THERE was just a door between Emma Jane Robards and her current goal. Only it wasn't just any old common or garden door. No: this one was sleek and forbidding, made out of the finest grained walnut, with a sign in perfectly formed gold lettering that seemed to haughtily announce the name of its occupant like a VIP at a banquet. Piers Redfield. Even the name seemed imbued with importance.

"Don't bother trying to arrange an appointment to see him," Lawrence had advised. "He employs an army of staff to keep out the riff-raff. No offence." He'd smiled apologetically and Emma's stomach had churned a little queasily. What on earth was she letting herself in for, sneaking around trying to get into some corporate wizard's protected enclave as if she was some kind of amateur spy or something? And why, oh, why had she allowed Lawrence to even persuade her to consider it?

Because he needed her help, Emma reminded herself with renewed determination, and that was why she was willing to risk being thrown out into the street by Security or — worse — being driven off in a police car. Doggedly tilting her chin to shake off her fear, she rapped her knuckles smartly against the imposing walnut, frankly stunned that she had managed to get as far as the great man's door without being stopped. But today, for once, luck seemed to be on her side.

"Come!"

Into the lion's den... Her thoughts racing, Emma twisted the brass doorknob and swept into the inner sanctum so appropriately guarded by that imposing door, then came to a nervous standstill almost as soon as her feet crossed the threshold. She hadn't expected the room to be quite so huge or awe-inspiring but, with its panoramic windows and endless sea of forest-green carpet, it was. And those beautiful paintings on the walls weren't prints either. They had to be the real thing — even Emma's untrained eye could see that. But more than her intimidating surroundings, or the pervading aura of wealth that hung like exclusive perfume on the air, what commanded her attention the most was the immaculately attired glowering male sitting behind a stylish desk so huge it wouldn't have looked out of place accommodating a small dinner party. Piers Redfield himself.

"Who the hell are you?" Emma's feet wanted to run, but sheer strength of will made them stay right where they were. Now she'd come this far, she wasn't about to bolt like some frightened rabbit just because he was the head of a hugely successful corporation, a multimillionaire if Lawrence was to be believed, and she a mere waitress in her friend's bistro. He had a lifestyle about a million miles away from her own and probably wouldn't give her the time of day if their paths should ever cross in the normal course of events, but even so, Emma told herself, she had to seize the moment and not be scared. Though in the normal course of events their paths would never cross — probably not even in her wildest dreams. Lawrence hadn't exaggerated. Piers Redfield looked as if he could put the fear of God into just about anyone.

"Are you going to answer me or do I get Security to come and throw you out?" His bellow bounced off the walls and Emma gripped the black leather briefcase she'd brought with her to help her look as if she was meant to be in the building and prayed hard that her bravado would hold out.

"I'm Emma. I'm a friend of Lawrence." 'Lawrence?" Dark blond brows came together over penetrating blue eyes the seductive hue of an azure sky over the French Riviera. Staring into them, even from this distance, Emma almost forgot the reason she'd come. Unlocking her hand from its death grip on the briefcase handle, she wondered if it was normal for a heart to beat so deafeningly loud, or for fear to grip her courage by the throat and strangle it into oblivion.

"Your son." 'I know perfectly well he's my son, but that still doesn't explain your presence here. And, while we're on the subject, how did you get past Reception and my assistant without being seen?"

"They're out front watching the Lord Mayor's Show. And I suppose there aren't many people here on a Saturday morning." When Emma had emerged from the tube station to find herself swept up in the crowd of people thronging the streets, she had prayed with all her might that the occupants of the office buildings lining the route would be distracted by the procession. She'd hardly been able to believe it when she'd found that to be the case. It was a miracle but she had been able to whip past the temporarily empty security desk downstairs as easily as a magician's assistant. Now you see me, now you don't.

"Is that on today?"

Without waiting for Emma's confirmation, Piers pushed back his chair and strode over to the window. The way he carried himself was compelling, Emma mused silently, and she couldn't recall ever being fascinated by the way a man moved before. There was a strength and grace about him that put her in mind of an athlete. He probably worked hard to keep himself in prime physical condition. But right then she wished she wouldn't notice such distracting things. There was a very good reason why she was here, and she wasn't going to be put off by Piers Redfield's intimidating good looks, or the fact that wealth and power were obviously second nature to the man. His whole personality radiated those very considerable attributes, and Emma had been amply forewarned by Lawrence that he was a tricky customer not averse to using his extremely potent assets to bend the will of even the most steadfast individual. Well, he wasn't going to get the chance to bend her will. As far as Lawrence was concerned, Emma was a woman on a mission.

"You won't see much from there. You're too high up." Her comment could just as soon have been meant metaphorically. His status certainly put him on a pedestal way above her.

"So much for security. Now, what's this all about? Did Lawrence send you? Who are you — one of his girlfriends?"

One of his girlfriends. The insult was a poisoned barb, clearly meant to sting. Beneath the fitted cerise jacket that she'd reluctantly donned for the occasion over a mid- length black skirt, Emma's shoulders stiffened. "I like to think I mean a little bit more to him than that." As soon as the words were out she wished she could take them back. Now Piers's lips — those perfectly moulded, sensuous- looking lips — were quirking, as if he'd got her measure, and that was the last thing she wanted him to have. The man was already weighed down with enough advantages.

"He didn't tell me he was seeing anyone special." He was leaning back against his desk, his eyes glimmering with suddenly interested speculation.

"Why should he when you don't even return his phone calls?" The accusation was out before she could check it and once again Emma had cause to regret her impulsive nature. Especially when Piers threw back his head and laughed as though it was the best joke he'd heard in ages.

"Poor hard-done-by Lawrence. Is that the tack you're going to employ? OK, then, let's cut to the chase. I take it you've come to petition me for some money on his behalf?"

"No, of course not! I mean — I mean, I just wanted to talk to you about all the sacrifices he's made lately to finance his new career. To — to demonstrate to you that he's finally found the thing that inspires him most. He told me you always put him down. Won't even give him a chance. Everybody deserves a chance, Mr Redfield. Didn't somebody help you at the start of your famous career?"

Hard work, resilience and the ability to make tough decisions without wavering had taken him to the top, Piers mused passionately. Not a leg up from his father. Now, as he considered the rather arresting brunette in front of him, with her pouty coral lips, honey-brown eyes and the cute little beauty spot just above her left cheek, he could only think it typical that she'd been led to believe that he was the storybook hard-hearted father and Lawrence the poor, misunderstood, rejected son. If he'd been in the mood he could have illuminated her misconceptions with a few unpalatable facts about that poor, misunderstood, rejected son, but Piers didn't see the point when her mind was so obviously already made up.

Glancing down at the Rolex encircling his tanned wrist, he briefly noted the time, then looked pointedly at the young woman in front of him.

"You said sacrifices? What "sacrifices" has my son made lately to finance his new career that I should know about? And, by the way, you've got precisely three minutes before I have to go and chair a board meeting."

"Well..." Clearing her throat, Emma wished she had a glass of water to hand. It wasn't easy to articulate her concerns about Lawrence when her mouth felt as dry as sun- bleached bones. Only now it started to hit her how stupidly presumptuous she'd been in waltzing into the building and infiltrating this man's protected enclave as if she had every right. He was Piers Redfield, for goodness' sake! The role model for aspiring corporate geniuses everywhere, according to his son. Head of one of the premier management consultancies in the country, with a worldwide reputation to match. And not only was his business acumen admired by the great and the good, but he was also awesomely attractive, a fact that Emma hadn't really been prepared for. The man had so much class it practically oozed from his pores, she reflected a little resentfully, reluctantly admiring the beautiful cut of his tasteful dark grey pinstripe suit.

"He sold his car and his motorbike to raise some capital, and they were both his pride and joy, but it's still not enough for him to start up in Cornwall. He'll also need to pay rent on a place as well as buy food. It's going to take a while before the business takes off, but you mark my words, Mr Redfield, it will! Have you any idea how talented your son is?"

"I know exactly what kind of talents my son is endowed with, Miss...?"

"Robards." 'Miss Robards. But somehow I don't think they're the same ones that you're so keen to endorse. And, for what it's worth, setting up a pottery in an already overcrowded market in the middle of St Ives is not my idea of a viable venture. If you want my opinion, and I'm sure you don't..." The piercing blue eyes frosted over as they swept over her flushed features, causing Emma to bite apprehensively down on her lip. "...it's just another excuse for Lawrence to swan around abdicating all responsibility for his own welfare at my expense. I've given him money more times than I care to mention to finance any number of madcap schemes, and he squandered his mother's legacy in less than a year. I'm afraid as far as I'm concerned he's more than had his quota of help from me. Shame you had a wasted journey, Miss Robards." And with that Piers walked around his desk and picked up the phone.

Emma could hardly believe he was dismissing her so easily, so coldly, and without consideration. It was his son she'd come to talk about, not some stranger who wasn't anything to do with him! She'd never had a man cry in her arms before, but last night Lawrence had. He'd broken down and poured out all his heartbreak — his lonely, un-loved childhood, the death of his poor unhappy mother, driven to numerous affairs during her marriage to Piers because of his addiction to work and making money, and his father's coldness to him whenever he asked for his help. No wonder he hadn't got into university, he'd told her with wounded eyes. No wonder he'd drifted ever since. He was a lost soul and Emma was only too glad to help him in whatever way she could. She might have started out as just the girl who occupied the flat downstairs, but they'd quickly become friends and she'd often fed him when he'd run out of money for food and his cupboards were bare. The least his cold, imperious father could do was hear her out on his behalf!

"Mr Redfield." Piers glanced up in surprise as Emma crossed the room to the edge of his desk and laid her hand across his where it rested on the receiver. Her skin was exquisitely soft, like the dewy petals of a rose, and he had to curb his surprise at the effect it had on him. A sensual little charge of electricity ran up his arm at her touch and created a nicely warm heat haze in his groin. Time seemed to stand still as all Piers's senses were drowned in the sheer eroticism of the moment. Then, giving himself a mental shake, he moved his gaze to her face and was gratified to see her blush, amused when she quickly withdrew her hand as if he might have something contagious. Was she for real? That becoming colour flooding her cheeks certainly couldn't be faked. He might not admire Lawrence for much, but he could certainly admire his taste in this particular woman. She was too young, of course — twenty-three or -four at most — but she had gumption: that much was clear, or else she wouldn't have risked arriving un-announced in his office to plead her case for his good-for-nothing son. And the way that cerise jacket fitted across that sexy little black stretch top of hers... Well, those delicious curves could keep a man distracted better than the latest Ferrari out of the showroom. Piers withdrew his hand to his trouser pocket, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathed in deeply to contain his sudden lust.