greek affairs The Virgin’s Seduction

The Virgin’s Wedding Night

Sara Craven

Kyriakis’s Innocent Mistress

Diana Hamilton

The Ruthless Greek’s Virgin Princess

Trish Morey

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Virgin’s Wedding Night

Sara Craven

About the Author

SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up surrounded by books in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.

Sara has appeared as a contestant on the Channel Four game show Fifteen to One and is also the latest (and last ever) winner of the Mastermind of Great Britain championship.

CHAPTER ONE

‘WHAT do you mean—you can’t go through with it?’ Harriet Flint stared at the flushed defensive face of the young man on the other side of the table. ‘We have an agreement, and this lunch is to finalise the arrangements for the wedding. I’m relying on you.’

‘But things have completely changed for me now. You must see that.’ His mouth set stubbornly. ‘When we made the original deal, frankly I didn’t care what happened to me. The girl I loved was out of my life, so the chance of earning a bundle of cash and heading off round the world seemed a fair option.

‘But now Janie’s come back, and we’re together again, for good this time. We’re going to be married, and I’m not allowing anything to jeopardise that.’

‘But surely if you explained to her …’

‘Explain?’ Peter Curtis gave a derisive laugh. ‘You mean actually tell her that, while we were apart, I agreed to marry some total stranger—for money.’

‘Couldn’t you make it clear it’s not a real marriage—just a temporary arrangement for a few months—and on a strictly business footing. Wouldn’t that make a difference?’

‘Of course not,’ he said impatiently. ‘How could it? She’d never accept that I could be involved in something so bizarre. And even if she believed me, she’d think I’d gone stark raving mad, and I wouldn’t blame her.’

He shook his head. ‘So—I’m sorry, Miss Flint, but the deal’s off. I’m not risking her walking away from me again, because she’s all that matters to me. Surely you can understand that.’

‘And I have an inheritance that matters to me just as much,’ Harriet returned coldly. ‘And which I stand to lose if I can’t produce a husband before my next birthday. Clearly you’ve never understood that.’

She paused. ‘Consider this. Marriage is an expensive business, these days. I’m sure your Janie realises that. Surely you could persuade her that a tax-free lump sum is worth a small sacrifice, especially if I was able to manage an increase on the original fee.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t see it that way at all. Why should she?’ He rose to leave, then paused, looking down at her, frowning a little. ‘For God’s sake, Miss Flint—Harriet—you don’t have to buy a husband. If you wore different clothes—did something to your hair—you could be quite attractive. So, why not tell yourself this was a lucky escape, and concentrate on finding some real happiness instead?’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For the unsolicited advice. But I prefer to do things my way. And that does not involve harnessing my marginal attractions to some man. Not now—not ever. I prefer my career.’

‘Well, I can’t be the only one who answered your advertisement. Sign up one of the others.’

But you, she thought, were the only one that my grandfather would have believed in as my future husband. You’re his idea of the perfect clean-limbed, upstanding young Englishman. Judas Iscariot probably looked like you.

She watched him fumble for his wallet, then shook her head. ‘No, I’ll pick up the tab, along with the pieces of our agreement. You see, I’d have kept my word, right up to the moment the annulment was validated.

‘I hope you always feel you made the right decision,’ she added, smiling as he turned to leave. ‘And I wish you well.’

It wasn’t true, of course. She’d have liked to kill him. Him and his smug bitch of a girlfriend, who only had to crook her little finger, it seemed, to send all Harriet’s hopes into chaos.

And what the hell, she asked herself, as she watched him walk away, was she going to do now—with Grandfather’s ultimatum on one side, and this—gaping hole on the other?

Well, for this afternoon, at any rate, she would have to relegate her unexpected problem to the back of her mind. She had a tricky meeting, which would require some serious focussing.

She signalled to the waiter, who arrived, his eyes scanning her untouched plate of penne arrabiata with open distress.

‘There is something wrong with the food, signorina?’

‘Not at all,’ she assured him. ‘I—wasn’t very hungry, that’s all.’ Something killed my appetite stone-dead.

‘Quite attractive,’ she thought, smouldering. And then shook her head. How condescending was it possible to get?

She supposed that, in looks, she must take after her unknown father. Her hair was undoubtedly her best feature, brown as a horse-chestnut with auburn lights. And, if she’d permitted it to do so, it would have hung waving to her shoulders. Her eyes were clear and grey, and thickly lashed, but the rest of her face was totally unremarkable. So—if this had been Dad—what on earth had the blonde and ravishing Caroline Flint seen in such a man—unless, of course, he’d had oodles of charm.

If so, I missed out twice, Harriet thought cynically.

Not that she allowed it to trouble her. She had no wish to resemble her mother in either looks or temperament, so she’d been deeply riled by her grandfather’s on-going assumption that she couldn’t wait to kick over the traces and bring a double helping of dishonour on the family name.

Unlike Caroline Flint, she’d never shown the least inclination to indulge in a welter of short-lived and very public affairs with any man who took her fancy, married or single.

Not, she had to admit, that the opportunity had ever presented itself. She’d done a little perfunctory dating when she’d first arrived in London, but none of those encounters had ever developed as far as a full-blown relationship. Nor had she wanted it to happen. And recently there’d been nothing. Which was fine by her too.

She rose, suddenly impatient to be off, picking up her bag, and slinging the jacket of her dull black linen suit over her arm as she made her way across the restaurant to the desk at the front where Luigi the owner held sway.

Only, he was already occupied with a tall young man who’d just walked in off the street, while Harriet had been negotiating her passage between the crowded tables. And the street looked as if it was the place where he belonged, Harriet thought, resenting that she was being forced to wait in line. And by someone like this too.

Because torn jeans, worn-out trainers and a much faded tee shirt were hardly the fashion choices of Luigi’s usual male clientele. And the over-long, untidy dark hair, and thin, unshaven face hardly struck a reassuring note either.

In fact, by now, Harriet would have expected the newcomer to have been ushered politely but firmly to the door.

Only it wasn’t happening. In fact Luigi was all smiles and amiability and—dear God—actually reaching for his chequebook.

Paying him to go away? Harriet wondered with wry bewilderment. Luigi ran an excellent restaurant, but she’d never gained the impression before that he was a soft touch. Unless there was some more sinister implication to the visit, and the stranger was collecting for some kind of protection racket.

Her mouth twisted in swift self-derision. Don’t let your imagination gallop away with you, my dear, she adjured herself.

Besides, people like that probably don’t take cheques anyway.

While this particular payment was being accepted with alacrity, she noticed, and transferred to the shabby wallet taken from the back pocket of those terminally scruffy jeans.

A few quick words, a handshake, and then he was turning to go. For a moment Harriet found herself facing him, confusedly aware that, in spite of his outward dishevelment, which gave the disturbing impression that he’d just fallen out of bed and grabbed the first handful of clothing he saw, his face was cool and contained, the nose high-bridged, the mouth firm above a square chin. That, if not handsome, he was certainly—striking—maybe even downright attractive, his shoulders broad, and his body lean and muscular.

She was conscious too of his eyes, dark as a night sky, encountering her glance in turn, and brushing over her with total indifference as he went, and the restaurant door closed behind him.

For a moment, she felt oddly shaken, her hand going up almost defensively to smooth the collar of her white cotton shirt.

As if, she thought, it mattered what she looked like. As if she didn’t deliberately dress down every day of her life, wearing deliberately dull clothing, and dragging her hair relentlessly back from her face to be confined at the nape of her neck by an elastic band. Because, with her mother’s example never far from her mind, she was the last person in the world to want to attract a man’s attention or interest.

Especially one who looked like that, she thought tartly, pulling herself together and retrieving her credit card from her bag.

But Luigi’s good humour seemed to be universal today, and he waved away the proffered payment.

‘You ate nothing, Miss Flint, and you drank only water. Your friend did little better. I hope, on your next visit, you will have better appetites.’

By my next visit, I may well have lost my entire inheritance, Harriet thought bitterly, as she forced a grateful smile. And the friend in question will not be with me.

As she turned to go, Luigi halted her, his voice sinking confidentially. ‘That man who was just here—you observed him, I think, and must have wondered.’

To her annoyance, she felt herself flush. ‘It’s really none of my business …’

‘No, no, this will interest you, because you were the first to notice the picture and admire it.’ He gestured expansively at the expanse of pale lemon wall behind him. ‘I should have told him so.’

‘Told him?’ Harriet repeated slowly. She looked up at the framed canvas which had been hanging there for the past three weeks, and her brows snapped together in amazement. ‘You mean—he painted that?’

‘Si.’ Luigi nodded, his mouth quirking in amusement. ‘He looks the part, no? The struggling artist in his garret?’ Luigi shrugged. ‘Yet, he has talent. You yourself said so, signorina.’

Harriet looked back at the painting. It was all perfectly true, she acknowledged with silent reluctance. It had captured her attention, and her imagination, from the first moment she’d seen it. Yet it wasn’t the kind of thing that usually appealed to her.

At first glance, it was a relatively simple composition—clearly some Mediterranean scene with a cloudless sky above a crescent of beach, with the blue haze of the sea beyond. In the foreground was a small plateau of bleached and barren rock, flat and featureless, and on it was a table holding a half-empty bottle of wine and two glasses, one of which had overturned, sending a small trickle of liquid, rusty as dried blood, across the white metal surface. Just under the rock, half buried in the sand, was a woman’s discarded sandal, a fragile high-heeled thing. Nothing more.

It was a picture that asked questions—that invited speculation—but that hadn’t been its main appeal for Harriet. Then, as now, the heavy golden light that suffused it, burning and languid, had made her feel as if she was looking into the very essence of heat. That she could feel it searing her eyes, and scorching her skin, even through her layers of clothing.

And that was what had alerted her to the skill of the painter—what lifted the picture to a different dimension.

When she’d questioned Luigi initially, he’d shrugged and said it was an experiment. That he was featuring it to gauge the reaction of his customers.

And she’d looked back at it again, and said slowly, ‘I think—in fact I’m sure that it’s good—and that I like it very much.’ Adding, ‘If that means anything.’

Certainly it was as far removed from the rather conventional watercolour of Positano that had hung there before as it was possible to get.

At the same time, Harriet was aware that she’d always found the picture strangely disturbing. That, as well as the faint mystery of its subject matter, it seemed, in some way, to emanate an anger as tangible as the scrape of a fingernail on flesh.

Nevertheless, her eyes were instinctively drawn to it each time she came to the restaurant, and she invariably lingered for an extra moment at the desk to study it.

Now, on a sudden, inexplicable impulse, she said, ‘Is it for sale?’

He looked remorseful. ‘I regret—it has already gone. But he has other, very different work for which he wishes to find a market, and I have been able to send interested buyers to him. Also he accepts commissions.’

He paused. ‘But what he needs, signorina, is a patron—someone with contacts in the art world—an exhibition in a gallery to make him known.’

He delved under the desk and handed her a cheaply printed business card. It carried the single word ‘Roan’, and a mobile telephone number.

She studied it, wondering whether Roan was a given name or a surname. ‘Pretty basic.’

‘It is not easy when you are at the beginning of your career.’

‘I suppose not.’ She slipped the card into a side pocket of her bag, intending to dispose of it later. Asking about the picture had been a pure whim, coming at her from nowhere, and best forgotten.

Besides, right now she had her own struggles to contend with, she thought as she walked out into the sunlit street. And this state of deadlock with her grandfather was set fair and square centre-stage.

Harriet smothered a sigh as she began to walk briskly back to her office. She loved Grandfather—of course she did—and she owed him a hell of a lot, but she was under no illusions about him either.

Gregory Flint was a total flesh-eating, swamp-bound dinosaur. Tyrannosaurus Rex, alive and in person. He always had been, and he certainly saw no reason to change—not at his time of life, nor in his current state of health.

And, however preposterous his demands, it was unwise to shrug them off and hope he would forget, as she was now discovering to her cost.

She could only imagine the scene when her mother, eighteen and unwed, had defiantly announced that she was pregnant, that marriage to the father was out of the question, and that she would never agree to a termination. Could imagine too that the subsequent explosion would have rocked the Richter scale.

Certainly the news had created a breach that had caused Caroline Flint to be barred from the family home, especially when she’d refused to atone for her sins by giving the baby up for adoption. And it had been six years before contact was resumed.

‘Your grandfather wants to see you, darling,’ her mother had announced lightly one day. ‘Which means that the prodigal daughter is being given a second chance too. Wonders will never cease.’

Her partner at the time, an unemployed session guitarist called Bryn, had glanced up at her. ‘Don’t knock it, Princess. We could use a fatted calf.’

They went down to Gracemead the following day, and as the station taxi turned the corner in the drive, and the house lay in front of them, Harriet drew a breath of stunned, incredulous joy. Because it didn’t seem possible after the cheap flats she was used to that she could be even marginally connected with such a truly magical place.

In time, she’d come to see that Gracemead was not really beautiful. That her Flint ancestor, the wealthy Victorian merchant who’d taken a classic Georgian house and embellished it with a Gothic façade, before adding turrets at each end in imitation of his sovereign’s Scottish retreat at Balmoral, had actually been something of a vandal.

But, seeing it that first time as a confused and not always happy child, she gasped in wonder as the afternoon sun touched the windows, and flecked the stones with gold, telling herself it was a fairy palace, and that her mother must genuinely be the Princess that Bryn called her to have been born there.

The interview between Gregory Flint and his errant daughter was conducted in private. Harriet was whisked off to the kitchen by a plump, elderly woman who’d been Caroline’s old nanny, and plied with milk and small iced cakes with smiley faces that had been piped on to them by Mrs Wade, the cook-housekeeper.

When she eventually joined them, her mother was smiling too, but with a kind of rigid determination, and her eyes were red.

‘Such fun, sweetie. You’re going to stay here with Grandpa and have a wonderful time. Spoiled to death, I expect, don’t you, Nanny?’

‘Aren’t you staying too?’ Harriet asked in bewilderment, but Caroline shook her head.

‘I’ll be going with Bryn, darling. He has a marvellous tour of America coming up with a very famous singer. We’ll be away for ages, so it’s best that you’re here. It’s a wonderful place to grow up in,’ she added, the lovely face momentarily shadowed with something like regret.

And so it had proved, thought Harriet. Because she’d never actually lived with her mother again after that, seeing her only from time to time as someone whose visits became less and less frequent.

The house had become the constant in her life—had become her home. And that initial sense of wonder—almost of recognition—had never faded. She’d felt from the start that the place was reaching out to her to hug her—to soothe away any sense of abandonment she might feel. And she’d hugged it back, knowing that it was where she truly belonged.

Accustomed to London’s restrictions, she’d found Gracemead and its large grounds had provided her with a magical playground to explore for hours at a time. And Nanny and Mrs Wade had almost vied with each other to make sure she lacked for nothing to make her feel comfortable and secure.

Her relationship with her grandfather had taken rather longer to establish. He’d been awkward with her at first, taciturn and more than a little gruff. And sometimes she’d found him watching her as if he was puzzled about something. Then, one day, she’d heard one of the local ladies refer to her as ‘Poor Caroline’s little girl. You would never know, would you?’ and understood.

It was the day he’d found her in his book-lined study, deep in Black Beauty, twining a strand of hair round her finger as she read, that everything had changed between them.

She hadn’t realised immediately that she was no longer alone, and when she’d looked up and seen him watching her, she’d been apprehensive in case he was angry.

But his sudden smile had been strangely tender. ‘Your mother used to do that when she was reading,’ he told her. ‘And this was her favourite book too.’

He sat down in the big wing chair by the fireplace and began to talk to her, listening patiently to her halting replies, and encouraging her to be less shy, and say whatever was on her mind.

Looking back, Harriet could even say with honesty that she’d had a pretty good childhood in spite of her mother’s continuing and prolonged absences. There’d been postcards at first, and letters from the States, then from Europe, after the relationship with Bryn had finally crashed and burned like all the others, and Caroline had joined up with a professional tennis player, not quite in the top rank.

Eventually, as the years had passed, the letters had become fewer, then dried up altogether. At the last contact—a card for her twenty-first birthday—Caroline had seemed to be in Argentina living with a former polo player. But no address had been included, and since then there’d been nothing to indicate whether her mother was alive or dead.

Harriet had come to accept over the years that her mother lived solely on her own terms, and that the existence of her child belonged to a long-discarded past. She was left to remember only Caroline’s beauty and zest for life, however misplaced, and to try and forget the negative elements of their relationship. At the same time, however, her life with her grandfather, though never lacking in affection, grew marginally trickier.

Gregory Flint was clearly determined that Harriet was not going to follow in her mother’s footsteps if there was anything he could do to prevent it. Accordingly, Harriet found her life controlled by a kind of benevolent despotism, her freedom restricted and her judgement regularly called into question.

And the fact that she could—almost—understand why it was happening made it no less irksome.

The first major clash between them had come when she was eighteen, and had just left her convent school, and he’d announced he’d found her a place in a Swiss establishment where she would improve her foreign language skills, and embark on a cordon bleu cookery course.

She’d stared at him open-mouthed. ‘You mean I’m going to be finished? Gramps, you can’t mean it. Anyone would think we were living a hundred years ago.’

His brows snapped together. ‘You have some other idea?’

‘Well, of course.’ She tried her most winning smile. ‘I’ve decided to join the family business. Carry on the Flint name for another generation.’

‘You—want to work for Flint Audley?’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘And where did this ridiculous notion spring from, I wonder?’

‘It seems an obvious choice,’ she countered.

‘Well, it’s not obvious to me,’ he said scathingly. ‘What on earth do you think you know about property management on the scale we deal with? Dealing with our range of tenants, contracts, maintenance—the thousand and one issues you’d be faced with? You—a chit of a girl just out of school?’

‘I’d know about as much as you and Gordon Audley did when you started out in the fifties.’ Harriet lifted her chin without flinching. ‘And certainly as much as Jonathan Audley with his 2:2 in Fine Arts,’ she added, her tone edged. ‘Yet he seems to have been welcomed with open arms—even by you. I could run rings round him, given the chance.’

She paused. ‘Because I’m not just “a chit of a girl” as you claim. I’m a chip off the old block, and all I want is an opportunity to prove myself.’ She added more quietly. ‘I—I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘Then you can think again, and quickly too.’ His voice was cutting. ‘I have very different plans for your future, my girl.’

‘Yes, I know. Polite French conversation halfway up some Alp.’ She shook her head. ‘Gramps, darling, it would never work. I’d be so bored. And you know what they say about idle hands,’ she added unthinkingly, and saw his face harden into real anger.

‘Is that a reference to your mother?’

She bit her lip. ‘No, I promise it’s not.’ Although maybe things might have turned out differently for her if she’d been allowed to have a real job—a career from the outset—instead of being expected to stay at home, the dutiful daughter. Perhaps that original love affair was her first chance to be herself. To make a choice, even if it was the wrong one …

She thought it, but did not say it. Instead, she went on coaxingly, ‘All the same, I’d like to pass on the social graces, and start earning my living like everyone else I know.’

There was a silence, then he said, ‘Well, there’s no need to be in too much of a hurry to decide about the future. Why not take one of those gap years, and spend some time at home, while you make up your mind? If you need an occupation, there’s always plenty of voluntary work about.’

‘Gramps, my mind is made up.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And Larry Brotherton is interviewing me for a job as an assistant in the rents review department on Monday.’

‘No one,’ her grandfather said ominously, ‘has seen fit to mention this to me. And I am still nominally supposed to be the chairman of the board.’

‘With your mind, presumably, on higher things than the recruitment of very junior staff.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, Mr Brotherton may turn me down.’

‘I doubt that very much.’ He was silent for a moment, then grunted. ‘I suppose if you’re determined I can’t stop you. And Flint Audley will do as well as anywhere—until, of course, you’re ready to settle down.’

And I laughed, and said, ‘Of course,’ thought Harriet.

She’d been too pleased with her victory to consider the clear implication in his words. That working at Flint Audley would be merely a stop-gap arrangement until she fulfilled her female destiny by making a sensible marriage.

And when, to her delight, she’d been offered the job, she’d thrown herself into it, working so conspicuously hard that promotion had soon followed. Now, six years later, driven by ambition and hard graft, she was at management level, with a salary to match, a generous bonus, and a possible brief to expand the commercial management branch of the company outside London.

That was if the afternoon’s meeting went her way, as she was determined that it should.

Her colleagues might not like her particularly—she knew that behind her back she was called ‘Harriet the Harridan’—but they couldn’t knock her achievements, and that was what she cared about.

If only Gramps could have been equally satisfied, she thought bitterly. But there’d never been any chance of that. His opinion of her career had remained totally unchanged—that it was simply a way of keeping busy until real life intervened, and she found herself a suitable man.

But over the past year his attitude had hardened to the point of disaster.

‘Gracemead is a house for a family, not a single woman,’ he’d growled. ‘You’ve wasted enough time, my girl. Find yourself a decent man and bring him home as your husband, or I’ll change my will. Arrange for the place to be sold after I’m gone.’

She’d stared at him open-mouthed. ‘Gramps—you’re not serious. You can’t be.’

‘I mean every word,’ he’d returned ominously. ‘I’m going to set you a deadline, Harriet. If you’re not engaged, or better still married, by your next birthday, I shall contact my lawyers. As my heiress, you’d be vulnerable—prey to any smooth-talking crook who came along. I intend to see you with a strong man at your side.’

‘I don’t believe this.’ She’d been breathless with shock and anger. ‘That kind of thinking belongs in the Ark.’

He’d nodded grimly. ‘And everything in the Ark went in two by two—exactly as nature intended. And if you want this house, you’ll do the same.’

Remembering, Harriet caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window, scowling ferociously, and hastily rearranged her expression into more agreeable lines. She made it a strict rule never to take any personal problems into the office, so no one knew about the rock and the hard place currently confronting her in her private life.

‘And they’re not going to know, either,’ she muttered under her breath. This afternoon she had to make a conscious effort to win hearts and minds for her expansion programme, and she already knew that her plans would be under attack by Jonathan Audley, just for the sake of it.

He’d been furious when she’d first overtaken him in the promotion stakes, and she knew she had him to thank for her less than flattering nickname.

But then he’s never heard what I call him under my breath, she thought.

All the same, there were times when she wanted to take hold of him by his pure silk designer tie, and say, Look, we’re on the same side, you pathetic idiot. Stop being a total obstruction.

But it wasn’t just office politics. Harriet knew that she’d offended Jonathan’s male ego long ago, by signally failing to appreciate the charms that had set the young secretaries in a dither since he’d joined the company.

Too pleased with himself by half had been her original thinking, and she’d seen no reason to alter her opinion since. Except, maybe, to add ‘bloody nuisance’ to his list of failings.

And today, unfortunately, she would need every scrap of patience she possessed in order to deal with him.

As she rounded the corner into the square where Flint Audley’s offices were located, she saw that a group of people had gathered outside the small railed garden opposite the building, and were watching something intently.

Curious, Harriet slowed a little, wondering what had attracted their attention. If there’d been some kind of accident, which might require emergency action.

Then, as realisation dawned, her brows snapped together. Good God, she thought. It’s the guy from the restaurant—the alley-cat artist.

Sitting sideways on the low wall, one long leg tucked under him and a board balanced on his lap, he was sketching rapidly.

As Harriet watched, he tore off the sheet of paper he’d been working on, and handed it with a bow to the girl directly in front of him, amid laughter and applause from the others standing around.

Not just vaguely sinister Mediterranean scenes, this time around, but instant portraits, it seemed. Was this the other—different—work that Luigi had mentioned? She was aware of an odd disappointment as the subject of the sketch blushed, giggled, then bent, a little awkwardly, to put some money in the box at his feet.

Well, that certainly confirmed what Luigi had also said about him being hard up, she thought.

Not that she could allow it to make a difference.

The square was a pretty exclusive location, and besides, he probably needed a licence for what he was doing, and she’d bet good money he didn’t have one.

And then, just as if he’d picked up her thought-waves across the width of the road, he looked at her, the dark brows lifting in recognition. Only this time he didn’t look away, subjecting her to a long, searching look that rested on her face, then travelled with lingering arrogance the entire length of her body, as if he was asking some silent question.

There was something in his gaze that caught Harriet completely on the raw, prompting—and deepening—the feelings of self-consciousness she’d experienced at their earlier encounter. Something which she could not understand, and certainly didn’t appreciate.

You’re one step away from down-and-out, my friend, she addressed him silently. So, talented or not, you’re in no real position to issue any kind of challenge, as you’re about to find out.

She turned and swept into the building.

‘Les,’ she said to the security man behind the reception desk. ‘Get that person across the road to move on, will you?’ She forced a smile. ‘He’s making the place look untidy.’

He gave her a surprised look. ‘Not doing any real harm is he, miss?’

‘Apart from causing an obstruction,’ Harriet said crisply. ‘Anyway, I’d prefer not to discuss it.’

She walked to the lift, aware that a cloud of disapproval was following her.

But I can’t afford to care about that now, she told herself, as she rode upwards. So, Luigi’s tame artist can just push off and struggle somewhere else. And good riddance to him.

And, gritting her teeth, she marched out of the lift, off to do battle over something that really mattered.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WELL, you were a great deal of help,’ Tony Morton, Harriet’s immediate boss commented sourly as they left the meeting. ‘What the hell was wrong with you? This expansion on the commercial side is supposed to be your pet project, and yet half the time you seemed to be in a trance.’

He gave her a frowning look. ‘So, what is it? Have you fallen in love?’

Harriet gasped. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, something must be going on,’ he said moodily. He threw his arms in the air. ‘My God, when you were talking about that development site in the Midlands, you actually said “beachside” instead of “canalside”. What was that about?’

‘I was probably thinking of the canal’s leisure and holiday opportunities,’ was the only lame excuse Harriet could come up with on the spur of the moment. ‘It was a slip of the tongue,’ she added, cursing under her breath.

A Freudian slip, more like, she admitted silently. It had been hot in the boardroom, and that damned picture from the restaurant had kept coming back into her mind. For a moment there she’d imagined she actually felt the relentless beat of the sun, and the burn of the sand under her bare feet. But that wasn’t all.

For some unfathomable reason, the man Roan’s dark face had suddenly intruded into her consciousness too, the shadowed eyes glinting as if in mockery. Or even, she thought, scorn.

And that was the moment she’d found herself floundering …

Which was, she told herself, totally absurd.

‘Well, you can’t afford any more of these slips.’ Tony shook his head. ‘Now we have a three-month delay while we prepare yet another report. The whole scheme has lost whatever priority status it had. Unbelievable.’

Harriet bit her lip. ‘Tony, I’m really sorry. Naturally, I realised it wasn’t going to be a walkover, but it isn’t a total defeat either.’

‘We were let off the hook, sweetheart,’ he reminded her grimly. ‘I only hope that next time you’ll have got your beans in a row as efficiently as Jonathan marshalled the opposition today.’

Well, she couldn’t argue about that, Harriet thought, mortified. She’d been well and truly ambushed. She’d expected the usual clash of horns, and encountered instead a ‘more in sorrow than in anger’ routine from Jonathan, which accused her elliptically of trying to split the company and establish her own independent business empire.

Caught on the back foot, she’d rallied and offered a vehement denial, but not quickly enough, and she could tell that the seed had been sown in the minds around the table, and that alarm bells were ringing.

And while Flint Audley commanded her total loyalty, she had to admit the chance of escaping from the hothouse politicking of the London office for a while had seemed deeply attractive.

‘It would also be a good thing,’ Tony said, pausing with a frown in the doorway of his office, ‘if you’d resolve this ridiculous feud with Jon Audley. It’s doing no good at all.’

Harriet gasped. ‘You’re blaming me for it?’

‘Not blaming,’ he said. ‘Just noting that he seems to command more support round here than you do at the moment. And today he sounded like the voice of sweet reason, not you.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you should bear that in mind when you’re preparing your analysis of what went wrong earlier. I’d like it on my desk tomorrow.’

Going into her own room, Harriet managed to resist the temptation to slam the door hard.

Tony’s last comments might be unfair, she thought furiously, but there was little she could say in her own defence about the way things had gone. She had not given the job in hand her usual unflinching concentration, and she knew it. What she could not explain to herself was—why?

Because it wasn’t just the commercial project that was slipping away from her, but her entire life. And somehow she had to get it back. All of it.

She took a step towards her desk, then stopped. Oh, to hell with it, she thought impatiently, glancing at her watch. Pointless to imagine I can achieve anything useful for the rest of the afternoon, when my mind’s flying off in all directions like this. Besides, I was in before eight this morning. I’m going home.

It occurred to her that, apart from anything else, she was hungry. A shower and a meal might make her feel more inclined to reprise the events of the meeting, and pinpoint what positive aspects there’d been.

At the moment, she couldn’t think of any, but she would never admit as much. This is just a glitch, she told herself firmly. I’ll bounce back. If only I didn’t have so much else on my plate.

She squared her shoulders, then picked up her bag, and the shoulder case with her laptop, and headed for the door.

She was halfway down the corridor when she heard a burst of laughter coming from the office she was approaching, and recognised Jonathan’s voice.

‘I suppose I should feel guilty for knocking Flinty’s baby on the head,’ he was saying. ‘Especially as it’s the only time hell’s spinster is ever likely to give birth—to anything. Not even all Grandpa’s money would be enough to tempt a sane man to take her on. But, try as I may, I can’t manage one single regret. I truly feel she’d be happier in a back office, working the photocopier.’

‘You mean you’d be happier if that’s where she was,’ Anthea, his assistant, said over another sycophantic ripple of amusement. It sounded as if quite a crowd had gathered.

‘Infinitely,’ Jonathan drawled. ‘Maybe we should try it. Offer her a title—vice-president in charge of paperclips—and see what happens. After all, she’s only playing at a career. Old Gregory made that clear from the first,’ he added with a snap. ‘I bet he can’t believe she’s still here. And I can tell you that Tony’s well and truly sick of being saddled with her.’

Harriet stood where she was, lips parted in shock. This was more than the idle malice of the nicknames, she realised numbly. There was genuine entrenched resentment here. Jonathan Audley wanted her out, and it seemed he was not alone in that.

So, today wasn’t just a skirmish. It was the opening salvo in a war she hadn’t realised had been declared. And it had clearly hit the target.

Her hand tightened on the handle of her briefcase. She lifted her chin, then walked forward, halting at the half-open door. Standing there as the amusement faded into embarrassed silence. Glancing round as if she was taking note of who was there—collating names and faces—before walking on down the corridor, her head high.

But her hand was shaking as she pressed the button to summon the lift. Behind her, she heard a burst of nervous giggling, and Jon Audley’s voice saying, ‘Oops.’ A sixth sense told her that someone had come out into the corridor and was watching her, waiting, probably, for some other reaction, so she made herself lean a casual shoulder against the wall, glancing idly at her watch while she waited.

Thankfully, the lift was empty, and as the door closed she sank down on to her haunches, trying to steady her uneven breathing, fighting off the astonishing threat of tears, because she never cried.

By the time the ground floor was reached, she’d got herself back under control, and she’d at least be able to leave the building in good order.

Home, she thought longingly. My own space. My own things. A chance to regroup.

As she crossed the reception area, Les called to her. ‘That artist bloke has gone, Miss Flint, like you wanted.’

She swung round, confronting him almost dazedly, wondering what he was talking about. When she finally remembered, it was as if the incident had occurred in another lifetime.

She said curtly, ‘Good. I hope he didn’t give you any trouble.’

‘Not a bit, miss.’ He hesitated. ‘In fact he seemed a bit amused when I approached him. As if he’d been expecting it.’ He paused again. ‘And later, when I went out to check that he’d gone, I found this, fastened to the railings outside.’

He reached into a drawer, and with clear embarrassment handed her a sheet of cartridge paper, folded in half.

Harriet opened it out, and found herself looking at what seemed to be a mass of black shading. For a brief instant, she thought it must be a drawing of a bat—or a bird of prey. A carrion crow, perhaps, with wings spread wide, about to swoop.

And then she saw the face emerging from those dark flying draperies. A woman’s face—sullen—angry—driven. A caricature, perhaps, portrayed without subtlety, but, she realised, unmistakably—unforgivably—her face.

A deliberate and calculated insult—signed ‘Roan’ across one corner with such force that it had almost torn the paper.

For a long moment, she stared down at the drawing in silence. Then she forced a smile.

‘Quite a work of art.’ Somehow, she managed to keep her voice light. ‘Everything but the broomstick. And—fastened to the railings, you say? For all the world to see?’

Les nodded unhappily, his ruddy face deepening in colour.

‘Afraid so, miss, but it can’t have been there long. And no one from here will have spotted it.’ he added, as if this was some kind of consolation.

‘I think you mean no one else,’ she said quietly. She folded the paper, and put it carefully in her briefcase.

‘Are you sure you want to do that, miss?’ His voice was uncertain. ‘You wouldn’t like me to put it through the shredder?’

I’d like you to put him—this Roan—through the shredder, Harriet wanted to scream. Followed by Tony, and bloody, bloody Jonathan. And every other man who dares to judge me. Or force me into some mould of their making like Grandfather.

Instead, she shrugged a shoulder, feigning insouciance, although pain and anger were twisting inside her. ‘I intend to treasure it. Who knows? It might be worth a lot of money some day. He may turn out to be a future Hogarth. Besides, isn’t it supposed to be salutary to see ourselves as others do?’

Les’s face was dubious. ‘If you say so, Miss Flint.’

‘However,’ she added, ‘if I send you out to shift any more vagabonds, I give you full permission to ignore my instructions.’

She flashed a last bright, meaningless smile at him, and went out into the street, signalling to a passing taxi.

She gave her home address automatically, and sank back in the corner of the seat, staring unseeingly out of the window, feeling her heart pounding against her ribcage as her anger grew. As the whole day emptied its bitterness into her mind. Culminating in this—this last piece of ignominy perpetrated by a total stranger.

What the hell am I? she asked herself. Punch-bag of the week?

Mouth tightening ominously, she took out her mobile phone and punched in a number.

‘Luigi? Harriet Flint.’ She spoke evenly. ‘The painter. Do you know where he lives? If he has a studio?’

‘Of course. One moment.’

He sounded so pleased that Harriet felt almost sorry. Almost, but not quite.

She wrote the directions on the back of the card he’d given her earlier. When I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, she thought, as she tapped on the glass and told the cabdriver about the change of plan.

She would deal with Jonathan and co in her own good time, she thought as she sat back. But this so-called artist would answer now for his attempt to denigrate her.

Because, but for Les, this drawing would have been seen by the entire company on their way out of the building.

And she knew that it would not have been an easy thing to live down. That it was something that would have lingered on in the corporate memory to be sniggered over as long as she was associated with Flint Audley—which basically meant the rest of her working life.

Just as if she didn’t have enough problems already.

She took one last look at the drawing, then closed her fist around it, scrunching it into a ball.

Meanwhile, the cab was slowing. ‘This is it, miss,’ the driver threw over his shoulder. ‘Hildon Yard.’

And home, it seemed, to a flourishing road haulage company, and a row of storage units. Not exactly an artistic environment, she thought, her mouth twisting.

‘Will you wait, please?’ she requested as she paid the driver. ‘I shouldn’t be longer than ten minutes,’ she added quickly, seeing his reluctant expression.

He nodded resignedly. ‘Ten minutes it is,’ he said, reaching for his newspaper. ‘But that’s it.’

Harriet glanced around her, then, after a moment’s hesitation, approached a man in brown overalls moving around the trucks with a clipboard, and a preoccupied expression.

She said, ‘Can you help me, please? I’m looking for number 6a.’

He pointed unsmilingly to an iron staircase in one corner. ‘Up at the top there. That green door.’

Her heels rang on the metal steps as she climbed. Like the clash of armour before battle, she thought, and found she was unexpectedly fighting a very real temptation to forget the whole thing, return to the waiting cab, and go home.

But that was the coward’s way out, she told herself. And that arrogant bastard wasn’t getting away with what he’d tried to do to her.

As she reached the narrow platform at the top, the door opened suddenly, and Harriet took an involuntary step backwards, pressing herself against the guard rail.

A girl’s voice with a smile in it said, ‘See you later,’ and she found herself confronting a pretty girl, immaculate in pastel cut-offs and a white tee shirt, her blonde hair in a long braid, carrying a large canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She checked, with a gasp, when she spotted Harriet.

‘Heavens, you startled me.’ Blue eyes looked her over enquiringly. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

Harriet saw that the hand holding the strap of the canvas bag wore a wedding ring. The possibility that this Roan might be married had not, frankly, occurred to her.

But, even if he was, there was no way someone so irredeemably scruffy could possibly be paired with a such a clearly high-maintenance woman.

Unless the attraction of opposites had come into play, and he was her bit of rough, she thought with distaste.

The girl said more insistently, ‘Can I help you?’

Discovering that she seemed to have momentarily lost the power of speech, Harriet mutely held out the business card that she was still clutching.

‘Oh.’ The girl sounded surprised. ‘Oh—right.’ She turned and called over her shoulder, ‘Darling, you have a visitor.’ She gave Harriet a smile that was friendly and puzzled in equal measures, then clattered her way down the staircase.

Darling …

My God, Harriet thought, wincing. Lady, you have all my sympathy.

At the same time, she was glad the other girl had departed, because what she wanted to say, possibly at the top of her voice, didn’t need an audience. Especially when the evidence suggested she could not count on its support.

She drew a deep, steadying breath, took the screwed-up drawing from her pocket, and walked through the doorway.

Because of its immediate environment, she’d expected the place to be dark inside, and probably dingy. Instead she found herself in a large loft room, brimming with the sunlight that poured through the vast window occupying the greater part of an entire wall, and down from the additional skylights in the roof.

The smell of oil paint was thick and heavy in the air, and on the edge of her half-dazzled vision, stacked round the walls, were canvases—great splashes of vibrant, singing colour.

But she couldn’t allow them to distract her, even for a moment, because he was there—a tall, dark figure, standing motionless, hands on hips, in the middle of all this brilliance.

As if he was waiting for her, hard and unbending as a granite pillar, the black brows drawn together in a frown, his mouth harsh and unsmiling.

He said, ‘What are you doing here? What do you want?’

His voice was low-pitched and cool. Educated too, she recognised with faint surprise, but slightly accented. Spanish—Italian? She couldn’t be sure.

Of course that deep tan should have given away his Mediterranean origins, as she now had every opportunity to notice, because the tee shirt he’d been wearing earlier had been discarded. His feet were bare too, and the waistband of his jeans, worn low on his hips, was unfastened.

As it would be, she thought, if he’d simply dragged them on for decency’s sake as he said goodbye to his lover.

And, while there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him, effete he certainly wasn’t, she realised, swallowing. His naked shoulders and arms were powerfully sculpted, and his bronzed chest was darkly shadowed by the hair that arrowed down over his stomach until hidden by the barrier of faded denim that covered his long legs.

Penniless artist he might be, but at the same time he looked tough and uncompromising, and it occurred to her suddenly that perhaps it might have been better if the blonde had remained after all.

Or if I’d stayed away …

The thoughts seemed to be chasing each other through her skull.

‘I asked why you were here,’ he said. ‘And I am waiting for your answer.’

That jolted her back to the here and now. Needled her into response too.

She lifted her chin. ‘Can’t you guess the reason?’ She took the crumpled ball of paper from her pocket, and threw it at him. It didn’t reach its target, dropping harmlessly to the floor between them, and he didn’t waste a glance on it.

‘You were so impressed with the likeness that you came to commission a portrait, perhaps?’ His tone was silky. ‘If so, I must refuse. I doubt if I could summon up sufficient inspiration a second time.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Her own voice grated. ‘I have no plans to feature as a subject for you ever again. I came for an apology.’

His brows lifted. ‘An apology for what?’

‘For that.’ She pointed at the ball of paper. ‘That—thing you left for me.’ She drew a swift, sharp breath. ‘Do you know how many people work in that building—and use that entrance? And you had the damned nerve to put that—insulting, libellous daub where everyone would see it. Make me into a laughing stock. And you did it quite deliberately. Don’t try to deny it.’

He shrugged. ‘Why should I?’

‘And don’t pretend it was only a joke, either. Because, if so, it was in bloody poor taste.’

‘It was no joke,’ he said, and there was a note in his voice that gave her the odd sensation that her skin had been laid open by a whip. ‘And nor was your attempt to have me moved on by your security guard, as if I was guilty of some crime. And in front of a crowd of people, too.

‘Humiliation does not appeal to me either,’ he added grimly. ‘Although I must tell you that your plan misfired, because no one laughed. They were all embarrassed for me, including your guard. And several of them sprang to my defence.’

He paused. ‘It is interesting that you did not expect your colleagues to be equally supportive,’ he went on bitingly. ‘But, at the same time, it is hardly surprising if this is a sample of the tactics you use in your workplace. Perhaps they would have recognised my portrait of you only too well.’

She felt as if she’d been punched in the guts, and, for a moment, she could only stare at him in silence. Then, she forced herself to rally. To fight back. ‘You had no right to be there, opposite our offices.’

‘I have been sketching there all week,’ he said. ‘No one from your company or any other has complained before.’

‘That,’ she said, ‘is because I never saw you there before.’

‘Then I can be thankful for that, at least.’

She bit her lip. ‘Anyway, beggars deserve to be moved on. You were causing an obstruction.’

‘I was not begging,’ he said stonily. ‘I was earning honest money, giving pleasure by my sketching. But I guess that pleasure is not something you would readily understand, Miss Harriet Flint.’

She gasped. ‘How do you know my name?’

He shrugged. ‘In the same way that you learned where I live. I was told by Luigi Carossa. He telephoned to say you were planning to pay me a visit.’ His mouth curled. ‘He even thought it might be to my advantage. I did not disillusion him.’

He paused. ‘Now, if there is nothing further, perhaps you would leave.’

It was difficult to breathe. ‘Is that—is that all you have to say?’

‘Why, no.’ The dark eyes swept over her contemptuously. ‘There is also this. Go back to your fortress, Miss Flint, and practise giving more ridiculous and high-handed orders. If you cannot make yourself liked, you can at least attempt to feel important. I hope it is some consolation.’

He kicked the ball of paper towards her. ‘And take this with you as a reminder not to over-reach yourself again. This time you escaped lightly, but next time you may indeed find yourself the office joke.’

The world seemed to slip away from her. ‘Lightly?’ she repeated dazedly. Then, her voice rising, ‘You said—lightly?’

She didn’t lose her temper as a rule. She had too many bad memories from early childhood of voices shouting, the sound of things being thrown, even occasional blows, and her mother’s loud, hysterical weeping as yet another relationship bit the dust.

She’d always prided herself on being able to control her anger. To hide any negative emotions and deal with them calmly and sensibly.

But for most of today she’d been on the edge and she knew it.

And now she felt as if something deep inside her had cracked open at his words, and all the pain, the anxiety and disappointment of the last weeks had come welling to the surface in one violent, cataclysmic surge that she was unable to repress.

A voice she didn’t recognise as her own screamed, ‘You utter bastard …’ And she flung forward, launching herself wildly at him, hands curled into claws, striking at his face. Wanting to hurt him in return.

As she made contact, she heard him swear, then her wrists were seized in a punishing grip, and she was forced away from him, held at arm’s length as the dark eyes raked her mercilessly.

His voice was harsh and breathless. ‘You do not hit me—understand? You will never do so again, or I shall retaliate in a way you won’t like.’

She tried to stare back defiantly, to twist free of his grasp, but his hold was relentless. And then she saw the smear of blood on his cheekbone and suddenly the enormity of what she’d done overwhelmed her.

She attempted to speak, but the only sound that escaped her was a choking sob, and the next instant she was crying in a way she’d never done before—loudly and gustily, all control abandoned, as the scalding tears stormed down her face.

He said icily, ‘And now the usual woman’s trick—weeping to get out of trouble. You disappoint me.’

He took her over to the sagging sofa at one side of the room, and pushed her down on to the elderly velvet cushions, tossing a handkerchief into her lap.

She was aware of him moving away, as another paroxysm shook her, and she buried her wet face in the soft square of linen. She could hear him moving about, followed by the chink of a bottle on glass, and then he was back, seating himself beside her, closing her fingers round a tumbler.

‘Drink this.’

She tried to obey, but her hand was trembling too much.

He muttered something she did not understand, and raised the glass to her lips himself.

As the pungent smell reached her, Harriet recoiled. She said, her voice drowned and jerky, ‘I don’t drink spirits.’

‘You do now.’ He was inexorable.

She took one sip, and it was like swallowing liquid fire. She felt it burn all the way to her stomach, and flung her head back as he offered the glass again, saying hoarsely, ‘No more—please.’

He put the glass down on the floor. ‘So,’ he said. ‘This is more than just a drawing. What has happened to you?’

‘Nothing that need concern you.’ She scrubbed fiercely at her face with the handkerchief, trying to avoid looking at him directly. However, she was immediately aware that he was a little more dressed now than he had been before, in that he’d fastened the waistband of his jeans, pulled on another disreputable tee shirt, and had a pair of battered espadrilles on his feet.

But if this was a concession, it was a very minor one. It didn’t make him appear any more civilised, or encourage her to feel any better about the situation. Or about him.

Oh, God, she thought with something like despair. What could have possessed her to do such an appalling thing? To have—flown at him like that, whatever the provocation. Then, worst of all, to have allowed herself to break down, and wail like a baby. How could she have behaved like that? It was as if she’d changed into a completely different person. And she wanted the old one back.

‘But I am concerned.’ He touched the mark on his cheek with a fingertip. ‘See—I’m scarred already.’

‘I’m—sorry,’ she offered stiffly. And she was—but for letting herself down—not for hurting him. In fact, she wished she’d connected with her fist, instead of just a fingernail.

He gave her a sardonic look, as if he knew exactly what was going through her mind. ‘A suggestion,’ he said softly. ‘Next time you’re in scratching mood, my little tigress, make it my back, and not my face.’

As the implication in his words sank in, her face warmed with a blush she was powerless to prevent. Her fingers tightened, crushing the handkerchief into a damp ball. She needed to get out of there, she thought, before she embarrassed herself even further—if that were possible.

‘I—I must be going.’ She kept her voice artificially cool and clipped. ‘I’ve a cab waiting for me.’

‘I doubt that,’ he said. ‘But stay where you are, and I’ll check if it’s still there.’

She watched him go to the door with that lithe long-legged stride that she’d noticed in the restaurant. A realisation that disturbed her. And with his departure an odd stillness descended, as if the energy in the room had somehow gone with him.

He was, Harriet thought with a shiver, altogether too physical a presence. And it occurred to her that maybe she had got off lightly, after all.

On impulse, she pushed back the sleeves of her jacket, scanning her wrists and forearms for the marks of his fingers, but there were none, which surprised her. Although she could not speak, of course, for the emotional bruising she’d suffered.

But don’t think about that, she told herself. Just concentrate on getting out of here.

She glanced around for her bag, and saw it lying where she’d dropped it, the contents spilling out across the floorboards, with the laptop case beside it. She crossed the room shakily, knelt and began to repack her bag. She’d check on the computer when she got home, but hopefully the outer padding would have saved it from serious damage.

As she rose, brushing off her skirt, she hesitated, taking another, closer look at her surroundings, and particularly at the paintings leaning against the walls that she’d seen on the periphery of her vision when she arrived.

And, as she soon realised with an odd excitement, they certainly repaid more thorough attention.

The majority of the paintings were abstracts, wild, ungovernable masses of colour applied to their canvases with an almost violent intensity, and, to Harriet, they were like experiencing an assault to the senses.

She went from one to another, aware that her arms were wrapped tightly round her body, as if she was warding off some danger. Knowing that, whether she liked them or not, they were impossible to ignore. She was being drawn to them unwillingly, she thought. Fascinated in spite of herself.

And there were landscapes too—bleak stretches of ochre-coloured earth, more bleached stones like the fallen columns of dead buildings, hard glittering sand bordering a dark and ominous sea. All battered by the light of that same brilliant and relentless sun that she’d seen in the original painting.

And that same sense of anger, barely contained, that she’d found emanating from him only a short while ago.

But this time no human element in any of the paintings. No trace that anyone had ever inhabited these alien environments.

They were raw—they were vital. But they belonged to no comfort zone that she knew. She could not imagine hanging one of them on the plain neutral walls of her determinedly minimalist flat. Or living with it afterwards, come to that.

She suddenly remembered a book she’d read as a child, where the young heroine stepped through the pictures in the gallery of an old house to find herself in the world they portrayed.

But to walk into the kind of barren burning wilderness that confronted her now would be a terrifying leap into the unknown—with the possibility that she might never be able to find her way back again. That she’d be trapped for all eternity in some living nightmare.

She shivered suddenly. My God, she thought in swift self-derision, am I letting my imagination run away with me here?

And it was no excuse to tell herself that it was sheer overreaction, because she’d been knocked sideways emotionally in all kinds of ways. Because the sheer power of these paintings could not be dismissed so easily.

He said, ‘Your taxi’s gone. But I called a local cab company. They are on their way.’

She whirled around as his voice reached her, her hand going to her mouth to stifle her startled cry. Because she’d had no idea he’d come back into the studio. Been far too absorbed to register his approach.

But he was there, leaning against the frame in the sunlit doorway, one hand negligently hooked in the waistband of his jeans, the other holding his mobile phone as he watched her.

Harriet snatched at what was left of her composure. She said stiltedly, ‘Oh, right—thank you.’ Then paused. ‘I’ve been looking at your work. It’s—good.’ She recognised the lameness of that, and added hastily, ‘In fact, it’s probably far more than just good. It might be—amazing.’

‘Does this signal that you are changing your opinion about me?’ His mouth twisted mockingly. ‘I’m flattered.’

‘Well, don’t be,’ she returned curtly. ‘I may recognise you have talent, but it doesn’t follow that I have to like you any better.’

He winced elaborately. ‘I see that the flood of tears was a temporary aberration. The real Miss Flint is back, and firing on all cylinders.’

‘What I don’t understand,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘is why you waste a moment of your time on those street portraits. They can’t bring in enough money to pay the bills.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I look on them mainly as relaxation. It’s good to get out sometimes—to meet new people. Don’t you agree?’

She remembered the entranced face of the girl he’d been sketching outside the Flint Audley offices.

She looked round the big room, deliberately letting her glance linger on the pile of papers that had fallen off the sofa, the remains of a meal left on a table, the unmade bed, only half hidden behind a large folding screen. She said, ‘And is this where you bring—your new friends?’

His tone was laconic as he followed her gaze. ‘It’s the maid’s day off.’

‘Then perhaps you should ask your girlfriend to clear up a little.’ Her response was immediate—tart—and completely unintentional. After all, she’d already made her point.

‘She does not come here for that,’ he said gently. ‘Also, she might spoil her beautiful hands, and I can put them to much better use.’

And no prizes for guessing what he meant, Harriet thought furiously, her face warming all over again in spite of herself. She said stonily, ‘I always understood decent men did not kiss and tell.’

He shrugged, unrepentantly. ‘Who mentioned kissing?’ and laughed softly as her flush deepened.

He glanced over his shoulder as a car horn sounded from the street. ‘And that is your cab, Miss Flint,’ he added with studied politeness. ‘Right on time.’ And stood aside to let her pass.

Harriet found herself clinging to the rail of the metal staircase as she descended, aware that her legs were shaking, and that she was strangely breathless again.

As she crossed the yard, she looked back swiftly, almost furtively, to see if he was watching her go. But the staircase was empty, and the door was closed.

And for one confused, disturbing moment, Harriet did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

CHAPTER THREE

HIS handkerchief was a small, forlorn bundle in the middle of her gleaming ash table.

Harriet’s instinct was to chuck it straight in the kitchen bin, possibly slamming down the lid as a coda, but she had to admit that current evidence suggested he might not have handkerchiefs to spare, and that it would be more gracious to return the damned thing laundered.

That was if she felt gracious.

And at the moment, in the seething maelstrom of her emotions, bewilderment seemed to predominate. Alongside anger.

She sank down into her black kid recliner chair, closing her eyes and allowing her whole body to go limp, while she breathed deeply and evenly, trying to recapture a modicum of calm and sanity.

She could not believe how her life had suddenly changed.

Twenty-four hours ago, she’d looked at the future with a kind of quiet confidence. She’d been about to take the next step up the ladder at Flint Audley, and she’d found a working solution to her grandfather’s autocratic and ill-judged attempt to force her into matrimony.

Like the horse being led to water, she would get married. But not even Gregory Flint could force her to stay married, she’d told herself grimly. That was not part of the deal. Nor had he specified how long this unholy wedlock would have to last. But he could hardly insist she stayed in an unhappy relationship, especially if he believed his ultimatum was the root case of her misery.

Something she’d planned to make bravely and wistfully clear. How she’d been rushed into a terrible mistake.

Or that had been her intention, she thought bitterly.

Her precious, foolproof plan. Now wreckage.

The rung on the corporate ladder. Broken.

Oh, the expansion scheme would go ahead, but possibly not under her direction, however hard she worked on it. And maybe if there was a glass ceiling, Gramps had ordered its installation.

I wouldn’t put it past him, she thought bleakly.

Perhaps she should have succumbed to the inevitable—picked one of the paralysingly dull but worthy young men who’d been regularly trotted out at dinner parties for her inspection. At least she’d have had the prospect of Gracemead as consolation.

But would that have been enough to reconcile her to the reality of marriage? Somehow she doubted it. She valued her independence too highly. Child as she’d been, she could remember only too well her mother’s unavailing attempts to revive relationships that had clearly exceeded their shelf lives.

Maybe it was then that she’d realised the danger of being at the mercy of her hormones, she thought wryly.

And while life could be lonely at times, especially as most of her schoolfriends now seemed to have husbands and, accordingly, other priorities, at least she was at no one’s beck and call when work was over. When her time became her own, along with her personal space.

And her time was now wasting.

She got up, and went into her bedroom, feeling her usual lift of satisfaction as she looked around her. All the furniture was built-in, and concealed behind anonymous doors, so the focal point was the bed. She’d picked the biggest she could find, with the most heavenly mattress, and dressed the whole thing in ivory linen, with olive green cushions adding the only colour note, one which she’d repeated in the shades of the lamps on the twin night tables flanking the bed.

The bathroom was equally austere in white and chrome, but she hadn’t stinted on the size of the tub, or the walk-in shower, and particularly on the pile of fluffy towels that were always waiting.

She undressed slowly, dropping her clothes into the linen basket, loosened her hair from its constricting band, and stepped under the fierce pelting of the shower, first smothering herself in her favourite scented body wash. How wonderful, she thought, as she turned herself languorously under the warm torrent, if the troubles of the day could be as easily rinsed away as this foam.

She dried herself, and put on a pair of her favourite pyjamas. She had a whole range of them, tailored in satin in cool pastel shades, and obtained from an exclusive mail order source, and tonight’s choice was pale turquoise.

She padded barefoot into her gleaming kitchen, taking a ready-cooked chicken breast from the fridge, preparing a dressing for the accompanying salad, and heating a small baguette. If she wanted dessert, there was always yoghurt.

As she ate, she pondered what she could put in tomorrow’s report for Tony. Nothing, for sure, that would sound like an excuse, or make it sound as if she wasn’t up to the job. She’d believed until today that they had a good working relationship based on mutual respect. Now it seemed as if he’d just been waiting for her to screw up.

Well, she was not so easily to be set aside, she told herself defiantly. She would fight, and fight again, and to hell with glass ceilings.

Because iron had entered her soul that afternoon, when she’d discovered what people really thought about her, and now she no longer merely wanted to take charge of the expansion plans. No, she wouldn’t be content now until she held the position her grandfather had once enjoyed—as chairman of the board.

At which point, they’d be laughing on the other side of their faces.

Her meal ended, she put on some Mozart and set to work, drafting and re-drafting the report for Tony until she was reasonably satisfied. She kept it short and pithy, maintaining the basic value of the scheme, but admitting she’d failed to gauge the level of opposition it might garner. That she felt this had been based on personalities rather than actual reasoning, and that next time she would ensure that opinion was more informed, so that there could be a genuine debate.

Then she printed it off, closed down her laptop, and sat back with a sigh, closing her eyes.

One rock shifted, hopefully, but a massive boulder still to go.

Keeping her job might be one thing. But hanging on to Gracemead was quite another, especially when her grandfather’s deadline was coming nearer by the day.

She supposed she could always try another small ad on one of the dating pages, then recalled with a grimace just how long it had taken to extract Peter from among the welter of total unsuitables who’d responded. None of whom she’d wish to encounter a second time.

Also, she had to be careful. If, by some remote but fatal chance, anyone at work found out or even suspected what she was trying to do, her life would become completely unbearable. And outside work she never met any men. Apart, of course, from today …

She sat up with a jolt, as if several hundred volts of electricity had suddenly passed through her, her mind going into overdrive.

Then stopped, as she remembered contemptuous dark eyes. A voice that dripped scorn. And took a deep breath. No, she thought, that’s nonsensical. That’s carrying the whole thing to the limits of absurdity. Don’t even consider it.

But the idea refused to go away. It nagged at her for the remainder of the evening, and even followed her to bed, where she lay, staring sleeplessly into the darkness as she continued to argue with herself.

On the face of it, she and this Roan had nothing in common, except their mutual antipathy. But he needed a boost to his career as an artist, which she might—just—be able to supply. And he was a good painter. He had a real gift. Whatever her personal opinion of him as a man, she was certain of that at least.

And if she was prepared to help him, she was surely entitled to ask for his assistance in return, even though she could guess his probable reaction when he learned the details, she thought, wincing.

But she’d simply have to stress that their dislike of each other was a positive advantage under the circumstances. And that any acceptance of her terms would be strictly business.

After all, she told herself grimly, she didn’t want that appalling male arrogance, which seemed as natural to him as breathing, to persuade him for one second that she found him even remotely attractive.

His pretty blonde might be a snag, of course, but she could hardly raise any real objections to the scheme, as she was married herself.

And as she turned over, punching the pillow into submission, a name came floating into her mind, reminding her of someone in the art world she might approach. ‘Desmond Slevin,’ she murmured with drowsy satisfaction, and closed her eyes, smiling.

The following morning brought a few misgivings, but no real second thoughts.

If he chose to co-operate, this Roan could secure Gracemead for her after all. Therefore she had to pursue the idea that had come to her last night.

At the office, having meekly handed her report to Tony, and attended to any urgent business, she did a quick computer check on her designated prey.

Desmond Slevin, an art dealer and collector, who owned the Parsifal Gallery in the West End, was a former tenant now living in Surrey.

Harriet had read a piece about him quite recently in one of the broadsheets, describing him as one of the treasure seekers of the art world, always on the look-out for new and gifted painters. If it was true, he might be just the man she needed.

Accordingly, she took an early lunch, and grabbed a passing taxi to whisk her to the gallery. And a few minutes later she was sitting in Desmond Slevin’s private office, drinking coffee.

‘So, what can I do for you, Miss Flint?’ He was a handsome middle-aged man on the verge of being elderly, with grey hair, and piercing blue eyes. ‘Are you here to persuade me to give up the commute and rent another London pad?’

Harriet returned his smile. ‘I doubt that I could. No, I read a recent article about you, and it—got me thinking.’

‘Oh.’ He pulled a face. ‘Frankly, I came to regret that interview.’ He gave her a narrow-eyed glance. ‘I trust you haven’t taken up painting as a hobby, because you were once very kind and helpful, and I’d hate to disappoint you.’

She laughed. ‘You’re quite safe, I promise.’ And paused. ‘But if I ever saw work that seemed to have real talent, might you be interested in—perhaps—taking a look?’

He said dryly, ‘And I’m wondering, in turn, if that question is quite as hypothetical as it sounds.’ He refilled her cup. ‘So, who is this undiscovered genius, Miss Flint? A boyfriend?’

‘God, no.’ Harriet sat bolt upright, nearly spilling her coffee down her skirt. Bright spots of colour burned in her face. ‘The exact opposite, in fact. Someone I barely know. I—I don’t even have his full name.’

‘Dear me,’ he said placidly. ‘All the same he seems to have made quite an impression.’ He watched her reflectively for a moment. ‘Is there a body of work involved?’

‘Yes, I suppose—I think so. He—he has a studio.’

He laughed. ‘Which doesn’t always mean much. Does he know that you’ve come to see me on his behalf?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘It was just an impulse, really.’

‘So you don’t know whether he’d be interested in selling his work?’

‘Well, of course he would. Why ever not?’

Desmond Slevin’s sigh held a touch of cynicism. ‘My dear, I’ve met many in my time who feel their work is unique, and of far too lofty significance to be handled commercially. Therefore I find it’s always best to check in advance.’

‘I don’t think that would apply in this case.’ Harriet drew a deep breath. ‘So, if I talk to him first, would you be willing to see his paintings? Give an opinion?’

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Why not?’ He raised a minatory finger. ‘Just as long as you both understand that it doesn’t necessarily mean a deal.’

‘Oh, I’ll make that very clear.’

‘Then I’ll wait to hear from you,’ he said, and rose.

‘You know,’ he said as he accompanied her through the gallery to the street door. ‘It occurs to me you’re going to a lot of trouble for a complete stranger.’ He paused, and patted her on the shoulder. ‘But I’m sure you know your own business best.’

I wouldn’t count on it, Harriet thought grimly as she pinned on a beaming smile and walked away. In fact, I might well be making one of life’s more serious mistakes.

If, in fact, she went through with it. Because, as she kept reminding herself, she didn’t have to do this. She could still pull out, and no harm done. Tell Desmond Slevin that, after all, the paintings hadn’t repaid a second, closer inspection, and she was sorry for wasting his time. A smile and a shrug, and it would be all over.

But so would Gracemead, as a telephone conversation with her grandfather that same evening swiftly confirmed. Because if she’d hoped that his attitude might be softening at this late stage, she was gravely disappointed. He was still completely adamant in his views.

‘Stay a career woman if that’s what you want, Harriet,’ he told her brusquely. ‘Although I hear even that isn’t going so well these days. Live alone in that bleak flat of yours. But you’ll have no need of a family house and Gracemead can be put to better use.’

She put the phone down feeling sick at heart, and not just about the house. His comment about her work had struck a chill too.

So, gritting her teeth, she sat down to bait her hook. But what could she say to tempt him? I have a proposal for you? No, too blatant. A proposition? God, even worse.

And where could they meet? She didn’t want to go to his studio again. Somewhere public would be preferable. Even essential. A restaurant maybe? But for lunch, perhaps, rather than dinner. Or was that all too social?

Eventually she came up with a form of words which would have to do. And she was annoyed to find her hand shaking as she dialled his mobile number. It was almost a relief to find she was speaking to his voicemail.

She said steadily, ‘This is Harriet Flint. I have a business matter I would like to discuss with you, which could be to your advantage. Perhaps you would meet me for afternoon tea on Saturday at the Titan Palace Hotel, at four-thirty.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘If this is inconvenient, please contact me at Flint Audley between nine and six to arrange another appointment.’

Well, that was brisk and businesslike enough, which was why she’d chosen the Titan Palace as an appropriate rendezvous. As one of the capital’s newest hotels, it was large, impersonal and catering for an upmarket business clientele. A place where deals were done.

Also, afternoon tea sounded very correct and English. Fairly aloof, too, so he couldn’t possibly infer that he was being asked out on some kind of date.

Although there was still no guarantee, of course, that he’d turn up, no matter how she phrased the invitation.

But Saturday arrived with no cancellation, so it seemed they were destined for another confrontation after all.

Harriet went through the predominantly black contents of her wardrobe several times before deciding on a pair of taupe linen trousers, with a matching thigh-length jacket worn over a stone coloured tee shirt. Neutral but neat.

Besides, one odious comparison with a bat was quite sufficient in anybody’s lifetime, she thought, her mouth tightening.

For a moment, she contemplated leaving her hair loose, then decided it was probably wiser to wear it in her usual style, severely drawn back from her face. And definitely no cosmetics.

She got to the appointment early, and took a seat in the hotel’s vast lounge, where she could keep a beady eye on the main entrance into the hotel foyer.

It was an impressive place, she thought, glancing round her, and busy too. Afternoon teas were clearly doing a roaring trade, and the soft sounds of a pianist playing gentle jazz were only just audible above the hum of conversation. But a crowd she could blend into was exactly what she wanted.

Although it was never her intention to become invisible, she thought with faint irritation, as she made another of several vain attempts to catch the eye of a scurrying waiter.

And as she settled back into her chair with a sigh, she suddenly realised that Roan was there, walking towards her. Was aware too of an odd stillness at his approach, with people leaning towards each other at neighbouring tables, and murmuring.

But maybe they were simply planning to have him thrown out for breaking some dress code, she thought with disfavour. The jeans he was wearing were elderly, but clean, fitting him like a second skin, and his white shirt had at least one too many buttons undone. The cuffs were casually turned back, revealing bronzed forearms, and his bare feet were thrust into espadrilles. He still needed a haircut, and a shave wouldn’t have gone amiss either. Yet for all that …

Barring any such thought, she got hurriedly to her feet. ‘Hi.’ She tried to sound nonchalant. ‘So you came after all.’

The dark eyes glinted at her. ‘Wasn’t that the idea?’

‘Yes, of course. Please sit down.’ She sounded as if she was conducting a job interview, but maybe that was the correct note to use, she thought as she resumed her own seat. ‘I’ve been trying to order tea, but—’

She broke off as he lifted a languid hand, and two waiters came running, as if all they’d been waiting for was his signal.

‘The lady would like tea. Coffee for me, please.’

Harriet, bewildered and pardonably annoyed, watched the deference with which his instructions were received.

‘How did you manage that?’ she asked.

‘It wasn’t difficult.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you wish to begin our discussion now, or shall we talk about the weather until we have been served?’

‘Now would be best, perhaps,’ she said stiffly. ‘You must be wondering why I asked for this meeting.’

His brows lifted sardonically. ‘I am breathless with curiosity.’

Harriet bit her lip—hard, then addressed herself to the prepared script. ‘First of all,’ she said, ‘I need to apologise for my behaviour at our last meeting. I can only say that I’ve been under a great deal of pressure lately, and your sketch of me was …’

‘The last straw?’ he supplied helpfully as she hesitated.

‘Well, yes,’ she agreed. Although unforgivable was what I really had in mind. ‘I want you to know that I don’t usually lose my temper in such a way.’

‘Reassuring,’ he said. ‘But did you bring me all the way across London just to tell me that?’

‘No, of course not.’ She swallowed. ‘I really want to talk about your work. You see, I wasn’t pretending when I said it was good, and I—I’ve mentioned it to an acquaintance of mine, who owns quite a well-known gallery—the Parsifal. You may have heard of it.’

‘Yes.’ The monosyllable gave nothing away.

Harriet ploughed on. ‘Anyway there’s a chance—if he also thinks you’re good—that he might stage an exhibition for you. Get you launched.’

At which point, the waiters returned. Plates of tiny finger sandwiches, scones, and cakes oozing cream were placed on the table, along with tea for Harriet, and a pot of coffee served black for her companion.

When they were finally alone again, she said, ‘You do realise what could be on offer here. Haven’t you—anything to say?’

‘I think I’m stunned,’ he returned slowly. ‘Also wary.’

‘It’s all perfectly genuine,’ she protested. ‘He’s a prominent figure in the art world. If he decides to feature you at his gallery, it would be a terrific break for your career.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ he said. ‘But what I need to know is why you, of all people, should have recommended me to this person. I find it puzzling.’

‘I feel you have talent which should be recognised. I’d like to play my part in that—recognition.’

She didn’t sound particularly convincing, she thought, vexed, but then the conversation was not going exactly as planned either. How can I ever thank you? was actually the response she’d been hoping for, if not depending on.

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘Is it really that simple?’ He shook his head. ‘Somehow I doubt it. Because I have to tell you, Miss Flint, that you are not my idea of a philanthropist.’

She sat very still. She said, ‘Then you’re not interested in this offer?’

‘Interested, yes, but not overwhelmed. You must understand I need to find out what you expect in return.’ His smile seemed to skin her to the bone. ‘In case the price is more than I’m prepared to pay.’

So that was that. For a moment she felt completely numb, then she reached for her bag. ‘In that case, there’s nothing more to be said. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’

‘Now you’re being a fool,’ he drawled. ‘If you want me to consider your terms, I suggest you stay where you are. Do what the British generally do at a crisis, and drink some tea.’

For a moment, she was tempted to storm out, having first emptied the teapot over his head, then she remembered what was at stake here and reluctantly subsided, giving him a muted glare.

‘Has anyone told you that you’re insolent?’ she enquired coldly.

He shrugged. ‘And you, Miss Flint, are clearly both devious and determined,’ he retorted. ‘Let us accept that neither of us is perfect, and move on.’

She took a breath. ‘I have—a problem. I need a husband.’

He stared at her, eyes narrowed. ‘Then the answer is simple. Get married.’

‘But I don’t want to be married, not now, not ever.’ She spoke with quiet vehemence. ‘However, I don’t have a choice.’ She paused. ‘So, I need someone prepared to go through a marriage ceremony with me, then get out of my life.’

‘And I clearly need more coffee,’ he said. ‘Or even something stronger. Unless, of course, you can promise me that you have not, even for a moment, cast me in this unlikely role.’

‘Listen to me—please.’ She leaned forward. ‘It’s a form of words in a register office—that’s all. We say them—and we split. When the marriage has served its purpose, we divorce. And I pay all the expenses.

‘What’s more, I’ll pay you an additional lump sum big enough for you to stage your own exhibition, if the Parsifal Gallery isn’t interested in your work, or to spend in any other way you please. That’s not a variable. You really won’t lose out over this.’

There was a silence, then he said, ‘Tell me, Miss Flint, how long did it take for you to invent this incredible fantasy?’

She shook her head. ‘No fantasy. I’m deadly serious. And desperate.’

‘I was afraid of that,’ he said grimly. ‘But why?’ His dark gaze seemed to drill into hers. ‘And please do not say it does not concern me, when it clearly does.’

Harriet pushed away her untouched tea. ‘Very well—if you must know,’ she acceded reluctantly, ‘unless I’m married by my twenty-fifth birthday, I stand to lose something that means the world to me.’ She swallowed. ‘My grandfather, who operates from the Dark Ages, insists that he will not allow me to inherit my childhood home if I don’t have a husband to help with the running of the estate. He feels a family house would be wasted on a single woman, and that I might fall prey to unscrupulous—people.’

‘You think a husband picked off the streets would not fall into this category?’

‘Naturally, I would insist on a strict pre-nuptial agreement.’

‘Oh, naturally,’ he said. His expression was deadpan but there was a slight tremor in his voice.

She gave him a suspicious glare. ‘You seem to think it’s funny.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I think it’s tragic.’ He paused. ‘And your birthday is—when?’

‘In six weeks’ time.’

‘Strange,’ he said. ‘I would have thought you much younger.’ He added coolly, ‘And that is not intended as a compliment.’

‘Fortunately, your opinion of me doesn’t matter. My only concern is Gracemead.’ She looked down at her clasped hands. ‘I actually found someone to marry through a personal ad, but a few days ago he suddenly backed out—and now I’m stranded.’

‘Or had a lucky escape,’ he suggested unsmilingly.

‘I saw it as a no-risk strategy,’ Harriet said defiantly. ‘Where we both gain. I still do.’

He said harshly. ‘Then I am not surprised your grandfather wishes you to have a husband. I am only astonished he allows you to go about without a keeper.’

‘How—how dare you?’ Her voice shook. ‘If that’s all you can say, let’s forget the whole thing.’

‘Not so fast,’ he said, and there was a note in his voice that stopped her unwillingly in her tracks. ‘I presume that my introduction to this gallery owner depends on my acquiescence to this monstrous plan—am I right?’

‘Naturally,’ she returned curtly. ‘That’s the deal on the table. A straightforward quid pro quo.’

‘I do not think we share the same understanding of “straightforward”,’ he drawled. ‘How much are you planning to pay in cash for my compliance? I ask only because I have never been for sale before, and I wish to savour the experience—to the full.’

She sat up very straight. ‘The exact terms have to be agreed, but I think you’ll find me generous,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I am quite sure that I will.’

She found his faint smile distinctly unnerving, and continued hastily, ‘Afterwards we would live and work exactly as we do now—apart.’ She coloured a little. ‘And of course you’d be free to conduct your—private life just as you wish. I wouldn’t dream of imposing any restrictions on your personal conduct.’

‘You are too gracious, Miss Flint.’ His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it. ‘And I would also be expected to turn a blind eye if you chose to take a lover? Is that what you’re saying?’

She frowned. ‘Well, no. I mean—how could you possibly know? It’s not as if we’ll be meeting at any point before we divorce.’ She added with constraint, ‘And, anyway, it won’t happen. I have no intention of becoming involved in that kind of relationship.’

‘So sex has no place in your life,’ he murmured, his lips twisting. ‘Well that, perhaps, explains your unpleasant temper.’

She said icily, ‘And that, if I may say so, is a typically male viewpoint.’

‘But I am a man, Miss Flint. What else do you expect?’ He paused. ‘Let us return to essentials. Do you truly believe your grandfather will quietly accept the appearance in your life of some complete stranger? That he will not smell a very large and very pungent rat?’

She shrugged defensively. ‘He’s put his demands in writing. They say nothing about the nature of the relationship, just that it should legally exist. Nor does he mention the length of time any marriage should last. And that’s where he made his mistake.’

She lifted her chin. ‘He thinks he has me over a barrel, but he has to learn that I’m my own woman, and he can’t control me in this way. Also that no contract is entirely foolproof.’

‘Then for once we are in agreement.’ His tone was ironic. ‘But we might differ on who may turn out to be the fool in all this.’

He was silent for a long moment, tapping his fingers restlessly on the table, his glance flickering thoughtfully over her.

At last, ‘Very well, Miss Flint,’ he said quietly. ‘Crazy as it is, I accept your proposal. I will marry you on the terms discussed.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I am—more than grateful.’

Hs glance was frankly cynical. ‘I think that remains to be seen.’ He paused. ‘As we are now officially engaged, am I permitted to call you Harriet?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course.’ She flushed. ‘And I need to know the rest of your name—for when I break the good news to my grandfather.’

‘I am Zandros,’ he said. ‘Roan Zandros.’ He leaned forward, offering his hand, and before she realised what she was doing Harriet allowed her fingers to be clasped by his. His touch was warm and strong, and in spite of herself she felt her pulses leap in an unexpected and unwelcome response.

And saw his firm mouth slant, as if he’d gauged her reaction, and was amused by it.

He said softly, ‘To our better acquaintance, Harriet mou.’ Then, before she could free herself, he raised her hand almost ceremoniously to his lips and kissed it, leaving her gasping.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘WHAT on earth are you doing?’ Harriet snatched back her hand, furiously aware that she was blushing.

‘A formal seal to our betrothal.’ He sounded completely unconcerned. ‘That is all.’

‘Thank you,’ she said grittily. ‘Perhaps we can dispense with any further formalities.’

He was grinning now. ‘Of course, if that is what you wish.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’ Something told her she was being absurd to make such a fuss over so little. After all, the kiss had barely lasted a second. Yet she had a curious conviction that if she looked at her hand she would see the mark of his mouth burning like a brand on her skin.

Anxious to dismiss the incident, she hurried into speech. ‘Zandros—that’s a Greek name?’

‘You seem surprised.’

‘No, not really,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just that—you speak English so well.’

‘I had an English mother, and I spent a lot of time in this country when I was young. Also, it was where I began my education.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Roan said, not unkindly. ‘But there is no reason why you should.’ He paused. ‘So, when do you plan to tell your grandfather about this sudden change in your circumstances?’

‘I’ll go down next weekend and talk to him.’

He nodded meditatively. ‘And how will you explain me? I cannot be the grandson he had in mind.’

‘No,’ Harriet agreed. ‘Quite the contrary, which makes it all the better.’

His glance held faint reproof. ‘In your view, perhaps. But if I may offer some advice,’ he added dryly, ‘you should not gloat too openly over your victory. A man does not like to find himself bested by a woman.’

‘Too bad,’ she said. ‘But it’s hardly that, because I’m doing exactly what he wants. So how can he complain if I interpret that in my own way?’

‘Experience suggests he may complain very bitterly. Does your desire for this pile of bricks and mortar really justify causing such upset?’

Harriet looked down at the table. She said constrictedly, ‘Don’t get me wrong. I love him—I really do. But he doesn’t understand my need to live as an independent woman, and he never has. He has to accept that.’

‘And your parents? What have they to say about this?’

She said, ‘They’re—no longer around.’

He glanced at her frowningly. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ve had years to grow accustomed to it.’

‘You are fortunate. My mother died nearly three years ago, and she is still constantly in my thoughts.’ He leaned back in his chair, his gaze watchful. ‘This house you want so much—without marriage, who will be there to inherit it when you are gone?’

She said defensively, ‘I could always adopt a child.’

‘A single woman?’ His brows rose. ‘Does the law allow this?’

‘Why not? After all, I shan’t be poor, and money opens all kinds of doors.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am beginning to see that.’ His smile was ironic. ‘But, as one of those doors has opened for me, I can hardly complain.’ He paused again. ‘You do not think that one day you will meet a man you can love, and wish to have his babies?’

‘No,’ Harriet said shortly. ‘I don’t. And may we please leave my personal foibles to one side, and get back to business? I’d already started on the arrangements when I thought I was going to marry—the other man, but there’s still a great deal to do.’ She looked down at her bare hands. ‘For one thing, I need a ring.’

‘That is usually the bridegroom’s responsibility,’ he said. ‘Therefore, you may leave it to me.’

‘It’s hardly an expense you can afford,’ she returned. ‘Besides, you don’t know the correct size.’

‘I could make an educated guess.’ He looked her over, eyes narrowed. ‘As I could do about the size of everything you are wearing at this moment. Do you wish me to demonstrate?’

She was infuriated to realise that her face was burning again. She said with a snap, ‘No, thank you.’ She got to her feet, and he stood up too, making her aware all over again of how tall he was, and how broad his shoulders were under the cling of his shirt. She added hurriedly, ‘There’ll be things to sign—papers and such. My lawyer will contact you.’

She paused. ‘The date of the wedding—is there any particular day of the week that you’d find inconvenient?’

‘You are most considerate,’ he said courteously. ‘However, I will make quite sure I’m available when you require me to be so.’

‘Then I’ll arrange for Mr Slevin to come to your studio,’ she said. ‘I—I hope the visit goes well. His backing would be such a fantastic boost for you.’

She realised she was babbling again, and stopped, rummaging inside her bag for her wallet instead. She put some notes on the table. ‘That should cover the bill.’ She sent him a bright, meaningless smile. ‘If you want to order anything else, please do so.’

For an instant, there was an odd silence—almost a tension in the air. Then Roan bent his head in polite acknowledgement, and the moment passed.

All the same, her goodbye was faintly uncertain as she took her departure. And as she emerged into the street, she found she was strangely breathless.

But why? she wondered. Because I should be cheering, now that I’ve solved my problem at last.

Except, she reminded herself as she signalled to a passing taxi, that I still have to tell Grandfather.

The week that followed was a busy one. Harriet spent the latter part of it in the Midlands, revisiting the sites she’d targeted on earlier trips, and taking extensive photographs to accompany her redrafted report, when it was prepared, and support its recommendations. Nothing this time would be left to chance, she thought with grim determination. Whatever the questions, she would have all the answers.

However, in spite of this resolution, she seemed to be finding concentration difficult, particularly as she wasn’t sleeping too well at nights.

Clearly the forthcoming confrontation with her grandfather must be preying on her mind rather more than she’d expected, she told herself wryly.

When she got back to London on Friday afternoon, the atmosphere at Flint Audley was festive. Gina, who worked in Accounting, was having a birthday, and a cake, complete with candles, had been cut up and passed around the office at teatime. And after work, everyone was going out for a celebratory drink. Or all except one …

‘We didn’t think you’d be back,’ Gina informed Harriet offhandedly. ‘But you’re welcome to join us—if you want,’ she added, eying Harriet’s serviceable black pants and tunic top with ill-concealed disfavour.

‘Thank you,’ Harriet returned with equal insincerity. ‘But I’m going down to the country this evening.’

‘Off to the stately pile?’ Jon Audley joined them, his smile malicious. ‘Dad always thought it would divide up into great flats, and I’m sure he was right. There’s even enough land to construct a nine-hole golf course as a total bonus. Something to bear in mind when it finally falls into your waiting hands, Harriet dear.’

She looked back at him evenly. ‘Except that Gracemead is not for sale,’ she said. ‘Not now. Not ever.’

‘Always supposing you have the choice,’ he murmured, and walked away, leaving her staring after him, more shaken than she cared to admit. Had rumours of her grandfather’s intentions somehow reached Flint Audley?

If so, it would give her intense pleasure to prove them unfounded.

Because, whether Gregory Flint liked it or not, he would have to accept her unlikely bridegroom.

Her own attitude to him, however, seemed less easy to define.

While she’d been away, she’d found Roan Zandros in her thoughts far more than she wished. She wasn’t altogether sure she hadn’t dreamed about him, but, if so, her memories were thankfully hazy.

She could only be certain that he wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she originally devised her plan.

And in some ways she wished he’d turned her down, and walked away.

Oh, come on, she adjured herself impatiently. That’s defeatist thinking. He’s a means to an end, that’s all. A business deal. And you’ll have a firewall to protect you anyway, with your pre-nuptial agreement.

Back at the flat, she showered quickly and shampooed her hair. She’d intended to wear it up, or braid it, but she was running late, so she decided for once simply to brush it and leave it loose.

There was a beige linen shift dress in her wardrobe, and she changed into it with reluctance, her grandfather’s preferences and prejudices at the forefront of her mind. He preferred her to wear skirts, and there was no point in getting off on the wrong foot, and upsetting him over something as trivial as her choice of clothing.

However, he’d sounded genuinely pleased when she phoned to say she was coming down. Their recent meetings had been less frequent than usual, and overshadowed by the inevitable tensions arising from his ultimatum.

Maybe he hoped that some kind of reconciliation was on the cards, and, if so, she would listen. But only if he relented sufficiently to let her off the hook.

She bit her lip. It was far more likely that she’d have to proceed with her bargain, and go through a wedding ceremony with Roan Zandros.

After which, her life would just—continue as usual.

While she packed her weekend case, she listened to the messages on her answering machine. An investment group was offering her a financial health check. Her oldest friend Tessa wanted her to come to dinner. ‘Bill says it’s been far too long, and he’s right, Harry, love. Where does the time go, I ask myself? So call us.’

And her lawyer, Isobel Crane, had also phoned, to tell her that the pre-nuptial agreement had been prepared according to her instructions, and was ready for signature, but might need further discussion.

In other words, she wants to talk me out of the whole thing, Harriet thought, her lips twisting wryly. Well, nothing new there.

She was a little disappointed that there was no message from Desmond Slevin, who’d been planning to visit Roan’s studio two days earlier. But he was a busy man, she told herself, and maybe there’d been no opportunity as yet. It was certainly too soon to give up hope.

Besides, whatever Desmond’s decision, Roan Zandros would get his exhibition. That was the deal, and whatever it cost, it would be worth it.

At least, that’s what I have to believe, she thought, and realised with shock that it was the first time she’d even been remotely doubtful about what she was doing.

And her doubts multiplied on the way down, so that when she drove into the village a couple of hours later, she felt almost sick with nerves. Any sense of triumph had long since dissipated. Now she was simply doing what she must to safeguard her inheritance.

When she reached Gracemead, she parked at the rear of the house, near the old stable block, and went in through the kitchen to be met by the enticing aroma of roast duck, unless she missed her guess.

Mrs Wade, a little stouter and greyer, was whipping thick cream to accompany the chocolate mousse which was one of her masterpieces. She greeted Harriet with affection, and told her that Mr Flint was in the drawing room.

‘With his visitor, Miss Harriet,’ she added.

Harriet grimaced inwardly. She’d hoped to have her grandfather all to herself, so she could break the news about her wedding before she lost her nerve. But maybe his company wouldn’t stay long.

She dropped her case in the hall, and went into the drawing room, only to find it empty. But the French windows were standing open to the evening sun, and she could hear the faint rumble of her grandfather’s voice coming from the terrace outside.

Taking a deep breath, she went out to join him.

Gregory Flint was standing at the balustrade, gesturing expansively as he indicated points of interest in the gardens spread out before them to the man at his side, too wrapped up in one of his favourite topics to notice her arrival.

Although she could only see his companion’s back, she knew instinctively that he was not one of the locals, but someone she’d never seen before, tall and soberly suited, a dark silhouette against the sunset’s brightness.

A complete stranger, she thought. Or was he …?

She halted suddenly, staring at the strong shoulders and narrow hips set off by some expensive tailoring. Feeling her mouth turn dry as her brain tried to reject the evidence being presented by her eyes. Telling herself—no—it wasn’t—couldn’t be possible …

And as if aware of her scrutiny, he turned slowly and looked at her as she stood, hesitating, by the drawing room windows.

‘Agapi mou,’ Roan Zandros said, smiling, and walked towards her, his dark eyes sweeping over her in a frank appraisal that reminded her that it was the first time he’d seen her wearing a dress, and also that her hair had dried into a waving, unruly cloud on her shoulders. The lingering look he was bestowing on her legs as he approached only served to add outrage to her anger at this unwarranted intrusion—here at her home, her sanctuary.

She managed the single word, ‘What—?’ before his arms went round her, pulling her towards him, and jerking the breath out of her.

He bent towards her, shielding her with his body to give the impression that they were locked in a passionate embrace, as he stared down into her frantically widening eyes. His mouth an indrawn breath from hers, he whispered, ‘Smile, Harriet. Pretend you are pleased to see me.’

Then he swung her round, his arm holding her firmly, his hand resting on her hip in a gesture of unmistakable possession, as they faced her grandfather together.

‘Well, my dear.’ Gregory Flint’s tone might be mild, but his eyes were watchful under their shaggy brows. ‘I gather from this young man that I must wish you happiness.’ He paused. ‘I confess I had no idea that there was anyone in your life, and this visit came as a complete surprise to me.’

And to me, thought Harriet as she lifted her chin, her gaze meeting his with a serenity she was far from feeling. ‘A pleasant one, I hope, Grandfather.’

‘I hope so too,’ he agreed dryly. ‘I told your fiancé frankly, Harriet, that he was not what I had expected, but he assures me that his prospects are excellent, and I am obliged to believe him.’

Roan said quietly, ‘Harriet has been away, and therefore does not know that Desmond Slevin has agreed to exhibit my work at the Parsifal Gallery. I heard from him today.’

‘Oh.’ Harriet swallowed. ‘Well, that’s wonderful news. I’m—delighted for you. Darling,’ she added belatedly.

Roan’s smile did not reach his eyes. ‘And I owe all my good fortune to you, my sweet one.’ He turned back to Gregory Flint. ‘I hope, sir, we have your consent to our marriage—and your blessing.’

‘For what it’s worth—yes.’ There was a hint of grimness in Gregory Flint’s faint smile. ‘I’m sure any opinion of mine will make no difference at all to your plans.’

He looked at his watch. ‘Dinner will be in forty minutes. Why don’t you show Mr Zandros the garden, my dear, and enjoy your reunion in private? I expect you have a lot to talk about.’

Roan held her arm as they descended the shallow stone steps leading to the lawn. He said very softly, ‘If you wish to attack me, Harriet mou, I suggest you wait. And don’t pull away from me. We are still under surveillance.’

‘How dare you?’ she muttered furiously in return, her entire body rigid. ‘How dare you—barge in like this?’

‘No barging was necessary,’ he returned calmly. ‘I rang the bell, and was admitted like any other visitor.’

‘But how did you find your way here in the first place?’

‘It wasn’t difficult. I knew your grandfather’s name, and that of the house. I simply—made enquiries.’

‘I think you must have gone completely mad.’ She shook her head. ‘Whatever possessed you to come here—and ask his permission, for God’s sake? I feel as if I’m taking part in some costume drama on television.’

‘From what you have told me,’ he said slowly, ‘it seemed that your grandfather was an old-fashioned man, who might prefer such a gesture instead of merely being told of your decision—which he might interpret as deliberate provocation.’

‘Oh, you know so much about it, naturally.’ She tugged herself free, no longer caring if they were being watched.

He shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’ve dealt with autocrats before. Pitched battles are rarely the answer.’ He smiled at her. ‘An element of surprise is often more successful.’

Yes, she thought, seething. I’ve just discovered that for myself.

Aloud, she said, ‘It didn’t occur to you to consult me first?’

‘You were not around to consult, Harriet mou,’ he pointed out, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. ‘Besides, I was certain you would refuse.’

‘How right you were,’ she said stormily, and relapsed into another simmering silence. At the same time, she took her first proper look at him.

Little wonder she hadn’t recognised him immediately, she thought in bewilderment. Because there wasn’t a scrap of torn denim or a paint stain in sight. The charcoal suit he was wearing might not be new, but it was unmistakably elegant. His white shirt was crisp, his tie was silk, and his shoes, amazingly, were polished. He even appeared—dear God—to be wearing socks.

His hair was still too long, at least by Gregory Flint’s exacting standards, but it had been trimmed, and he was immaculately shaven. During those few unpleasant seconds when she’d been in his arms, she’d been aware of a faint, beguiling hint of expensive cologne.

In fact she had to admit that he scrubbed up quite well, she thought reluctantly, then realised that he was watching her in turn, his smile widening as if he’d guessed exactly what she was thinking.

Embarrassment prompted her into waspishness. ‘So where did you get the clothes—some upmarket charity shop?’

‘I thought you would be pleased,’ he said, ‘to find me correctly dressed for my part. As you are too, Harriet mou,’ he added dryly. ‘For once you have decided to abandon your usual camouflage and look like a woman.’

She managed to turn her instinctive gasp into a deep breath. She said stonily, ‘May I remind you that we have a strictly business arrangement, and therefore sexist remarks are neither required nor appreciated?’

His tone was silky. ‘But sometimes irresistible, nonetheless. And now shall we continue to explore the grounds? They are very beautiful.’

‘Is that what it’s all about—this unexpected visit?’ She swung to face him again. ‘To assess the estate, and see what extra pickings there might be? Because, if so, you’ll be disappointed, Mr Zandros. You get your exhibition and some money in your pocket, but nothing more. The pre-nuptial agreement I’ve had drawn up gives you no other claim.’

He remained annoyingly unfazed. ‘I cannot wait to read this fascinating document,’ he said softly. ‘However, I came here solely out of curiosity, Harriet mou. I wished to see for myself what there could be about this place that would make you to risk so much for its possession.’ He gestured around him. ‘Can this really be all that constitutes happiness for you?’

‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ she said defiantly. ‘Besides, it’s none of your business.’

‘I think you made it my business when you asked me to marry you.’

‘Well, we’re not likely to agree about that,’ Harriet said coldly. ‘As a matter of interest, just how long are you planning to stay?’

‘I leave in the morning. I have work to do for the exhibition.’ He paused. ‘Does that reassure you?’

‘Not particularly,’ she said. ‘So, let me make something clear. This will be your first and last visit to this house. When you go tomorrow, you do not come back—on any pretext.’

‘I think that is a decision for your grandfather to make,’ Roan said with equal iciness. ‘You do not rule here yet, Harriet mou. Maybe you should remember that.’ He paused, his dark gaze sweeping over her with something like contempt in its depths. ‘And now I find I would prefer to continue my tour of this garden alone. Your company does nothing for the beauty of the landscape.’

And he walked away, leaving her staring after him, open-mouthed, as she searched for a riposte that would reduce him to a pile of smoking ash, and failed dismally to find one.

Harriet did not return to the house immediately. She told herself that she needed to regain some measure of composure before she faced her grandfather’s hawk gaze again, and responded to the inevitable inquisition.

Yet it wasn’t Gregory Flint, or his possible reaction to recent events, which occupied the forefront of her mind as she made a long slow circuit of the lawns. And for once the gardens she knew and loved were not having their usual soothing effect.

Because Roan Zandros was getting in the way. How dared he look at her—speak to her like that? she asked herself furiously, defensively, especially when he’d had the unmitigated gall to appear at Gracemead uninvited and unwanted—a blatant intruder in her private and beloved world.

Well, she would have to teach him, and pretty damn quick, that his interference was unwarranted and unappreciated. Maybe a clause in the contract was needed, actually forbidding his return to Gracemead under any pretext.

He had to learn his place in their arrangement, and cosy visits were not on the agenda. Not now, and definitely not in the future.

She found her grandfather in the drawing room pouring sherry. He turned and looked at her, brows raised enquiringly. ‘You’re alone?’

‘Why, yes.’ She smiled brightly. ‘I turned out to be not much of a guide, so Roan’s conducting his own tour.’

He handed her a glass of her favourite fino, and gestured her to take a seat on the sofa facing his armchair. ‘You and your fiancé haven’t quarrelled already, I hope.’

‘Of course not,’ she denied swiftly. Too swiftly?

‘Because it occurred to me that you were a little taken aback to find him here,’ Gregory Flint went on. ‘I hope it wasn’t the subject of a disagreement between you.’

Harriet shrugged, trying for rueful amusement. ‘You don’t miss a thing, do you, darling?’

‘I try not to, my dear.’

‘Well, to be honest, I was a little miffed when I realised he’d stolen my thunder.’ Harriet turned it into a faintly wistful confession. ‘And I so much wanted to be the one to break the news to you about our engagement.’

‘I’m quite sure you did.’ There was a dry note in his voice, which did not escape her.

‘Not that it really matters,’ she added hastily. ‘Just as long as you approve of my choice.’

‘Let’s say that I find him a most interesting young man,’ Mr Flint said after a pause. ‘He tells me you met through his work.’

The exact nature of the encounter still had the power to make her grind her teeth, and her smile was taut. ‘We did indeed,’ she said. ‘And it made an unforgettable impression on me.’

‘So I gather.’ He leaned back in his armchair. ‘You feel, then, that he has real talent?’

‘Yes.’ At least she could be totally honest about that. ‘Yes, I do. He has this amazing use of colour—and emotion.’

‘And will that earn him sufficient money to support a wife—and a family?’

Well, he’d slipped that in under the wire, Harriet thought, her heartbeat quickening. ‘I believe so,’ she said. ‘And anyway, I shan’t be giving up my career.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But has it occurred to you that your future husband might have his own ideas?’

Why—what’s he been saying? That was the question she was burning to ask. Instead she said lightly, ‘Even so, we still have to be practical.’

‘And you’ve always been that, Harriet.’ Pensively, Gregory Flint studied the colour of his sherry. ‘Finding solutions to any problems that presented themselves—fighting to stay ahead of the game. Quite admirable in a great many ways.

‘So, I find it all the more surprising that it should be the emotion in Roan’s work that has appealed to you, instead of its strictly commercial aspect. Heart instead of head for once. I congratulate you.’

He raised his glass. ‘And I drink to your future happiness, dear child. But at the same time I find myself wondering if you know—if you really know—exactly what you’re taking on.’

Harriet was still digesting that when Roan rejoined them, smiling pleasantly, his voice unruffled as he praised the gardens with obvious sincerity. And in a way that revealed he knew what he was talking about, she registered sourly.

But gardening couldn’t occupy the entire conversation, and throughout dinner she felt as if she was treading barefoot through broken glass, waiting for her grandfather to ask something—some question about their relationship—some small personal detail that she’d flounder over in humiliating self-betrayal. And what a wide range that offered, she thought.

But she eventually become aware that Roan was manipulating the conversation, quietly and skilfully, moving it away from topics about which she was woefully and dangerously ignorant to more general subjects.

And that under this guise he was actually imparting information—telling her stuff that, by rights, she should already know about the man she was to marry.

For one thing, he mentioned that his father was still alive, and living in Greece, adding casually that his parents had separated while he was a small child, but not elaborating any further.

But when he said that his late mother had been Vanessa Abbot, the celebrated miniaturist, Harriet had to struggle not to let her jaw drop.

Gregory Flint was clearly equally astonished, but all he said was, ‘That explains the artistic talent my granddaughter so admires. Once again, as the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’

But was it true? Harriet wondered grimly, observing from under lowered lashes the sardonic twist of Roan’s lips as he raised his glass and drank. Because she wouldn’t put it past her grandfather to check. And would his other claim to have attended a famous English public school stand up to scrutiny either?

Oh, God, she thought, seething, there would have been no need for any of this nonsense if Roan Zandros had simply—stayed away and minded his own business.

As dinner ended, Harriet heard with relief Roan accepting her grandfather’s surprisingly genial challenge to a game of chess. Wonderful game, she thought, played mainly in silence, which suited her just fine, because she wasn’t sure that her nervous system could stand any more questionable revelations.

She waited until they were well settled with their brandy over the ivory and ebony board, then smothered a manufactured yawn.

‘Oh dear,’ she said sweetly. ‘I’m afraid my hectic week is catching up with me. If you’ll both excuse me, I think I’ll have an early night.’

She blew a smiling kiss aimed somewhere between the pair of them, and headed out of the drawing room, longing only to reach the safety of her room.

But as she reached the foot of the stairs she heard Roan say her name, and looked round, alarmed, to see him closing the drawing room door behind him before walking towards her across the hall.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded defensively.

‘I am merely obeying instructions, matia mou.’ He shrugged, his eyes glinting in amusement. ‘Your grandfather has sent me to bid you a romantic goodnight in private, while he considers his next move.’

‘Well, consider it done,’ she said curtly. ‘And I only hope you can remember the details of the rubbish you’ve been talking over dinner, because he has the memory of an elephant. Whatever possessed you to come out with all that stuff?’

‘Because I thought it was what he wanted to hear, Harriet mou,’ he drawled. ‘A reassurance that you were not throwing yourself away on—nobody.’

‘Just a liar and a conman, instead,’ Harriet said scornfully. ‘But maybe that’s all to the good. At least he won’t be able to oppose the divorce when I confess tearfully how you betrayed and deceived me. In essence, made utter fools of us both.’

He gave her a meditative look. ‘You don’t think that is a little harsh—on someone who wants only your happiness?’

‘Except that Grandfather and I don’t agree on what that involves.’ She paused. ‘And let me remind you that I’ve paid for your acquiescence, Mr Zandros, not your opinion.’

‘Perhaps you are the one who needs a reminder, Harriet mou,’ he said softly. Without warning his hands descended on her shoulders, jerking her towards him, and before she could utter any kind of protest his mouth took hers in a long, hard, and arrogantly deliberate kiss.

She tried to struggle—to free herself—but the arms holding her were far too strong, and determined. She could hardly breathe—let alone speak—or think.

She began to feel giddy, tiny coloured sparks dancing behind her closed eyelids, as the relentless pressure of his lips went on—and on—carrying her into some dark and swirling eternity.

And then—as suddenly as it had begun—it was over, and Roan was stepping back, putting her at arm’s length, his dark eyes watching her unsmilingly.

Harriet stood, swaying slightly, lifting shaking fingers to touch the ravaged contours of her mouth, her mind blurred—incredulous. She tried to say something, but no words would come.

‘Is that acquiescent enough for you, kyria?’ His voice seemed to reach her across some vast wasteland. ‘I would not wish you to feel you were wasting your money.’ He added harshly, ‘Now, go to bed, and I hope you enjoy your dreams.’

And he turned and went back across the wide hall into the drawing room, leaving her dazed and trembling. Aware only that, in some strange way, she was suddenly more utterly alone than she’d ever been in her life before.

CHAPTER FIVE

IT HAD not been passion. Even someone as woefully inexperienced as Harriet could appreciate that. On the contrary, it had been, she thought, more of a calculated insult. She’d provoked him. He’d responded. And that was it.

Her mouth still felt faintly swollen from his unwanted attentions, she realised with disgust, and there was a strange ache in her breasts—the result of them being crushed against the hardness of his chest, no doubt.

A sensation she would give a great deal to forget, she thought, drawing a quick sharp breath. No one had ever—handled her like that before. She’d made deadly sure of that. It was the stuff her worst nightmares were made of.

But on this occasion she hadn’t seen it coming, and therefore she hadn’t been able to take the evasive action she’d brought to a fine art.

But matters couldn’t rest there. That was obvious. So, in the morning she would have to do—something. But what?

Because, technically, it was already morning, and, even though she’d been lying there for hours, staring sleeplessly into the darkness, she still hadn’t the least idea how to deal with the situation.

The obvious answer, of course, was to abandon the whole idea. Tell him she’d changed her mind and the deal was off. That there would be no wedding.

And therefore no Gracemead either, she thought, pain twisting inside her, because then she’d have to confess to her grandfather and reap the inevitable consequences. He would naturally demand an explanation for the collapse of her ‘engagement’, and there was no way she’d be able to hide the truth from him for long, even if Roan kept his mouth shut, which was by no means certain.

And that meant she’d also have to bear with Gramps’s anger and disappointment over her attempt to deceive him. And, quite rightly, he’d never trust her again.

She could feel the sting of tears in her eyes—taste their acridity in her throat.

I should never have started this, she told herself in desolation. Because nothing—nothing is worth this kind of pain, and that bastard was quite right about that, damn him.

What was more, that same bastard would still be around to be dealt with, she reminded herself grimly. She’d have to fulfil her commitments to him. The deal with the gallery was already set up, so there was nothing she could do about that. But she guessed she’d have to pay him the agreed lump sum too, if only to make him go away.

But perhaps that was exactly what he wanted her to do, she thought, sitting up suddenly as if she’d been jabbed by a cattle prod. Maybe he’d figured out exactly how to push her to the limit, and that—travesty of a kiss had simply been a deliberate ploy to get her to cry off.

In that way he could avoid keeping his part of the bargain, and walk away with everything he wanted. Leaving her plans in ruins yet again.

Just a conman after all, completing his ‘sting’, she thought, aware of an odd stir of disappointment.

But only if she let him, she rallied herself. And maybe he hadn’t taken that into his calculations while he was—mauling her.

Well, now it was time to demonstrate that she was made of stronger stuff.

Because she wouldn’t let him win. There was too much at stake for her to draw back now, however compelling the reason might seem.

So, she would treat the entire episode as some—temporary aberration, she planned, her heart racing. Dismiss it lightly as an irrelevance. Make it clear that all she wanted was his name on a marriage certificate, following which he could—paint himself into a corner for all she cared.

At the same time, she had to admit that he’d forced her to become altogether too aware of him as a man, rather than a signature on the dotted line she required. In fact, if she was honest, he’d been an irritation—an all-singing, all-dancing thorn in her side—from the moment they’d met.

And now flesh and blood instead of the obedient, malleable figment of her imagination—and her will. And she found the reality—disturbing. She’d needed a stranger who would remain strictly a stranger, and suddenly it had become—up close and personal. Dear God, he was here—sleeping in one of the guest rooms. Or awake and thinking—what?

But I can’t let it matter, she thought, staring round the moonlit room. This is my home. It’s my own place—the only security I’ve ever known, and I won’t let him take it away from me.

So, I’ll just have to be more careful in future.

When she arrived, heavy-eyed and faintly jittery, in the breakfast room next morning, it was to find Roan in sole occupancy, finishing off what appeared to be a substantial plate of bacon, mushrooms and scrambled egg.

‘Kalimera.’ He got politely to his feet. ‘Your grandfather asked me to say that he will be breakfasting in his room today.’

‘Oh.’ Harriet poured cereal into a bowl and added milk. She frowned. ‘He’s not ill, is he?’

‘Not at all.’ As she sat down, Roan resumed his own seat, then poured her a cup of freshly brewed coffee, and handed it to her. A civility which she accepted with gritted teeth. ‘I believe he thinks we might appreciate some time alone together.’

‘How very misguided of him,’ she returned coolly. ‘How did the chess go?’

‘It ended in stalemate.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Neither of us seemed able to find the other’s weak point.’

‘Grandfather doesn’t have one,’ she said. ‘I suggest you play your games elsewhere in future.’

‘Your early night,’ he said slowly, ‘does not seem to have sweetened your temper, Harriet mou. Is it possible you have changed your mind about marrying me?’

Dream on, she told him silently.

Aloud, ‘Certainly not,’ she said briskly. ‘Unlikely as it may seem, you appear to have ingratiated yourself with my grandfather, so once you’ve signed the pre-nuptial agreement the ceremony can go ahead as planned, and with his blessing.’

‘Although not in his presence,’ Roan said quietly. ‘He told me he does not approve of civil ceremonies. They smack, he says, too much of the rubber stamp.’

She gasped. ‘You mean you invited him?’

‘I thought he might wish to give you away, Harriet mou.’

‘Well, thank goodness he didn’t,’ she said roundly. ‘It could have caused all kinds of problems. As it is, we can just—seal the deal, and go our separate ways.’ She offered him a small chilly smile. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

There was a silence then he said, too courteously, ‘I live for the moment.’ He rose to his feet. ‘And now I must tear myself from you, Harriet mou. A cab is coming to take me to the station.’ He paused. ‘You need not accompany me to the door. We can let your grandfather assume we said a tender goodbye to each other in private.’

‘You’re all consideration,’ she said tautly. ‘But I always prefer to see visitors off the premises.’

His brows lifted. ‘You are not very trusting, my sweet one.’

‘Small wonder,’ she said. ‘And please don’t call me by that ridiculous name. I am neither sweet nor yours.’

He looked at her for a long moment, and she felt her heartbeat quicken involuntarily—uncontrollably.

But when he spoke, there was no hint of anger in his voice. ‘It is not easy to please you, Harriet. But—I shall continue to try just the same.’ He then added quietly, ‘Now, finish your breakfast in peace.’

And he went, leaving Harriet sitting at the table, staring at absolutely nothing, her cereal uneaten and unwanted.

It would have to be the beige linen shift again, Harriet realised as she prepared to dress for her wedding. It was either that or one of her innumerable shapeless black trouser suits. She had nothing else in her wardrobe.

And the dress was freshly laundered, she thought, regarding herself critically in the mirror. It looked clean and crisp enough.

Yet it occurred to her, uneasily, that maybe she should have stretched a point and bought something to be married in. Not a wedding dress, as such. Nothing white or—or virginal. That was going too far. But something simple and pretty that would also do service on summer evenings, and during weekends down at Gracemead.

And perhaps she should have tied her hair back for once with something more elegant than an elastic band.

But why am I beating myself up about this? she asked herself with impatience. It’s not as if it’s a real wedding, or I’m a real bride. And Roan will probably turn up in jeans anyway.

Nevertheless, she felt a vague dissatisfaction as she took a final look at herself, and left the bedroom.

She’d ordered a cab to take her to the register office, but it wasn’t due for another five minutes, so she filled the time writing Roan’s cheque, and putting it in an envelope with one of her office compliment slips. After a moment’s thought, she took the slip out again, and wrote on it, ‘With every good wish for the future.’

The personal touch, she thought, her mouth twisting.

Then she sat on the edge of the sofa feeling oddly lost, her calm, pared-down environment for once failing to soothe her.

Not that there was anything to worry about. It was all going according to plan. And Roan had gone to her lawyer’s office and signed the pre-nuptial agreement without a murmur.

‘Although I feared the worst,’ Isobel had told her. ‘He turned up with his own legal eagle—a guy called Jack Maxwell who’s pretty high-powered—and they spent quite some time going through it, line by line. I hope we haven’t forgotten anything.’

She’d paused. ‘I also hope you know what you’re doing, Harry. What do you really know about this man, except that he’s broke and gorgeous?’

‘I know he’s a brilliant artist,’ Harriet returned a touch defensively. ‘That his mother was a well-known painter too, who met his father while she was on holiday in Greece. Apparently he’s involved in the Greek tourist industry, or so Roan told Gramps over their chess game. Which means that the old boy probably owns a taverna, and the son didn’t fancy a life waiting on tables. And he can hardly be blamed for that.’

‘No,’ Isobel agreed. ‘He didn’t seem too thrilled, by the way, with the clause barring him from Gracemead and any further contact with your grandfather.’

‘Pure safety measure.’ Harriet paused. ‘But he needs the money too much to make a fuss.’

‘Really?’ Isobel asked sceptically. ‘I reckon he could earn more by renting himself out in the afternoons.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re taking too much on trust here, Harry. Why not put the thing on hold while I make some proper enquiries about him?’

‘You wouldn’t require background checks if I was—hiring a decorator,’ Harriet argued. ‘Well, the same principle applies. He does the job he’s paid for, then walks. It’s that simple.’

Only, now the day had come, the situation seemed marginally more complex.

God knew, she’d never intended to be married, but on the rare occasions when the thought had crossed her mind, she’d not visualised a wedding like this. Or imagined that after the ceremony she’d be going back to work as if nothing had happened.

But then no bridegroom in her imagination had ever resembled Roan Zandros either, she reminded herself wryly, as the buzzer sounded, signalling the arrival of her taxi.

As she walked into the building that housed the register office, she found herself half hoping that Roan wouldn’t be there. That his married blonde lady had raised some insuperable objection to the plan.

But that was defeatist thinking, she told herself, just when she was on the brink of achieving exactly what she wanted.

And of course he was there, in the waiting room, wearing, she noticed instantly, another elegant dark suit, with a white rose in his buttonhole.

He must have a friend with an extensive wardrobe, Harriet thought, drawing a deep breath as she made herself walk forward. But neither of the men waiting with him was tall enough. Although the pair of them were equally smartly garbed, and also wearing white roses.

Very festive, she thought, biting her lip. Whereas she didn’t have as much as a daisy to carry—a point that clearly wasn’t lost on anyone present. Making her feel as if she was having one of those ghastly dreams where you found yourself attending a Buckingham Palace garden party in your underwear.

Making her wish suddenly—ridiculously—that she had tried harder, instead of dressing down in her usual anonymous manner. Taken the trouble to have her hair done, and fitted in a professional make-up and manicure.

That just for once she’d turned herself into a girl a man might genuinely want to marry, so that they’d be looking at her now with admiration rather than blank astonishment. Because, however little it might feel like it, she was a bride, and this was her wedding day.

One of Roan’s companions came over to her. He was stockily built, with sandy hair, and a square-chinned good-looking face currently marred by a faintly inimical expression.

‘Good morning, Miss Flint.’ He spoke without particular warmth. ‘I’m Jack Maxwell, and this is my colleague Carl Winston. We’re here as witnesses.’

He looked more like a rugby player than a tough lawyer, Harriet thought with surprise.

He went on, ‘Perhaps you might like to fulfil the financial part of your agreement with my client now? He’s authorised me to accept the money on his behalf.’

Surprised, she glanced at Roan, who nodded unsmilingly, then handed over the envelope, wishing she hadn’t included that stupid message. Wishing all kinds of confused things but principally that she was anywhere but here.

Or in this other room, across the corridor, facing a grey-haired woman in a smart blue suit, repeating the words she was being asked to say, and holding out her hand so that Roan could place a gold ring on her third finger.

And then, so quickly, it was all over, and they were outside in the sunlight, but no one was throwing confetti or rose petals, nor was there a car to drive away in with her new husband, or any well-wishers waving and pointing cameras.

Nor, thankfully, had anyone suggested that they should kiss the bride, least of all the groom.

There was a difficult silence, then Jack Maxwell said, ‘Well, friends, I move that we find a bar, and some lunch.’

Harriet’s lips were parting to tell him she had to go to the office when she realised, just in time, that the invitation was not intended for her.

But if they imagined she was just going to slink away, as if she was ashamed of what she’d done, they could think again, she decided, lifting her chin.

She approached Roan, smiling brightly. ‘Goodbye, Mr Zandros.’ Her voice was crystal-clear. ‘It’s been a pleasure to do business with you.’ She tugged off her wedding ring and handed it to him. ‘A small souvenir of the transaction,’ she added, and walked away without looking back.

It was not one of Harriet’s better afternoons. It seemed to consist of numerous small, irritating tasks that needed lengthy phone calls to resolve them, and by the end of the day she still wasn’t convinced she’d achieved very much. Nor had she been given a chance to look at the Midlands project.

Worst of all, as she was leaving, Tony asked her to call at Hayford House on her way home, to listen to complaints about the housekeeping and maintenance service from some of the tenants.

And there were plenty of them. She listened patiently, making notes about communal areas left uncleaned and untidy, the unmended tumble dryer in the basement laundry, the replacement door chains not yet fitted, the unsatisfactory garbage collection, plus assorted dripping taps and faulty ballcocks.

‘We’re sorry to make a fuss, but we have raised these points before.’ Mrs Guthrie, an elderly widow, smiled apologetically. ‘Mr Audley was charming, but obviously a very busy young man, so our little domestic concerns may have slipped his mind.’

Well, thank you, Tony, Harriet thought furiously. You might have warned me I was clearing up one of Jon Audley’s messes. And in the morning I shall send that—charmer—an e-mail that will make his nose bleed.

As she went home, still seething, it occurred to her that she’d been sidelined a fair bit over the past couple of weeks—assigned to cope with details rather than the big picture. Or was she just being paranoid?

Whatever, she needed to regain some of the ground she appeared to have lost, or at this rate she might find herself being sent out at lunchtimes to pick up the sandwiches.

Thinking of food reminded her of how little she’d had to eat that day, and that even less awaited her in the fridge at home.

Perhaps it was just hunger that was prompting this uneasy, restless feeling, and a good meal would have her firing on all cylinders again. Maybe even celebrating her victory over Gracemead, which had somehow become relegated to the back of her mind.

She stopped off at her local branch of a popular restaurant chain, where she ordered herself a fillet steak with fries and all the trimmings, including a glass of red wine, and followed this up with a slice of lemon meringue pie served with thick cream, and two cups of strong coffee.

She felt more contented when she arrived back at the flat. And she’d be better still once she’d taken a relaxing bath. She might even feel like tackling her report on the tenants’ grievances, to present to Tony in the morning. Make him see she was a force to be reckoned with.

The sunset glow was already fading from the sky, so she closed the blinds in the living room and lit a couple of lamps before making for her bathroom with a sigh of anticipation, discarding her clothing as she went.

It was almost an hour later when, dried and scented, she put on a new pair of peach satin pyjamas, and began slowly to brush her newly freed chestnut hair back from her face, enjoying the luxurious sensation of the soft fabric gliding against her skin as her arm moved slowly and rhythmically.

Relishing the perfect order of her environment, with her room tidied and the bed turned down. Looking forward to the peace of the evening ahead of her, and the chance to feel totally relaxed at last.

Except…

She paused, frowning a little, wondering if she’d acquired a new and noisy neighbour, because she was sure she’d heard a door opening and closing not too far away.

In fact, altogether too near for comfort.

For a moment Harriet stood motionless, hardly breathing, as she listened, telling herself it was pure imagination. That it couldn’t possibly be her own door, because she’d locked up securely, as always.

But for the first time Harriet regretted there was no phone extension in the bedroom. Wished she hadn’t left her mobile in her briefcase by the sofa.

Not, of course, that there was anything to worry about. One of this apartment block’s advantages was a concierge service, and no one ever got past George, an ex-Royal Marine. The events of the day had left her edgy, that was all.

Just the same …

Taking a deep breath, she put down her brush, and trod barefoot to the doorway which led into her living room.

Where she stopped abruptly, gasping as if a monstrous hand had descended on her ribcage, squeezing the breath from her lungs.

‘Kalispera, Harriet mou,’ Roan Zandros said softly, and smiled at her in the lamplight.

He was standing in the centre of the room, still dressed pretty much as he’d been at the wedding, except that his tie had gone, leaving his shirt open at the throat, and he had a small but serviceable rucksack slung across one shoulder.

‘What are you doing here?’ She was proud of her voice, cool, uncompromising and steady as a rock. Especially as every pulse in her body was going suddenly crazy—thudding out a tattoo—a call to arms. When her legs were shaking so badly she had to resist an impulse to lean against the doorframe for support.

‘Where else should I be?’ He dropped the rucksack on to the black kid sofa, following it with his jacket. The dark eyes challenged her. ‘We were married today, or had you forgotten?’

‘We went through a ceremony, certainly,’ she returned curtly. He must have got her address from the pre-nuptial agreement, which he was now flouting, of course, she thought frantically. And swallowed. ‘How did you get in here, anyway?’

‘The concierge loaned me the spare key.’ He paused. ‘I am to return it in the morning.’

The precise implications of that dried her throat to sand.

This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be here, invading her privacy, intruding on her personal space, not when he’d promised—promised …

And seeing her off-guard, she realised, as no one was allowed to. And when—dear God—her only covering was a thin layer of satin.

Something that was not lost on him either, as she felt his eyes travelling slowly over her from the top of her head down to her bare toes. Saw his smile widen.

But she couldn’t waste time worrying about her clothing, or lack of it. The important thing was to keep her head, behave with dignity and decision—and get him out of there.

She rallied her wits and her voice. ‘That’s news to me.’

‘That there is a spare key?’

‘No, that George simply hands it out to passing strangers. He may well lose his job over this.’

‘Why—for bringing together a man and his bride on their wedding night?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Wedding night …

Harriet’s throat tightened. ‘All the same, I’d prefer you to return the key to him—and go.’

‘Except that tonight it will not be your preferences that matter, but mine,’ he retorted with equal incisiveness. ‘And I mean to stay.’

Breathing was becoming a problem—something she dared not let him know. She said with faint huskiness, ‘If this is some crude and tasteless attempt to be funny, then it’s failed. Now, for the last time, get out.’

‘But I am not joking.’ Roan began slowly to remove the cufflinks from his shirt. ‘Nor am I leaving.’

Their eyes met. His, cool and unswerving. Hers—appalled.

‘Because I am here to claim my marital rights, agapi mou,’ he went on softly. ‘One of the few options left to me by the draconian contract you insisted I sign.’

He paused. ‘And something of which I intend to take full advantage.’

His words dropped like fragments of ice into the taut, frightened silence that seemed to enfold her.

She made herself speak, her voice strained. ‘I—I think you must have gone mad. Our agreement specifies that we—live separately. You knew that—accepted it.’

He said, quite gently, ‘I agreed not to share your roof. But if you also meant to deny me your body, then you should have stated as much. Only, you did not, Harriet mou, so I am breaking no promise.’

That was why he’d spent so much time at Isobel’s office going over the damned thing, she thought. Because he’d been looking for a loophole—some way of getting back at her.

Fool, she castigated herself silently. Bloody imbecile. How could you have allowed such a basic omission to slip past?

Because, she thought, it had never occurred to her there was any possibility that he might—that he’d ever want …

And she wouldn’t believe it now, she told herself, rallying her defences. He had some other agenda. That had to be it.

She said stonily, ‘This is nonsense. I made it perfectly clear that I had no intention of being your wife—in that way.’

‘Yet you did not bother to consider what my own intentions might be.’ He paused, allowing her to digest that. ‘However, I have no plans to move in permanently, Harriet mou,’ he added silkily, glancing round him at the plain walls, pale wood and streamlined black furniture. ‘I find the ambience a little stark for my tastes, therefore I shall just be spending the night.’

He dropped his cufflinks on to the coffee table, and started to unbutton his shirt.

He smiled at her. ‘So, let us hope that your bed offers more in the way of comfort than your living room. I look forward to finding out.’

CHAPTER SIX

HARRIET felt as if she’d turned to stone. She stared at him—casually undressing in front of her—her mind in freefall. She could, of course, step backwards and shut her bedroom door against him, but that wouldn’t keep him out permanently, and the essential key to the lock was—elsewhere. In some cupboard, probably, or some drawer. My God, she didn’t even know. Couldn’t think. And because all the furniture was fitted, there wasn’t even a chair or a tallboy she could use as a barricade.

And, as he’d demonstrated on that first encounter in his studio, and since, he was infinitely stronger than she was. If she tried to fight him off physically, she would undoubtedly lose.

Although it couldn’t be allowed to get to that point. After all, she’d been the prime mover in this situation, and somehow she had to reassert her dominance. Mentally, emotionally—and fast.

She swallowed. ‘I think you must be—genuinely crazy,’ she said. ‘But please understand that I have absolutely no intention of sleeping with you.’

‘So there is no problem,’ he returned pleasantly. ‘Because sleep does not feature on my list of priorities either.’

There was another terrible silence as she watched him shrug off his shirt, and toss it after his jacket. As she saw his hands move to the buckle of his belt …

She drew a deep, unsteady breath. ‘That’s quite enough. You—you can stop right there.’

Roan paused. ‘Was there some clause in the agreement dictating what I wear in bed?’ he wondered aloud, then shook his head. ‘I don’t remember it.’

‘No clause,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Just—common decency, which you seem to lack. And if this is a ploy to get more money out of me, it won’t work, even if you strip a dozen times. It was obviously stupid of me to imagine I could trust you,’ she added bitingly. ‘But I’m wiser now, and the marriage ends here and now.’

‘Not yet, my unwilling wife,’ he said softly. ‘It is about to begin. I thought I had made that clear.’

Her stomach was churning wildly. ‘Then let me also make something clear,’ she rasped. ‘I’ll see you in court, Mr Zandros, before I give in to this kind of blackmail.’

‘It should make a fascinating case.’ He stood watching her, hands on hips. ‘I can see the tabloid headlines now.’ He paused. ‘And imagine your grandfather’s reaction to them, and the way you have tried to deceive him. I think you could say goodbye to your hopes of Gracemead, don’t you?’

With every moment, her wonderful spacious room—her sanctuary—seemed to be shrinking, while increasing her acute awareness of him at the same time.

Somehow she had to redress the balance, she told herself desperately. Stop this whole impossible situation right now before it went too far—if it hadn’t done so already.

It wasn’t easy to keep him at a safe distance without making it too obvious that she was skirting round him, because the last thing she wanted was to seem nervous, but she managed it somehow. Difficult, as well, to try to appear dignified in spite of her flimsy pyjamas and bare feet as she crossed the living room, although she was heart-thuddingly conscious that she was still marginally more covered than he was.

She reached the door and stood beside it, her head held high, grasping the handle tightly in an attempt to disguise that her fingers were shaking.

‘If you leave now,’ she said, lifting her chin, ‘and don’t come back, then we—we’ll forget this ever happened. If you don’t, I shall call the police.’

‘And say what?’ he enquired mockingly. ‘That you are a bride reluctant to lose your virginity to the husband you married this morning?’

She gasped. ‘That is—a disgustingly arrogant assumption.’

‘I assume nothing,’ he said softly. ‘I know I shall be the first. And I think the police would be fascinated by your complaint,’ he went on. ‘They might also charge you with wasting their valuable time. And don’t attempt to buy them too, because that might prove truly misguided.’

He paused, allowing her to assimilate that. ‘Also that door is locked, so stop making empty gestures, matia mou, and come here to me.’

‘No.’ Her fingers tightened convulsively on the door handle—the only solid object in a reeling world. ‘I—I take back what I said just now. Everything I’ve said. Because I will pay you—I’ll pay anything—if you’ll just—go away. And leave me in peace.’

‘Harriet,’ he said gently. ‘Today I took you as my wife. Tonight I take you as my woman, as I intended from the first. And, whatever you may think, it was never a question of money.’

‘Then what?’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘Is this your idea of revenge, for my having—insulted your manhood in some way? Because you don’t really want me, and you know it.’

He sighed. ‘If I did not want you, pedhi mou, then, believe me, I would not be here. And maybe I was angry at first,’ he went on grimly. ‘Angry over your assumption that I must be for sale and would meekly accept this sterile bargain of yours at its face value.

‘But I was not angry for long.’ He smiled at her. ‘Because the first time I touched you, I knew there was a body to be desired under those shapeless garments you favour, in public at least.’ His dark gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts, then travelled slowly down to the indentation of her waist and the supple outline of her hips and thighs.

‘And my instinct was correct,’ he added softly. ‘You look enchanting. That is a good colour for you, my sweet one. It adds warmth to your skin, even when you are not blushing.’

‘Kindly keep your dubious compliments to yourself,’ Harriet said raggedly. ‘And, as I’ve already told you, I’m neither sweet nor yours.’

‘Not yet, perhaps,’ Roan agreed. ‘But I am hoping your attitude may soften once we become more intimately acquainted.’

‘Then go on hoping,’ she said fiercely. ‘Because in reality you’re trying to force yourself on someone who doesn’t want you.’

‘Are you so sure that is how you feel?’ Roan questioned softly. ‘I would say the jury is still out.’

‘Then you’d be totally wrong.’ She conjured up the image of the blonde she’d encountered at his studio. ‘For God’s sake, how many women do you need to have?’

He tutted reprovingly, his eyes dancing. ‘What a question for a bride to put to her husband. But, since you ask, I find one at a time suits me perfectly.’ He grinned at her. ‘My tastes are not yet so jaded that they require—additional stimulation.’

He walked to her without hurry, detaching her clutching fingers from the door handle quietly and without force.

She stared up at him, her eyes dilating. ‘Roan.’ She was hardly aware she’d used his name. ‘Roan—please. Don’t do this—I—I beg you.’ Her voice was a whisper.

‘And what is—”this” that scares you so, Harriet mou?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think you even know.’

But you’re wrong, she thought. So very wrong. Because I know from my childhood—from my mother going from man to man, hoping, seeking the impossible. I remember all the soft words in each beginning—the promises ‘Trust me …’ ‘I’ll never leave you …’

The sounds in the night from the other side of the wall that I was too young to understand.

And then the other sounds—the shouting, the crashing, the slamming of doors. The silences that were somehow the loudest of all. And then the weeping, the quiet, terrible sobbing of failure and desolation. Before someone else came along with more sweet talk, more promises, and the whole cycle began again.

And I swore I would never let that happen to me. That I would not be like her—dependent on the sexual whim of some man.

That, instead, I would be my own woman, answering only to myself.

And my body would always be my own.

Thought it, but did not say it as Roan’s hands came down on her at last.

She was trembling openly now, her anger commingled with fear, as he drew her towards him, and she braced her hands against his chest, twisting wildly, striving to break free.

‘Let me go,’ she gasped. ‘Let me go, damn you. Oh, God, I’ll never forgive you for this. Never!’

‘Never is a very long time, agapi mou,’ he told her softly. ‘When all you have to endure is one night. Now, be still.’

Just as she’d feared, he controlled her frantic struggles with effortless ease, pinioning her slender wrists behind her with one hand, while with the other he cupped her chin, raising her face so that her tightly clamped, rebellious mouth was his for the taking.

And not just her mouth, she realised with agonised humiliation. Her vain attempts to release herself had resulted instead in freeing some of the silk buttons on her pyjama jacket, so that her rounded breasts were now bare to the smouldering heat of his dark gaze.

He said in a harsh whisper, ‘You are—so beautiful.’

The hand clamping her wrists in the small of her back propelled her forward, bringing her into sudden, intimate contact with the hard wall of his chest, so that the dark springing hair grazed the dusky rose of her nipples, making them lift and harden in a swift, shamed pleasure she was unable to control or deny.

And then he kissed her.

But if the last time had been punishment, this was entirely different. And, she realised, infinitely more dangerous.

Because Roan’s lips were warm and ineffably gentle as they caressed hers, his mission, this time, to persuade—and arouse. Which was the last thing she’d expected, or wanted.

She needed him to be rough—even brutal—she thought feverishly, so that she could feed her resistance to him—her loathing and contempt for this—unbelievable treachery.

So that she could teach him, in one icy lesson, that he would get nothing from her but her bleak and unswerving indifference—the only weapon now left in her admittedly futile armoury—forcing him to leave, disappointed with his hollow victory, and never come back.

But she knew now, in this first moment, how right it was to be afraid of him. And not because she feared the violence of a forced surrender. Instead it was the coaxing insistence of his mouth as it moved on hers that scared her. The way her traitorous senses were reacting to the texture of his skin, the warmth of his body penetrating the little clothing she had left, and the unbelievable intoxication of his unique male scent as his arms tightened round her.

And, worst of all, the hardness of him against her thighs, the stark proof that he did indeed want her. Because this explicit power of his arousal was somehow triggering an instant and shaming response from her—the kind of meltdown in her most intimate self that she’d never envisaged in her whole life. The scalding, physical rush of what could only be animal desire.

Except it couldn’t be true, because she was immune—wasn’t she? Had based her whole life on her iron resolve to remain celibate. But it was simple to claim immunity when there was no temptation. She could see that now when it was—almost too late.

When the firewall she’d built around herself was crumbling, engulfed by a flame she hadn’t known existed, but which she had to fight—and extinguish before it became a fire.

Battling, she realised, for self-respect, as well as self-preservation, and the safe, solitary future which she could not—would not relinquish.

But, in that same instant, she realised that her hands were no longer imprisoned in his grasp, and that Roan was taking his mouth from hers and looking down at her, the dark gaze not arrogant in triumph, as she might have expected, but hooded, questioning.

Harriet stared back, some female instinct telling her urgently that it was still not too late. That somehow—for some inexplicable reason—she was being offered a choice. That if she said no this time, he would listen, and, in spite of everything that had gone before, he would not force the issue. And that he would let her go.

And all she had to do was speak.

No was such a small word, she thought, and so simple to use that even very young children could manage it. And it was a lifeline. The only one …

She drew a deep breath, framing the negative clearly and concisely in her head, but no sound emerged except the faintest of sighs.

Not even when he began to touch her, his fingers light as they stroked her cheek and moved slowly downwards, teasing the lobe of her ear, then lingering on the leap and quiver of her pulse, before slipping under her collar to explore the angles and hollows of her throat and shoulder.

Nor when she realised his other hand was resting, without force, on the curve of her hip, and she would only have to step backwards to detach herself—even move out of range altogether.

So why was she was simply standing there—mute, unmoving and half undressed? Looking at him, oh, God, as if she was—waiting …

And in that moment Roan bent his head, his mouth finding her parted lips with renewed and sensuous urgency, his tongue gliding against hers in deliberate demand.

Harriet found she was suddenly quivering, as if her skin had become imbued—sensitised with a thousand tiny electrical charges, coming to life with treacherous vibrancy as his kiss deepened endlessly. The person she’d been an hour ago—the cool, ambitious career woman—no longer seemed to exist.

In her place was a creature she didn’t recognise, who was allowing a man, for the first time in her life, to explore her mouth with passionate sexuality. And that was only the first of the demands that would be made of her.

Because, at the same time, his hand was moving downwards to the warm, proud lift of her breast, where it lingered, shaping the soft swell with his palm while his thumb delicately traced the erect peak in a caress that pierced her to the core of her being.

‘Oh, God.’ The words came choking from her tight throat. ‘I can’t—please—please …’

But when his hand moved, it was only to release the remaining buttons of the satin jacket and push it from her shoulders, before running his fingers gently, lightly, over her back and down her spine, making her arch against him involuntarily so that the steely pressure of his body seemed already to be invading the damp, aching heat between her thighs.

Making her gasp into his mouth as, still kissing her, Roan lifted her into his arms and carried her across the living area, and into the lamplit bedroom beyond.

Throwing back the covers, he put her down on the bed, then straightened, and she heard the rasp of his zip as he prepared to remove the remainder of his clothing.

She said in a voice that didn’t belong to her, ‘Please—turn off the light.’

‘So that you don’t have to look at me?’ he asked softly. ‘Or so that I cannot look at you? Either way, it is not going to happen. Tonight you will need all your senses, matia mou.’

‘You’re vile,’ she whispered, with a shadow of her former fierceness. ‘You disgust me.’

He said laconically, ‘Tell me that tomorrow.’

And then he was beside her, taking her tense, trembling body in his arms and holding her close to his warm, lithe strength. Confronting her with the reality of his naked presence in her bed.

He said softly, ‘Don’t fight me, Harriet mou. Whatever you may believe, I can be patient. And I am not going to hurt you.’

Any bitter response she might have planned was instantly stifled by his kiss, his mouth deeply searching, the play of his tongue against hers an irresistibly sensual challenge.

Then his lips moved slowly downwards, nibbling gently at the column of her neck, questing the hollows at the base of her throat, the fragile skin beneath her slender arms, and in the curve of her elbows.

Lashes veiling her eyes, she moved restively, her quickening breath sighing through her parted lips, as his lean fingers moulded and caressed the scented fullness of her breasts, then moved down to the waistband of her remaining garment to unfasten the single button and ease the whispering satin over her hips and down, so that she too was naked under the intensity of his dark eyes.

No one had ever seen her even half undressed before, or not since her early childhood, she thought frantically. And certainly no man—ever …

Her face burning, she tried to roll away, desperately covering herself with her hands, but he drew her back to him, gently but inexorably.

‘You are too beautiful to hide yourself,’ he told her softly. ‘Lovelier even than in my dreams of you. And when you blush, you become the colour of a rose all over, Harriet mou. Did you know that?’ There was a smile in his voice, but no mockery now. Instead he sounded—almost tender. ‘I wondered if it would be so.’

He kissed her again, slowly and ever more deeply, and, in spite of herself, Harriet knew she wanted to respond. That it was all she could do not to slide her arms round his neck, to clasp her hands at the back of his head and hold his mouth to hers, so that this warm, languid exploration might never stop. So that she could capture the feel—the taste of him and make them a prisoner of her senses for ever.

And hating him—even hating herself—didn’t change a thing.

She thought, shivering, I can’t let this happen. Dear God—I can’t …

Only to realise the decision was no longer hers to make. And had not been so since the first caress of his mouth and hands. That she’d been defeated—overwhelmed by the treachery of her own senses. Caught in a trap of her own making. A trap she no longer had the will to escape.

When at last Roan raised his head, she was humiliated to hear herself give a tiny whimper. He murmured something in his own language, his voice husky and soothing as he bent to her again, stroking her heated skin with his fingertips. And where his hands touched, his lips followed, marking out their own voluptuous path on her shivering, aching flesh.

She could feel her body yielding helplessly to his caresses, inch by quivering inch, and knew that she’d already reached a brink she’d never known existed until that moment. And that beyond it was the unknown. The unimaginable—and the unimagined.

Then, as Roan began to kiss her breasts, she stopped thinking altogether, every atom of her awareness suddenly and shockingly focussed on this new and dizzyingly erotic sensation.

On how his tongue was stroking her nipples with such exquisite precision, teasing them to a delicious wantonness that was half pleasure, half pain. Or how the touch of his mouth felt like velvet against her skin.

At the same time his questing hands continued to drift downwards, outlining her small waist, then fanning outwards across the flatness of her stomach to trace the curve of her hips, and linger …

She moved restively under his touch, driven by some totally carnal imperative, telling herself that he could not stop there, because she could not bear it. That she needed to know—everything, even if she was never able to forgive herself for this shameful capitulation.

Tomorrow could take care of itself, she thought. But tonight—ah, God—tonight …

And as if she’d spoken aloud, made some plea, Roan’s fingers moved down, gliding with delicate finesse over the silken mound at the joining of her thighs, then beyond, parting her slender legs to explore without haste the slick molten core of her womanhood, and to penetrate it—gently but with heart-stopping exactitude.

Her already laboured breathing caught in her throat, her tiny sob one of utter yearning as her body arched towards him in an offering she could no longer deny.

‘Patience, agapi mou. I have no wish to hurt you.’ His whisper was ragged, but the slow, subtle movement of his fingers inside her was totally deliberate—completely certain. And exquisitely, irresistibly pleasurable, she realised. Triggering a series of small, unbelievable sensations, which she focussed on blindly—greedily, instinct telling her that there was more—so much more in waiting. If only she could reach …

Making her want it—all of it. And—suddenly, terrifyingly—all of him too.

And, as if he’d read her fainting thought, Roan’s touch changed, deepened, became explicit, so that suddenly her last remnants of control were slipping away, as the pleasure altered too, as she felt, somewhere in the depths of her being, a faint almost intangible throbbing. As it intensified, taking her by storm, drawing her into some fierce upward spiral of delight. As she moaned and writhed, crying out as the spiral of feeling reached its culmination, and her body was suddenly convulsed, torn apart by sharp rhythmic spasms that somehow combined agony with rapture.

And sobbed her helpless joy against his mouth.

Afterwards, there was silence, broken only by the sound of her own torn and flurried breathing, as she lay, eyes closed, struggling to regain command of her dazed and bewildered senses—and the body which had so utterly betrayed her.

Hectically conscious that she was still lying in his arms, with his lips against her hair, and that every nerve-ending in her damp awakened flesh was still tingling in euphoria.

Yet knowing at the same time that nothing had changed, in spite of the response he’d forced from her. He was still the stranger—the predator—the cheat. The enemy she would never forgive for the loss of her sexual independence. She would not call it innocence.

She was only thankful that he’d said nothing. That she’d not been subjected to some jeering and hideously truthful comment about the ease of his conquest. Which, of course, was not over yet.

Eventually he released her, and she felt him move away to the edge of the bed. Hoped for one brief instant that he was content with the humiliation he’d already inflicted. Might be merciful, and not insist on taking his triumph to its ultimate conclusion.

Until she heard the faint crackle of a packet being torn open, and understood its significance with a sinking heart. Knowing that he only planned to spare her the danger of pregnancy.

Not a detail overlooked, she thought bitterly, recalling the smoothness of his dark face against her skin, and its musky fragrance, indicating that he’d even taken the trouble to shave before he came to her.

He drew her back into his arms once more, whispering her name, compelling her to the trembling awareness of the hardness of him, all that male strength and potency hotly aroused against her thighs, and demanding the access that would consummate their union. Another aspect of the physical reality of intimacy that she could only dread. Because it was another opportunity for self-betrayal.

As he bent to kiss her, she turned her face away abruptly, and felt him pause.

‘Sulking, matia mou?’ he asked softly, the dark eyes quizzical. ‘Angry that you now know yourself better than you did?’

‘Is that your excuse for your—revolting behaviour?’ Her voice was small and husky. ‘That you’ve taken me on some—journey of self-discovery? Well, thank you for nothing, you bastard.’

There was a silence, then Roan said evenly, ‘Strangely, I was trying to make your initiation into womanhood slightly less of an ordeal, Harriet mou. But perhaps that was foolish of me, and I should have ignored your inexperience, and any discomfort it might cause, and simply—taken you.’

He added harshly, ‘I shall not make the same mistake again.’

Almost before she realised what was happening, he pushed her back against the mattress, reaching almost negligently for a pillow to slot under her hips. Then, lifting himself over her, his clenched fists clamped to the bed on either side of her body, he entered her in one smooth, purposeful thrust, her body still too relaxed in the aftermath of recent pleasure to offer any resistance.

She gasped wordlessly, and he paused. ‘Am I hurting you?’

‘No.’ Her voice was a thread.

And it was true, she realised, as Roan inclined his head in curt acknowledgement and began to move, asserting his initial mastery ever more deeply with each slow, rhythmic thrust of his lean hips.

True—because she wasn’t in pain, but in—astonishment. Devastated at the ease of his possession—amazed that her untried, resentful body could have accepted—sheathed—such formidable sexual power so effortlessly.

And a million miles from the traumatic act of domination that she’d feared.

In fact, the controlled impetus of his body in hers was already having an effect she’d not allowed for—because she’d not known it could exist.

Had not dreamed the joining of their flesh, the restrained force of him inside her, could, against all expectation, prove to be more enticement than subjection.

Or that it could create these incredible new sensations—these aching impossible needs. Suggesting that it was not just her body that she was surrendering, but her mind too.

Because desire was unfurling deep inside her like the first petals of a spring flower in the warmth of the sun. But desire for more than this basic coupling that she’d brought upon herself. She wanted the intimacy of touch—his lips parting hers, his hands on her fevered skin. Needed his earlier tenderness to alleviate the raw passion of conquest.

But what chance was there, when he wasn’t even looking at her, his face a bronze mask, his mouth hard? Surely there was—something she could do.

His skin wore a faint sheen of sweat, and she watched it as if mesmerised—wondering if it would feel as exquisitely, thrillingly silken as the hardness that was filling her—moving inside her. And how it would be if she allowed her hands—her lips—to find out for themselves.

Commonsense dictated that she should just lie quietly, letting him use her in any way he chose, so that it would be over, and she could be rid of him. Because what she needed was her life back—not something else to regret.

Yet the memory of the delight he’d given her only minutes before was still urgent in her mind, the longing to make these discoveries about him well-nigh irresistible, no matter how much she might despise herself later.

I have to know …

Eyes half closed, she yielded, lifting her hands and running them lightly up his arms to his shoulders, then along to the nape of his neck, mapping the superb grace of his bone structure, feeling the taut muscles clench under her lingering fingertips.

Aware that the imperative drive of his body had faltered. Arrested. That he was still poised above her, but unmoving, the dark eyes watching her under sharply drawn brows.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ She was bewildered, even mortified that she could have been so mistaken. So totally ignorant of the ways of pleasing a man. And she had only herself to blame.

‘No,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Nothing—wrong.’ He pronounced the word as if he’d never heard it before.

Slowly he altered his position, lowering himself towards her, his gaze intent, so that he was easily within her reach. Close enough for her to go on touching him. If she wanted. Or if she dared.

She took a deep breath, drawing in the unique male scent of him, then began shyly, awkwardly, to stroke his face, the slant of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, and Roan turned his head swiftly, capturing the caressing fingers with his mouth and suckling them gently and sensuously, before bending to pay the same delicious attention to her breasts, beguiling her nipples into renewed tumescence under the flicker of his tongue.

Desire pierced her again—pagan—almost violent. She made a little sound in her throat, arching towards him, and heard him groan softly in response.

‘Hold me,’ he commanded huskily, and Harriet obeyed, sliding her fingers up to his shoulders, only to find his own hands under her slender flanks, encouraging her to lift them and clasp them round him as he began once more to move.

Roan fastened his mouth to hers, kissing her with unrestrained and hungry passion, her response equally abandoned as they rose and sank together, locked in a stark unbridled impetus that was almost agony.

And she was lost—blind—drowning in this dark and terrifying magic, her body straining in desperate, fevered yearning for the ultimate revelation.

From some immense distance, she heard him say, ‘Now …’

And suddenly it was there—the fierce shuddering frenzy of pleasure—incredibly raw—wildly intensified. And she was soaring—crying out, her voice unrecognisable, as the harsh miracle of rapture consumed her, drained her, and flung her back, mindless and exhausted, to this room, this bed—and this man.

Leaving her trembling and sated under his weight, their damp flesh clinging, their bodies still united, his head heavy against her breasts in the wake of his own hoarsely groaned fulfilment. And feeling the glory of a triumph all her own.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SHE should move, Harriet thought drowsily—eventually. She should be pushing him away and telling him to go—now that he’d had what he wanted. Yet—somehow—she wanted to stay exactly where she was, enjoying those last fading echoes of blissful satisfaction. Maybe even—sleep.

Only to realise that Roan was the one on the move—lifting himself away from her, and swinging his legs to the floor. He stood up, stretching lazily, then sauntered across to the bathroom.

Not a look—not a word in her direction, thought Harriet, turning on to her side, and reaching down to pull the sheet defensively over her body. Forbidding herself to watch him go.

She heard the sound of the lavatory flushing, then, a moment later, the rush of water from her high-powered shower.

My God, she thought, stoking her resentment, he’s behaving as if he belongs here. As if we’d been married for ever.

On the other hand, while he was occupied with washing himself, it meant that she was alone with her clothes—her bag—her key within reach, and if she was very quick, and very quiet, she could be dressed and gone before he knew it.

But where? There were plenty of hotels, but they might take a dim view of someone arriving in the middle of the night without a reservation or proper luggage. Or she could always go to Tessa and Bill, but that was bound to involve the kind of awkward explanations she was anxious to avoid.

Anyway, if she was honest, wasn’t it altogether too late for flight? A case of locking the stable door long after the horse’s departure?

And wouldn’t it also send Roan all the wrong messages, implying that she was scared? When what she needed to do was convince him that nothing that had happened between them made the slightest difference to her. That he didn’t feature, even marginally, in her general scheme of things.

That he never had, and he never would.

However, she might also need to convince herself, she thought with a sudden thud of the heart, her teeth grazing the swollen fullness of her lower lip. And what kind of admission was that?

Oh, God, she thought, what a hideous mess I’ve made of everything.

When Roan came back into the bedroom, he was wearing a towel draped round his hips, and using another to dry his hair. A faint aroma of her favourite carnation soap accompanied him.

She said glacially, ‘Don’t hesitate to make yourself quite at home.’

‘Thank you, agapi mou.’ His tone held faint amusement as he glanced round him. ‘But, somehow, I don’t think it will ever be that.’ He paused. ‘I have run a bath for you.’

She stared up at him. ‘Why?’

Roan shrugged. ‘You did not join me in the shower, as I had hoped, and I thought you might appreciate it—after your exertions.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘Warm water is soothing—for the temper as well as the body, Harriet mou. But the choice is yours.’

‘It’s a little late for that,’ she said, ignoring his reference to the shower. ‘As you made sure.’

‘Not all the time—if you remember.’ The dark eyes challenged her to argue, knowing, of course, that she couldn’t do so—damn him. ‘Don’t let the water get cold,’ he added softly, and wandered into the living room.

Harriet sent a furious look after him, but couldn’t think of a single reason not to take his advice. She eased herself out from the concealing sheet, keeping a wary eye open for his possible return, and almost scampered into the bathroom.

Not just water waiting for her either, she realised, as she sank, sighing, through the thick layer of scented bubbles produced by her most expensive bath oil, and rested her head against the little quilted pillow fixed to the back of the tub.

She wasn’t accustomed to such pampering, and it annoyed her, because it was soporific too. And she needed to think—and fast—what to do next. How she could possibly face him in view of the appalling weakness she’d displayed—what she could say in her own defence. But for the moment it was easier simply to drift.

‘Will you drink some champagne with me?’

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up with a start, aware with vexation that she hadn’t heard his approach. She wrapped an arm across her breasts, watching with hostility as he sat down on the rim of the tub, holding out one of the flutes of pale, sparkling wine he was carrying.

‘Where did this come from?’ She knew there was none in the flat.

‘I brought it,’ he said, adding softly, ‘I regret it is not properly chilled, but perhaps you could glare at it.’

She scowled at him instead. ‘You think we actually have something to celebrate?’ she asked scornfully.

‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’ He looked pointedly down at his shoulder, and she saw, mortified, that her nails had left faint red marks on the smooth skin. ‘Now, take your wine.’ He observed her reluctant compliance with amusement. ‘What shall we drink to? The future, perhaps?’

‘To going our separate ways,’ Harriet said curtly. ‘That’s the only aspect of the future that appeals to me.’

‘In spite of all that we have just been to each other?’ Roan asked mockingly. ‘You grieve me. But let it be as you wish.’ He touched his glass to hers, and drank, and she unwillingly followed suit, feeling the wine burst like sunlight in her dry mouth. A good vintage, she thought, surprised, and deserving of a better occasion.

‘Thank you.’ With a defiant flourish, she tipped the rest of the wine into the water, and handed him the empty glass. ‘I presume you have no other toasts to propose.’

‘I can think of none that would be appropriate.’ His voice was quiet.

‘So, perhaps now this—ritual humiliation is complete, you’ll go, and leave me in peace.’

‘I came here to spend the night, Harriet mou. And it is not over yet.’

‘But you—got what you wanted.’ She stumbled over the words. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘And why are you so ashamed of being a woman?’

It wasn’t the reply Harriet had expected, and she lifted her chin. ‘I’m not. It’s the shame of letting myself become involved with you that I can’t handle. I should have realised that, with you, poor doesn’t necessarily mean honest. That you’re just a manipulative, womanising swine, and I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself after—after what you’ve done to me.’

There was a brief tingling silence, then he said quietly, ‘Then I have nothing to lose.’ He drank the rest of his wine, set both glasses down, and stood up.

Before she knew what was happening, his hands were under her armpits, lifting her bodily out of the water. He reached for one of the bath sheets on the warm rail, and enveloped her in it, muffling her indignant protest.

‘Dry yourself,’ he instructed curtly. ‘Then come back to bed. It is time your sexual education was resumed.’

Her heart was pounding unevenly. She said chokingly, ‘You mean you’re determined to find other ways to degrade me.’

His smile was jeering. ‘Why, yes, my innocent. Believe me, the possibilities are endless, and I look forward to exploring them with you.’ He unfastened the towel he was wearing and casually dropped it into the linen basket. ‘So, do not keep me waiting too long,’ he added, as he left her.

Slowly, Harriet blotted the moisture from her skin, staring at herself in the mirror, trying to recognise the girl who’d swung out of the flat that morning on her way to finalise a simple business arrangement. Who’d believed the situation was under her control, and that she’d emerge a winner. And that she was—untouchable.

Well, she knew better now. The image looking back at her had eyes the colour of smoke, and the outline of her mouth was blurred from kissing.

This is not me, she thought. He’s turned me into someone I don’t know, and never wanted to be. And crazily, impossibly, I—let it happen. But how—and why? He called this our wedding night, but it could never be that. Because he’s the last person wanting to be a husband, and I have no intention of being a wife.

So, it’s just a one-night stand. Payback time because I made him look foolish in front of witnesses. After all, he pretty much admitted it.

And, if not for revenge, why else would he want—this? Me?

She dropped the damp towel, and studied her nude reflection dispassionately. It couldn’t be for her looks—or her figure. She was moderately attractive, no more, and reed-slender. And it certainly wasn’t for the sweetness of her disposition, she told herself wryly.

She supposed a virgin in her mid-twenties had a certain novelty value in twenty-first-century London, but why would he bother when there were so many more exciting—and willing—women around?

Except she had been—willing. Eventually. And that was the open wound she would take with her from this encounter. The bitter knowledge that she hadn’t fought tooth and nail against the ultimate surrender. That the marks she’d inflicted on his body were the result of passion, not self-defence.

She hadn’t even managed the frozen submission she’d planned as her last line of retreat. And now it was much too late.

She took a last glance at herself, and turned away, knowing that she couldn’t simply walk back naked into the bedroom. Without mental or emotional connection between them, his dark scrutiny would be a stinging embarrassment, she thought, as she trod over to the fitted unit beside the basin, and opened the bottom drawer.

The neatly folded cotton housecoat that lay there was quite the oldest garment she possessed. High-necked and demure, it had been at school with her, and its pattern of tiny rosebuds had almost faded away with repeated launderings over the years. Hanging on to it was sheer sentiment, but it had the virtue of being opaque—a veil for her to hide behind as she went to him.

He was lying on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as she walked towards the bed, and she noticed that he’d tidied the pillows, and drawn the sheet up to waist level. He turned to look at her, and she saw his eyes widen, and braced herself for some numbing piece of sarcasm.

But when he spoke his voice was almost reflective. ‘So now I know how you looked when you were a little girl, Harriet mou.’

She gave him a quick, startled glance, then turned her back while she removed the soft folds, then slid under the covering sheet. And waited, nerves jangling, for him to reach for her.

‘Expecting another seduction, matia mou?’ He broke the silence at last, just as her inner tension was nearing screaming point. ‘Because it is not going to happen.’ And as she twisted round to stare at him he added, ‘This time, I wish you to make love to me.’

‘Oh, God, no—no …’

She only realised she’d spoken the thought aloud when she saw his mouth twist in a wry smile.

He shook his head. ‘Why, Harriet?’ He made her name sound like a caress. ‘Don’t you like being in bed with me—just a little?’

There was no need to answer. And no point in trying to lie either. The sudden blaze of colour warming her face was betrayal enough. And the helpless clench of desire deep inside her.

‘I enjoyed having you touch me,’ he went on softly. ‘It’s a pleasure I wish to be repeated. And you seemed to like it too, my shy bride, so why don’t you come much—much closer, and kiss me?’

She obeyed slowly, helplessly, moving across the space that divided them, until she felt the warmth of him against her, and the tingling thrill of response in her own skin.

She swallowed, her heart thudding, then leaned over him, her hair spilling around him in a fragrant cloud, as she let the rosy peaks of her breasts brush his chest, deliberately tantalising the flat male nipples. She heard him catch his breath.

He said huskily, ‘Harriet, my sweet one—agapi mou.’

And she paused, her mouth a fraction from his.

‘But I don’t love you,’ she whispered fiercely back to him. ‘And I never will.’

Harriet awoke slowly, pushing herself up through the layers of sleep like a swimmer surfacing from the dark depths of a timeless sea, and finding sunlight. She waited for the usual stress to kick in, but it was strangely absent. Instead, she felt totally relaxed, her whole body toned—suffused with unaccustomed well-being.

Realising, as she forced open her weighted eyelids, that she was actually smiling.

And then she remembered …

She shot upright, gasping, clutching the sheet to her breasts, staring dazedly down at the empty bed beside her, heart hammering. Wondering for an instant if her imagination had been playing tricks on her—if she’d simply dreamt it—all of it.

But the voluptuous tenderness between her thighs soon disabused her of that notion. She had to face the fact that she’d spent most of the previous night having sex, with an increasing hunger and lack of inhibition that made her quail as she recalled it now in daylight.

Unable, it seemed, to get enough of him, she thought, turning over to bury her burning face in her pillow. Or to give enough either …

I wish you to make love to me.

And she’d done so, following instincts she barely understood, hesitant, even gauche at first, but learning quickly, guided by Roan’s glance, his whispered word, even an indrawn breath. Discovering intimacies she could never have imagined she’d permit, let alone enjoy.

Until, at the last, she’d found herself astride him, absorbing him with exquisite totality, her body bent in an arc of pleasure as she pursued, with him, yet another release that was as savage as it was mutual.

They’d finally fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion, still entwined. Harriet could remember waking around dawn, and finding she was sprawled across him, imprisoned by his arm, her cheek pressed against the heavy beat of his heart. And when she’d tried gingerly to move to a more decorous distance, Roan had muttered something sleepily in his own language, his grasp tightening around her. So she’d stayed, and slept again.

Yet he’d had no problem extricating himself, it seemed. And she’d been too dead to the world to notice. Had expected to find him there, holding her, when she woke. Had wanted him to be there …

Now, there was an admission.

She sat up again, pushing back her tumble of hair, listening for the sound of the shower, trying to detect a hint of coffee in the air— any indication that he was still around. Somewhere. But there was only silence, and the sunlight pressing against the blinds far more brightly than it should have done.

Biting her lip, Harriet glanced at the bedside clock and stifled a yelp. He’d gone, and so had half the morning, which meant that for the first time she was going to be horrifyingly late for work.

She stood under the shower, letting the water stream over her body, touching every part of her that his hands—his mouth—had caressed. Rinsing away the carnation-scented lather, remembering its fragrance on his skin, and now she’d breathed it—licked at it. Remembering altogether too much, she thought breathlessly, bracing a hand against the tiled wall for support because her legs were shaking under her again. And these memories had to be dealt with—barred—if she was ever to know any peace again.

As she went to discard her used towel in the linen basket, she saw a glimmer of peach satin, and realised he’d collected her pyjamas from the floor, as if he knew she only wore things once before laundering. Although, in this case, she’d hardly had the chance to wear them at all.

She hunted discontentedly along the rail in her wardrobe, wishing there was something else to choose apart from black, black and yet more black. ‘Those shapeless garments,’ he’d called them, and much good they’d done her.

Now there seemed little point in persevering with her camouflage, and it would have been nice to wear something light and bright—something that floated—on this glorious sunlit morning.

Then paused, her lips twisting in self-derision. ‘And what does that make you, my dear?’ she wondered aloud. ‘A butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, or the same dreary moth with delusions? Get back to square one where you belong.’

It occurred to her, as she scraped her hair back into its usual style, that she was ravenous. No point in being late on an empty stomach, she thought, as she dashed into her smart galley kitchen, slipping bread into the toaster, and switching on the kettle.

There was no sign of Roan having breakfasted. Not so much as a cup of coffee, she noticed, but perhaps he felt he’d helped himself to quite enough already. And if that was intended as a joke, it hadn’t worked, she told herself with a pang.

She ladled honey on to her toast, eating and drinking standing up, before grabbing her bag and racing to the door.

At first sight, the living room was in its usual pristine condition, with no trace of him there either. And then she saw the piece of paper lying on her ash table, a sheet torn at random, it seemed, from a sketch block, the edges ragged. And in the middle of it, a small circle of gold.

The wedding ring, she thought, that she’d handed back to him yesterday with such insouciance. And scrawled across the paper in thick black letters the single word, ‘Souvenir.’

So it had been revenge, she thought, feeling suddenly numb. Amongst all the disastrous mistakes she’d made last night, she’d been right about that, at least.

I couldn’t have made it easier for him if I’d tried, she thought. Or sweeter.

And somehow I have to learn to live with that.

By the time Harriet reached the office, the weekly round-up meeting had already begun.

‘Nice of you to join us, Miss Flint,’ Tony commented acidly.

‘I’m sorry.’ Harriet sat down, needled by the sight of Jon Audley exchanging complicit grins with Anthea. ‘My alarm didn’t go off.’ Largely because I forgot to set it, having so many other things to think about at the time. Most of which I don’t want to contemplate.

And her inner turmoil had been further compounded by an encounter with George, the concierge, as he sorted the mail in the foyer. His beaming smile, and the faint archness of his, ‘Good morning, Mrs Zandros,’ had totally stymied any rebuke she’d been considering over the matter of the key, and she’d simply mumbled a flushed response and fled.

‘How brave of it,’ said Tony, recalling her sharply to the here and now. ‘How did things go yesterday, by the way?’

For a moment she stared at him, totally thrown once again. ‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was a croak.

‘At Hayford House.’ He held out his hand. ‘I presume you’ve already written up your report with your usual blazing efficiency.’

She took a deep steadying breath. Think! ‘Actually, no,’ she returned calmly. ‘As nothing has changed diametrically since the last report was produced, I thought it would be simpler to work from that.’ She looked at Jonathan. ‘I presume you still have a copy on file.’

There was a silence, then he said curtly, ‘I didn’t write one. I simply got on to our maintenance people and—requested a visit.’

‘And made a follow-up call to ensure it had been carried out?’

‘I didn’t suppose it was necessary.’ Jon’s look spoke daggers. ‘They’re pretty reliable, and God knows there weren’t any major issues.’

‘No,’ Harriet said reflectively. ‘And the tenants appreciated how busy you are.’ She allowed another awkward silence to establish itself, then glanced back at Tony’s annoyed face. ‘I’ll get on to it as soon as the meeting is over.’ But will that be before or after I call Isobel …?

At any other time she’d have been jubilant having scored a minor triumph over the obnoxious Audley, but, set against everything else going on in her life, it barely registered, and she was aware she was frankly sleep-walking her way through the rest of the meeting.

And the remainder of the morning wasn’t much better. Her concentration was shot to pieces, her thinking dominated by the memory of last night, and her need to make sense of what had happened. And, of course, deal with it.

Three times she reached for the phone and began to dial Isobel’s number. Three times she got halfway, only to abandon the call.

I can’t talk to her yet, she thought. I’m too confused. Besides, what on earth can I say? Tell her I want an injunction against him, followed by the quickest divorce in the history of the world? How many awkward explanations will that throw up?

‘What’s the matter? Have a bad night?’

She jumped almost convulsively as she looked up to see Tony watching her from the doorway.

Colour stormed into her face. ‘No,’ she returned defensively. ‘Why do you ask?’

He frowned. ‘Because you’ve been looking white as a ghost— totally wiped out. Just as if …’ He paused, looking faintly embarrassed. ‘Well, that doesn’t matter.’

He strolled forward, hands in pockets. ‘Yet now you could be running a temperature,’ he commented critically. ‘Sure you’re all right? Not sickening for something?’

She stared at the screen in front of her. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Good.’ He hesitated again, then said almost gently, ‘You know, Harriet, you don’t have to drive yourself so hard all the time. Maybe you should take some time off—chill out a little. No one would think less of you.’

Her voice was quiet. ‘I might.’ Because the job I do is—me. I can’t let go of that. I dare not.

‘That’s what I’m trying to get at.’ Tony sighed. ‘Being Gregory Flint’s granddaughter does not require you to be one hundred per cent perfect. You’re allowed to make mistakes.’

She didn’t look at him. ‘Even though mistakes can be dangerous?’ And when I’ve just made one—a terrible one—bordering on total disaster. A mistake which is making me wonder about myself—ask questions I don’t want to answer?

‘Even then,’ he said. ‘It could perhaps ease things round here as well. Improve office relationships.’

She drew a swift breath. ‘To do a sloppy job?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘To be human. Maybe that missed alarm was a signal.’ He paused. ‘Look—take the rest of the day off. Shop—take a walk in the park—go home and catch up on your sleep. Anything that will relax you. And it’s not a suggestion, Harriet,’ he added briskly, seeing she was about to protest. ‘I’m telling you to do it.’

At the doorway, he paused. ‘Oh, and leave the laptop. That’s another order.’

Harriet stared after him. Wasn’t there one department of her life where she was still allowed a choice? she asked herself in a kind of desperation.

She had a curious feeling that the foundations on which she’d constructed her existence were being eroded, and the entire structure was beginning to totter.

And it was humiliating being sent home like this—like an unruly pupil being made to stand in a school corridor, she thought stormily, as she grabbed her bag and made for the lift, glad there was no one around to witness her departure.

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