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in. It was so flimsy and she was sweating and already lightly aroused again. Not to mention the fact she'd had sex twice in the last twelve hours . . . She was just about to slip into a cubicle and make some intimate adjustments when there was a sharp panicky rapping at the cloakroom door.
    'Delia! Please! Come quickly,' squeaked her secretary, Susie, almost tumbling into the room. 'De Guile's PA just called. You're next!' He wants you upstairs now for your "informal chat".'
    A million ominous thoughts occurred to Delia as she ascended in the lift, and most of them were self-recriminations.
    Why hadn't she had the guts to go home and change? Surely she could've cooked up some excuse? What on earth had possessed her not to go to the big man's art exhibition? It was another of de Guile's disquietingly 'random' things, but he was bound to ask the recipient of his invitation what she thought of his collection. Unfortunately for Delia, only Deana could answer that question!
    Most of all, why hadn't she done herself a favour and found out a bit more about the mysterious de Guile himself? He owned the company she worked for and was one of the wealthiest men in the world, yet she'd no idea what he looked like or even how old he was.
    She tried to imagine him while she waited outside his office. To picture someone so powerful and so unthink-ably rich. Logic suggested he'd look like Ross Perot or one of those silver-haired tycoons from the glamorous 'soaps'. But the only image Delia could summon was—
    'He'll see you now, Mizz Ferraro,' murmured de Guile's bland, super-competent secretary.
    Delia's heart started bouncing and her bloodstream flushed with adrenalin. This was stupid! He was only a man, and probably a boring old stick at that. She was good at her job, superlative in fact. What the devil had she got to worry about? And even if he did ask about the flaming exhibition, it wasn't a hanging offence to give your invitation to your sister, was it?
    The office she entered was immense. From where she stood, it appeared to run the entire width of the building, and its sole occupant was a man sitting reading at a large and distant desk. A dark-haired man, who seemed engrossed in a file that lay open before him. A man whose eyes were masked by a pair of gold-framed reading glasses and whose height and body were obscured by both his clothing and the wide expanse of leather-topped wood in front of him. A man who by all that was sane and understandable in the world, should've been a total stranger . . . but it was the man who Delia had kissed and caressed and been possessed by in virtually all her waking dreams for the past few sex-obsessed weeks.
    And as 'The Prince' rose elegantly to his feet and walked smoothly towards her, holding out his hand in welcome, Delia felt the same old instant sexual response she always felt.
    For several seconds, she could neither think, speak nor breathe, and afterwards she often wondered how she had been able to stand.
    The man wasn't real but he was here. This was the hard, bleak prosaic City, not the sumptuous harem of her fantasies - but it was still him. It was his face she'd seen in that split-second this morning; and in a notion of pure outrageousness, she knew that if she knelt at his feet now, unzippd his perfectly tailored trousers and sucked him, it'd be the same flesh she'd tasted in her fantasy.
    Before her stood the stereotype, the cliche, the archetype of everything that had ever been tall, dark and handsome. A man with the mouth, the hands and the body which had initiated the entirety of her sexual pleasure since the very first moment she'd dreamed him up.
    'Delia Ferraro,' he said softly, his intonation familiar in every meaning of the word. 'How do you feel today. You look a little surprised to see me.'
    Delia's head was whirling. This was crazy. He didn't know her. They were her dreams, not his! How could he know what he was to her?
    'I ... I'm sorry,' she muttered, feeling genuinely