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The auctioneer lifted his bespectacled gaze from the computer perched on the lectern in front of him and gazed about the red velvet flocked wallpapered hall.

"We've just had a telephone bid of one point two million pounds," he said. His gaze scanned the vaulted room once more before settling somewhere at the back of it. He gave a slight, quick nod of affirmation, then reiterated, "One point two million pounds."

The room, which had fallen into stupefied silence, gradually stirred back to life. Whispers and murmurs filled the air as the gathered bidders, twisting and turning in their antique gilded chairs, craned their necks for a glimpse of the individual who had suddenly raised the bar by half a million pounds.

One point two million pounds?

The auctioneer raised an imploring hand and pleaded for calm. "Ladies. Gentlemen," he said, "may I have your attention? One moment. Please—"

The sharp crack of his gavel on the sound block rang out with firm conviction through the half-timbered Elizabethan hall and garnered an immediate reaction. Voices quietened and faces stilled.

The auctioneer cast a steady gaze around the room and, certain he'd regained everyone's full attention, focused on the young woman seated three rows from the front, next to the aisle.

"Madam, the bid stands against you at one point two million pounds. Will you give me one point three million for Cadfan Abbey?" He pursed his lips and glanced at his watch. "Because of the timing of this bid, you are allowed five minutes to consider your answer."

Magdalena Tallon sat with bated breath and curled her toes in her tall boots. She squeezed the glossy property magazine tighter between shaking fingers and squared her shoulders against the weight of stares now singling her out.

How could this have happened?

She'd been home free. She'd easily topped the highest bid in the room with her offer of seven hundred thousand pounds. The auctioneer had accepted it as a credible bid. He'd raised his gavel to close the deal—

And then came that last-minute telephone bid—two minutes before the end of the auction—scuttling her chances and shattering her hopes of winning the bid for Cadfan Abbey. Unlike everyone else, she'd refused to be impressed by this underhanded Machiavellian tactic. And now all eyes were on her.

She grimaced. One point two million pounds. Absurd!

Every property developer worth his or her salt knew the abbey, even with its historical significance, wasn't worth even half that much. It lay practically in ruins. Although, unlike a great many of its contemporaries, it'd fared far better throughout the centuries, having survived storms, wars and even Henry the VIII's determined efforts to dissolve it. And yet, despite its ruinous structure, there was enormous potential to rebuild.

She shifted uneasily in the Louis XVI giltwood chair, then crossed her legs at the knees to mask the nervous tick of her booted heel against the highly polished wooden floor.

Her mother's company, Galván Developments, was heading towards bankruptcy—a situation that wasn't set to improve anytime soon in the current economic environment—certainly with clients readily reneging on their contracts left, right and centre. But to sue for breach of contract cost time her mother didn't have and money that would be better spent on keeping their company afloat rather than on lawsuits, that wouldn't guarantee payments, to simply be proven right.

Magdalena swept her eyes briefly closed and squirmed a little more in her seat.

Recent government budget cuts had forced the town's councillors to cut their own spending on various important social projects. This had prompted the town council to reach out to a number of private investors and developers to help resolve this crisis. The approach had been a success. Each and every one of the town council projects, whether in housing, education or infrastructure, it seemed, was set to be realised. That is, all except one. Cadfan Abbey. The town council's vanity project as it was dubbed in some of the local media.

In line with the Gwynedd Cultural Heritage Association, the abbey had come with its own set of rules: Interested parties were not only expected to bid on the abbey on behalf of the town council, they also had to adhere to one important stipulation. The Grade II listed building had to be renovated specifically as sheltered accommodation to house the increasing number of young women living on the town's streets. Its main aim would be to prepare these young outcasts for work, college and life, without thought of profit. This meant many private investors and developers, large and small, some with shareholders to appease, had little or no chance of ever recouping their investment on this vast and selfless project.

Many had opted out for this reason alone, but, much like her remaining competitors, Magdalena had seen a golden opportunity to raise the profile of her mother's struggling company. She needed the success of this auction to boost her mother's brand…to showcase not only their company's strong work ethic but their skill and knowledge in this particular field of historic renovation and restoration. The ensuing publicity, she was sure, would do the rest.

She'd done her homework. She'd exhaustively researched the competition present in the auction room tonight. None were cash buyers and, despite her mother's inability to stem Galván Developments' current financial losses, none had the financial capital to challenge Galván Developments. And yet, the inconceivable had still happened. Magdalena was about to lose the abbey to an anonymous and sneaky, last-minute telephone bidder. The consequences of that didn't bear thinking about, and yet she had no choice but to think about it.

She released a silent breath.

What was she going to tell her mother…or her mother's employees for that matter? She'd sold her mother the vision of a profitable future and had waxed lyrical about the value of publicity and the financial benefits Galván Developments would ultimately reap if their bid proved successful. And she'd practically guaranteed the personnel at Galván Developments their jobs. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have been so naïve?

Magdalena groaned inwardly. What a mess. One point three million pounds.

She would probably have to sell the entire bulk of her own assets to pay for the abbey now, not to mention the exorbitant commission on top of that! But she couldn't leave without hazarding one final bid.

And maybe, just maybe—

She glanced at her watch. Her five minutes were up.

Magdalena inhaled slowly and deeply and mentally crossed her fingers. She caught the auctioneer's eye and nodded, effectively tendering the bid.

The stout, bespectacled man returned the gesture. He straightened and squared his shoulders and looked sternly about the room. "Thank you, madam. One point three million pounds from the young lady seated next to the aisle, to my right. Do I hear one point four?"

She kept her gaze firmly fixed on the auctioneer's ruddy face. Let the hammer fall. Please.

A new eruption of murmurs, whispers and excited talk, followed by a ripple of scattered applause at the back of the room, broke the imposed silence. The auctioneer frowned. He opened his mouth to address the growing disturbance, but quickly snapped it shut. His bushy eyebrows shot up into his hairline, and a smile spread across his face. This time curiosity got the better of Magdalena, and she spun impulsively in her seat in an attempt to glimpse the person whose mere presence, it seemed, was enough to generate such interest.

"Miss Smythe, lord McFarlane," the auctioneer said. "What a welcome surprise. Your representative signalled your bid of one point two million pounds. It has since been raised to one point three million pounds. Sir, will you give me one point four million pounds for Cadfan Abbey?"

Magdalena stiffened at the name exploding through her mind. Her fingers tightened about the magazine between her hands, and she sucked in a shuddering breath.

Neil? Neil McFarlane?

It couldn't be, but the rumour around her, filling her heart and the refurbished sixteenth-century hall with a now almost reverent hum of his name, told her it could. With recognition came a plummeting feeling of shock. Her mouth went dry, and the cold shadow of her past skittered down her spine, stirring at memories long locked away. She briefly closed her eyes as if that would be enough to stem the fragmented memories of shared laughter, quiet conversations and whispered words of love.

A rush of heat flashed through her lower belly and down to the soles of her feet. She quickly faced forward and stared intently at her brown boots as if they were the most fascinating objects in the room. She clamped her lips together, surprised at the idiotic tears stinging the back of her eyes. Whatever Neil and she shared had ended some nine years ago, yet his presence still had the power to register with intense familiarity on every fibre of her being.

He drew level to her seat, then strode obliviously past, holding a sleek, black mobile phone to his ear. She must have stopped breathing, although she was unaware of it. For now, she drew in a long, ragged breath. She slumped back against the chair and clutched the property magazine even tighter to her chest.

She couldn't bring herself to look at him. Not yet. So, she dragged her leaden gaze to the front of the hall and furtively eyed the elegant beauty who'd sauntered in beside him.

Magdalena sighed. Two households, both alike in dignity. The line flitted through her mind.

Neil McFarlane was like a king in the business world, which was rather apt considering he could reputedly trace his ancestry back to a seventh-century Welsh king named Cadwaladr ap Cadwallon. McFarlane Industries and Real Estate was worth more money than she would ever live to count and, from all she'd read about Neil, he was respected, if not revered, by his peers. His name had been linked to one beautiful woman after another until his rather public engagement seven weeks ago to socialite and daughter of one of the wealthiest industrialists in Wales, Polly Smythe.

With Herculean effort, Magdalena suppressed the unexpected pain in her heart as she couldn't help but watch as Neil brought his mouth closer to Polly's ear and tightened his arm about her slender waist. His mouth moved softly…seductively. Polly's perfectly glossed lips curved into a broad, answering smile as she pressed her hand against his chest and shook her head playfully, disturbing the shimmering red waves of her hair cascading down her back.

Magdalena lowered her gaze. The moment was too intimate… too private. Neil had moved on. She couldn't begrudge him a life because she didn't have one and, as pathetic as that seemed, that non-existent life had been her choice.

"Madam, the bid is back to you. I have one point four million pounds from lord McFarlane," the auctioneer said. "Will you give me one point five?"

She tensed. Breathe, Magda.

She could scarce feel her fingers. Magdalena couldn't clasp the magazine any tighter if she tried. Nine years was a long time, perhaps Neil wouldn't recognise her. She wore contacts now instead of the thick-rimmed glasses she used to wear and her curls had grown far past her shoulders. She reached a trembling hand to her throat and forced herself to return the auctioneer's gaze. She swallowed her disappointment and shook her head in defeat.

The auctioneer bellowed. "One point four million pounds, going once—"

Her heart thundered in her chest—rapid and arrhythmic. Neil had got what he wanted, but didn't he always?

"One point four million pounds, going twice. Make no mistake; I'm going to sell Cadfan Abbey—"

It broke her heart that she'd been unable to accomplish what she'd set out to do; help the young women who'd needed it most and save her mother's company from impending bankruptcy at the same time. But she didn't need to stay and hear the auctioneer confirm her failure or witness the pleased looks and satisfied smiles on enthusiastic faces.

She rose calmly to her feet and coaxed her legs to move, the sharp echo of the auctioneer's gavel against the sound block accompanying her retreat to the back of the vaulted, Elizabethan hall.

"Sold to lord McFarlane for one point four million pounds!" Magdalena reached the exit door, extended her arm to push it open, then stilled. She spun abruptly on her booted heel, her fingers resting lightly on the push bar, and instinctively met Neil's gaze above the roar of congratulatory noises and loud applause rippling around the room. Narrowed slits of green glittered from beneath straight, dark brows. Her heart did tiny somersaults against her ribs and her stomach, which had already recoiled like some small frightened animal, retreated even further against her spine.

A heavy silence settled between them, stretching her nerves. There was no greeting. No look of surprise, feigned or otherwise. And why should there be? To all intents and purposes she and Neil were strangers. Their past was gone. It meant nothing, it seemed, to either of them anymore. She studied the impassive face a moment longer and absorbed the familiar and unfamiliar that was him, boy and man.

As a boy he'd been lean, but the fine cut of his tailored clothes couldn't disguise the potent and athletic man he'd become. His blond hair was a shade or two darker than she'd remembered, and shorter, although it'd been left a little longer at the front, a single reminder of his once boyish charm. Her fingers hadn't quite forgotten the feel of the silky strands and she longed to push back the unruly tendrils from his brow, but the handsome youth with playful, teasing eyes was long gone and in his place stood a striking and powerful business magnate who had swooped down and crushed her noble plans.

So sweet was never so fatal.

Magdalena lowered her gaze from the cold gleam in his eyes and, pushing open the exit door, stepped out into the chilly mid-November night.