No Mistaking Love

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KATE would have known him anywhere.

The same dark, ruthless looks, the same unreadable eyes, the same hard expression illuminated by a swift, disconcerting smile. She hadn't seen him for ten years but there was no mistaking him. Luke Hardman. The first man who had ever kissed her.

He was standing on the far side of the room, watching the crowds pushing their way to the theatre bar. It was something in the way he stood that had first caught Kate's eye, a sort of callous assurance in the way he held himself that set him apart from the rest. The dark severity of his dinner-jacket suited his steely looks, Kate decided, remembering a time when he would have scorned to wear anything other than a leather jacket. He would never have been near a theatre in those days either; perhaps he had changed more than she thought.

His face was too harsh to be really handsome, but there was a dangerous attraction about him. Kate wasn't the only woman who had noticed him. She watched a girl catch his eye and send him a provocative smile, but he merely looked through her, not bothering to hide his bored indifference. No, Kate thought, Luke Hardman hadn't changed that much.

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