silk shirt, usually with some beautiful model or actress draped and smiling on his arm.  
      But, she now realized, she had seen this face before; those wicked Irish-blue eyes, with the laughter lines fanning out from the corners and beside the sensual curve of his mouth, cheekbones clearly defined on either side of his perfectly straight nose, and that square jaw currently darkened by dark stubble.
      She winced as the rest of his weird conversation suddenly made complete sense to her. “I’m guessing that ‘the girl from the agency’ you were expecting is actually a model, and that the ‘thing’ you intended doing with her was taking photographs?” Ridiculous didn’t even begin to describe how Eva now felt at the assumptions she had jumped to in regard to this man.  
      At just thirty-two years of age, not only was Finn Devlin a world renowned photographer, feted by the elite of society worldwide, but the previous year Eva had actually attended one of the exhibitions of his photographs at a London gallery, and just been blown away by them. A single print of an original Finn Devlin photograph sold for hundreds of thousands of pounds.  
      And she had just called him a sexual deviant!
      Finn straightened slowly before taking a step back, eyes narrowed warily. “You know who I am.”
      “Finally—yes, I do!” Those moss-green eyes were slightly accusing. “Why didn’t you just tell me that earlier?”  
      In all honesty, it hadn’t occurred to Finn that he needed to do so.
      For one thing there was his name on the parcel.
      And for another, that’s just the way it was nowadays. Wherever he went he was recognized and speculated about, as were the women he dated. And he had grown tired of it all some time ago, the fawning and willing women, the flattering and equally willing men.  
      It had been okay when he was twenty-five, when his photographs were first taken seriously and he had become an overnight success—after struggling for the previous seven years trying to get a gallery to even look at them!  
      It had all been new and exciting then, the parties and the women, just his name enough to secure a table at a restaurant or admittance into an exclusive nightclub.
      Seven years later and he’d had enough of the parties, the booze, and most especially the women. Woman , he corrected grimly. A bitch of a woman, as it turned out, who had set out to use him but had become obsessed with him.  
      The Mistress, as he now referred to her.  
      Not his mistress, but someone else’s; Finn just hadn’t known it at the time.  
      Six months ago that whole situation had blown up in his face, in a way that he could never have anticipated.  
      After that last incident with Moira four months ago, Finn had changed his cell number—again—and moved out of London to stay in this house owned by a friend in the wilds of Wales.  
      But after four months of solitude he had gotten bored and decided that work would help alleviate the boredom.  
      Which was the reason he had assumed Eva Shaw was the model he had hired to pose for the photographs for his next exhibition.
      And instead she was here to deliver the parcel that both he and Jack were pretty sure had been sent by Moira. Which was why the other man had telephoned him earlier, to warn him the parcel was on its way, sent on to Finn by Jack’s