Irresistible Temptation
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘THIS train is now approaching Paddington. Will passengers make sure they take their luggage and all personal possessions with them?’

Olivia swallowed as the announcement came over the system, her fingers tightening round the strap of her bag. She rose, made her way along the swaying carriage to the luggage rack at the far end, and retrieved her suitcase. She’d been on edge throughout the journey, and now that it was almost over her stomach was churning with nervous excitement.

It’s all right, she told herself. Very soon now you’ll be with Jeremy, and everything will be fine. This is what you want. What you’ve dreamed of. And all you have to do is—go for it.

She took the slip of paper from her pocket, and glanced at it again. 16 Lancey Gardens, W11, she repeated soundlessly to herself for the umpteenth time.

‘That’s the Ladbroke Grove area in Notting Hill,’ Beth, her more knowledgeable flatmate had told her, brows lifted. ‘Very swish.’

‘He’s got a marvellous job,’ Olivia said proudly. ‘He can afford it.’

‘There’s nothing the matter with your job.’ Beth gave her a measuring look. ‘So why pack it all in and go chasing rainbows—in the Smoke?’

‘You know why.’ Olivia began transferring neat piles of undies and nightwear from the chest of drawers to the open case on the bed.

‘Livvy—he’s a married man, for God’s sake.’

‘Some marriage—with her in Bristol and him in London,’ Olivia retorted. ‘Beth—it’s over; believe me. It’s been dead for more than a year now. They want different things. She’s totally wrapped up in her career. Didn’t I show you that piece in the paper announcing she’d just been made a partner in her law firm?’

‘Which only proves she’s doing well. Wives are allowed to, you know. It’s not a male prerogative any more.’ Beth’s tone was dry. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t give you carte blanche to pursue her husband to London.’

‘Jeremy and I want to be together,’ Olivia insisted. ‘And it’s time we took positive steps to achieve this.’

‘Is that how Jeremy sees it?’ Beth’s look of mild enquiry metamorphosed into a frown. ‘My God, Livvy. You have told him you’re joining him? Haven’t you?’

‘Not exactly,’ Olivia said defensively. ‘But it was always understood that we’d be together in London. It was just a question of timing. And, with Maria getting her partnership, this is clearly the time.’

‘He’s been in London for three months. Shouldn’t you have got together at some point? Discussed things?’

Olivia shrugged. ‘He’s been busy—settling into a new job—new flat. We talk on the phone—and write.’

‘You write,’ said Beth. ‘He phones—sometimes.’

Olivia’s mouth tightened. ‘You don’t really like Jeremy, do you?’

‘I haven’t any feelings about him either way.’ Beth was dismissive. ‘But I don’t like what he’s doing to you. The games he’s playing.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Olivia tucked tissue into the folds of a black skirt.

‘Yes, you do, but clearly you don’t want to talk about it. So I’ll just say this—if I was going with a guy, I’d want a bit more out of the relationship than a few vague promises of eternal bliss—some time.’ Beth’s tone was edged.

Olivia flushed. ‘If you’re talking about sex …’

‘Which I am.’

‘Then we want that too, of course, but it didn’t seem right. Not while he was still living here in Bristol with Maria. Now the separation is official, we can—make our own commitment to each other.’

‘Such passion,’ Beth commented wryly.

‘It’s not just an affair,’ Olivia insisted. ‘We want to build a life together—a home—ultimately a family. My joining him in London is the first step on the way.’

‘Then I hope it all works out for you, I really do.’ Beth gave her a swift hug. ‘But I won’t advertise your room immediately—just in case …’

Remembering, Olivia frowned as she hefted her case along the platform, and out on to the main concourse. The train had been crowded, mostly, she suspected, with Saturday shoppers, and she had to thread her way through a mass of people to find the taxi rank.

Beth means well, she thought, taking her place in the queue, and setting her case down thankfully. But she doesn’t really know Jeremy. Not like I do.

There hardly seemed a time when he hadn’t been part of her life. They’d grown up in the same Somerset village, and Olivia had always been slightly in awe of his blond good looks, and the assurance bestowed by his six years’ seniority over her. She’d been shyly happy when he’d come home for the school holidays, however little attention he’d paid her, and she’d grieved silently when he’d left for university.

During his second year away, his parents had sold their house and moved to a smaller property on the coast, and she’d decided sadly that she’d never see him again.

Their meeting last year in a Bristol wine bar had been the purest coincidence. She’d been there with a colleague from work, unwinding after a long, hard day teaching computerised office systems to a particularly unreceptive bunch of secretaries.

Jeremy had been with a crowd of people at a leaving do on the other side of the room. The wine bar had been full, and not particularly well-lit, but she’d recognised him at once. Heard him laugh. Had seen his brilliant smile flash as he’d turned to trade cheerful insults with another member of his party.

When he’d gone up to the bar, she’d followed. Touched his sleeve …

‘Hello, Jeremy. I don’t expect you remember me …’

He turned, brows lifting in sudden hauteur, which disappeared like the sun breaking through clouds as he registered her presence.

‘Livvy Butler—by all that’s wonderful. I don’t believe it. How long has it been?’

Too long, she thought, bathed in the warmth of that smile. Basking, for once, in his undivided attention.

‘You look terrific.’ His blue eyes took in everything, from the streaked brown hair enhanced by a fortnight in the Greek sun, to the pink enamel on the toenails peeping from her chic, high-heeled sandals. He glanced round. ‘Are you with someone, or can we talk?’

‘I was just leaving …’

‘No, don’t do that. Look, those people in the corner are going. Grab their table while I get us a drink. Is Chardonnay all right?’

She’d have drunk wolfsbane if he’d offered it to her.

Moments later, they were sitting at the corner table, and he was pouring wine into her glass.

‘Are you sure your friends won’t mind?’ she asked doubtfully.

Jeremy shrugged. ‘I’ve done my duty. The way things are going, my absence won’t even be noticed.’ He handed over her glass. Raised his own in a toast. ‘Happy meetings, Livvy. Tell me, what are you doing in Bristol?’

Waiting for you, she thought, as she raised her glass in turn. But I never knew it until this moment …

The taxi queue shuffled up, and Olivia shuffled with it, impatience building inside her. Why couldn’t all these people wanting Harrods or Selfridges share each other’s cabs, and save their money and her precious time?

Now that she was here, she wanted to be with Jeremy. Needed to see his face light up with incredulity and delight, and his arms opening wide to enfold her.

When it had started, it had been purely platonic. Just two old friends meeting for the odd drink—the occasional meal. Jeremy had made no secret of the fact that he was married, and she’d respected him for that.

She couldn’t remember the moment when she first registered that all might not be well in his marriage. Jeremy always spoke with pride of his wife’s career achievements, but was reticent—even tight-lipped—about their personal relationship, and gradually she’d found herself wondering.

Then, one day, he’d rung her at work and asked almost abruptly if she’d have dinner with him that evening. When she’d arrived at the restaurant, she’d found a candlelit table for two, and champagne waiting on ice.

‘It’s my birthday,’ he’d told her quietly. ‘Unfortunately, my wife is too busy preparing a major case for the Crown Court to come out with me. Thanks for making time for me, Livvy.’

Over the evening, Jeremy had spoken openly about his marriage for the first time.

‘With Maria, the job comes first, second and third,’ he’d said bitterly. ‘I’m not even sure I end up a poor fourth.’

‘That can’t be true.’ She’d put her hand over his. ‘You’ve been married such a short time. You have to talk it out—reach some kind of compromise …’

‘How can you talk to someone who won’t admit there’s a problem?’ He’d shaken his head. ‘I’m not certain we’ve ever had a marriage at all.’ His fingers had closed round hers. ‘I should have waited, Livvy,’ he’d said huskily. ‘Waited for you. I know that now. Tell me it’s not too late.’

‘Wake up, love.’ The taxi driver’s strident voice broke impatiently into her reverie. ‘Do you want a cab or not?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Red-faced, Olivia gave him her destination and heaved her case on board, collapsing back on to the seat as the cab moved off.

She hardly knew London at all, she reflected. Her only previous visits had been brief sightseeing trips when she was much younger. Living here would be a totally different matter.

She was used to heavy traffic in Bristol, but it didn’t compare with the sheer volume confronting her now. The cab was crawling along, hemmed in by other vehicles, only occasionally diving through some tiny gap, as if making a bid for freedom.

Selling her car had been the right decision, she acknowledged ruefully. She couldn’t envisage a time when she would dare drive through this mayhem.

The noise seemed to batter at her eardrums, and the air which reached her through the half-open window was stale and fume-laden.

She turned her gaze resolutely to the shops on either side of the street. She supposed there would come a time when they’d be as familiar to her as those in her own village, but just at the moment it didn’t seem likely.

She wanted to ask the cabbie where they were, but her sole remark about the weather had been greeted with a monosyllable, so she stayed silent.

The shops gave way to houses, big and solid, with impressive porticoes and an unmistakable air of affluence.

Olivia felt her throat tighten. It couldn’t be far now, she thought, casting an anxious eye at the cab’s meter.

Eventually, the taxi turned left into a long curved terrace of tall white houses, each approached by a short flight of stone steps and fronted by railings.

‘Did you say number sixteen?’ the cabbie called back to her.

‘Yes,’ she said, dry-mouthed, as they drew to a halt. Leaning forward, she saw smart dark blue paintwork, and a window box still bright with flowers in the September sunlight.

She stood on the pavement, and watched the departing cab as if it was her last link with reality. Then she turned, and looked back at the house. The curtains were half closed, but a ground-floor window was open at the top, and she could hear the faint sound of music.

So Jeremy was at home, she thought, relief flooding over her.

Slowly, she carried her case up the steps. There were two brass bells beside the front door, with one marked ‘B’. She pressed the unmarked one, and waited.

For an eternity, nothing happened, and she was just about to ring again when she heard the sound of locks being unfastened inside the house.

She took a deep breath, feeling her mouth shape itself into a nervous rictus of a smile.

The door opened, and Olivia found herself confronted by a complete stranger. Or was he? Although she knew they’d never met, his face seemed oddly familiar just the same.

He was tall, with untidy dark hair falling across his forehead, a beak of a nose, and a shadow of stubble on a determined chin. His eyes were a strange shade between blue and grey that seemed almost silvery, and fringed with long lashes. The deep lines beside his firm-lipped mouth had clearly been scored there by cynical amusement.

Although he wasn’t showing much evidence of a sense of humour at the moment. On the contrary, he looked profoundly and wearily irritated.

He was wearing a navy silk dressing gown, which hung open to the waist, revealing a strong, hair-shadowed chest. This garment, which only reached to mid-thigh on his lean, muscular legs, was obviously his only covering, and secured haphazardly by a sash at his waist, Olivia realised with sudden discomfort.

His bored gaze assessed her dismissively, taking in the brief denim skirt, the white shirt and black blazer. Olivia returned his disparaging glance with energy and interest, and saw his mouth tighten.

‘Yes?’

Did all Londoners deal in discouraging monosyllables? Olivia wondered.

She lifted her chin. ‘I’d like to see Jeremy Attwood, please. He—he’s expecting me,’ she added, into the ensuing silence.

Leaning against the doorjamb, he gave her another, longer look, which this time took in the suitcase at her feet. The straight dark brows snapped together in a frown.

Then, ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and made to shut the door.

‘Oh, wait.’ Dismayed, Olivia lunged forward, grabbing the edge of the door. ‘If you’ll just tell Jeremy I’m here …’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t be done. And please let go of my door,’ he added coldly. ‘You can lose a handful of fingers pulling a stunt like that.’

Olivia disregarded that. ‘But he does live here?’ And, receiving a brief, affirmative nod, ‘Then why won’t you fetch him for me?’

‘Because he’s not here now,’ she was told. ‘He’s away for the weekend, so it’s unlikely he was expecting any visitors, least of all you. Now, take your hand away from the door and clear off quietly, like a good girl.’

‘Not here?’ Olivia repeated, stunned. ‘Oh, I don’t believe it.’

The silvery eyes became chips of ice. ‘Well, I don’t propose to allow you to search the house, Miss—er?’

‘I’m Olivia Butler. Has Jeremy not mentioned me?’

Slowly and silently he shook his head, his eyes narrowing.

It was a setback, but not irretrievable, she told herself.

She took another deep breath, forcing a smile. ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter. I—I’m sorry that I’ve arrived at a bad time, and clearly I should have checked with Jeremy first, but no real harm done.’

‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘that I’ll be the judge of that. What exactly do you want, Miss Butler?’

‘Firstly, I’d like to come in,’ she said. ‘I’ve been on a hot, stuffy train and I’d like to freshen up.’

‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘But what makes you think this is an appropriate place to do it? Was there no restroom at the station—Euston—Waterloo or whatever?’

‘Paddington,’ she said. ‘Of course there was. But that’s not the point.’

‘Then what is the point?’ He was still blocking the doorway. ‘I would really like to know.’

No more beating round the bush, Olivia decided.

She said, ‘I’ve come here to live—to be with Jeremy.’

He didn’t appear to move, and there was no visible change in his expression, yet Olivia sensed a new and dangerous tension in the atmosphere. She felt as if he’d taken one menacing stride towards her, and she had to overcome the impulse to take a step backwards.

‘That’s very enterprising of you,’ he drawled, after a long pause. ‘Did you know that Jeremy is married?’

‘I certainly know that he’s separated,’ she corrected coolly. ‘And, anyway, I think that’s our business, not yours.’

‘On the contrary, I concern myself with all kinds of things.’ He paused again. ‘I suggest you give me the address where you’ll be staying, and I’ll pass it on to Jeremy when he returns. Then, if he wishes to make contact, he can.’

‘Address?’ Olivia repeated in bewilderment. ‘But I’m staying here—to wait for him.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re not.’

‘I don’t understand …’

‘It’s perfectly simple. You want to move in. I’m telling you it’s not going to happen.’

Her lips parted helplessly. ‘You mean you’re turning me away?’

‘Now you’re getting there,’ he approved sardonically. ‘Foolish it may be, but I don’t give house room to indigent girls who turn up out of the blue claiming acquaintance with a member of the household.’

‘I’m far from indigent, and it’s rather more than acquaintance,’ she said hotly.

‘So you say.’ He shrugged, and the dressing gown slipped a fraction. ‘Sorry, darling. Better luck elsewhere.’

‘But I’ve nowhere else to go.’ Olivia heard and despised the faint squeak of panic in her voice. ‘I—I don’t know anyone in London.’

‘Then here’s some excellent advice.’ His voice was suddenly harsh. ‘Go back to wherever you came from, and we’ll pretend this never happened.’

The momentary fear gave way to anger. ‘I don’t need your advice,’ she said curtly. ‘Nor am I leaving. And when I see Jeremy I’ll tell him exactly the kind of welcome I received at his home. You can count on that.’

‘Whereas you, sweetheart, can’t count on a thing.’ She felt her anger matched by his. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t check he’d be around before you set out. Not that it would have made any real difference,’ he added, with another perilous shrug. ‘I still wouldn’t let you stay. Now run along.’

‘Damn you,’ she said furiously. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? And just what right have you to tell me what to do?’

‘I happen to own this house.’ His voice was like ice. ‘Which gives me any rights I choose to assume, lady.’

‘But Jeremy …’

‘Jeremy is my guest—my temporary lodger, nothing more. Whatever he may have told you, or you chose to believe,’ he added with crushing emphasis.

She wanted to scream at him—call him a liar. But there was something about his words which held the ring of truth.

She also wanted to die. But not, she decided, before she had murdered this sneering man in front of her. Until she had hurt and humiliated him, and ground him into the dust before dancing on his unmarked grave.

But that, unfortunately, had to be in the long term. Right now she needed somewhere affordable to stay.

She wasn’t poor by any means, she reminded herself. She had a respectable balance in her current account, and a credit card. She could get by until she found a job.

And she’d intended to pay her way with Jeremy. That went without saying. It was going to be a partnership, not charity.

But common sense told her that her resources would soon dwindle if she had to fork out for a London hotel, even for a couple of nights. Nor had she the least idea where to start looking. Anything in this vicinity would be right out of her range.

She looked at the case beside her, and groaned inwardly. How far could she carry it before her arm came out of its socket?

In her home village, she thought, swallowing, they wouldn’t treat a stray dog like this.

She looked stonily at her persecutor. ‘I don’t suppose you’d let me leave my luggage here while I go and look for a room?’

‘Quite correct,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t. And for two pins I’d let you tramp the streets to teach you a much-needed lesson. But I can’t do that, because London is not a place where you turn up on the off-chance. You could end up in all kinds of trouble—things you’ve never envisaged in your worst nightmares. And I don’t want that on my conscience.’

‘Thanks for the pious platitudes,’ Olivia said. She was shaking inwardly with rage. ‘What have you in mind? The coal shed?’

‘Alas, no.’ He reached forward and picked up her case, handling it easily. ‘You’d better come in while I talk to someone.’

‘You mean I’m being allowed to pollute your sacred portals?’ She followed him into a wide hall. On the left, a flight of stairs carpeted in pale green led to the upper floors. On the right, an open door showed her a room fitted out as an office, with a fax machine, a photocopier and a state-of-the-art computer sitting on a workman-like desk. This was where the music was coming from, too.

‘Not for long,’ he tossed back over his shoulder, leading the way to the rear of the house. ‘And don’t consider going for squatters’ rights, either.’

She’d been about to ask what computer system he used, attempt to establish that she had a life and a career, and wasn’t just some helpless hopeful. Now all she hoped was that the whole thing would crash spectacularly at some crucial moment.

He stood back, allowing her to precede him. ‘You can wait in here. Please don’t make yourself too comfortable. I’m just going to make a phone call.’

‘And put some clothes on as well?’ Olivia gave the dressing gown an acid glance.

‘This,’ he said softly, ‘is my Saturday morning. I will dress—and do—as I like.’ He tightened the sash with ostentatious care. ‘Just remember, lady, you came knocking on my door, not the other way round.’

Biting her lip, Olivia walked past him. She found herself in a long rectangular room with one wall that seemed to be made entirely of glass. The main item of furniture was a long refectory table supplied with high-backed oak chairs. On the table, beside a newspaper folded open at an inside page, was a used plate and knife, an empty mug, and a dish of dark red jam. A lingering fragrance of coffee and warm croissant still hung in the air from the adjoining kitchen.

Despite her best efforts, Olivia felt her nose twitch longingly. It had been a long time since the blueberry muffin and carton of hot chocolate which she’d consumed at Bristol Temple Meads Station.

But something warned her that it would be an even longer time before the Owner offered her a sip of his espresso.

Swine, she thought. Greedy, selfish pig.

To take her mind off her empty stomach, she wandered over to the French windows. Beyond them, she saw a mass of greenery. No walls or fences, she noted, puzzled. Just a riot of tall shrubs and huge trees, already heavy with approaching autumn. There were late-flowering roses, too, and great banks of fuchsias and hydrangeas. Behind the leafy barrier she caught a glimpse of the more strident green of a lawn. And a sunlit dazzle of water.

She drew a swift breath of sheer appreciation. This garden seemed to stretch for ever, its only confine the wide gravelled path which circled it.

It was the last thing she’d expected to find, here in the middle of the city—this wonderful secret wilderness.

It was like the garden behind her parents’ home, she thought, although on a vastly larger scale, and for a moment she was assailed by a pang of homesickness so strong that she could have cried out.

‘Is something wrong?’ The Owner had joined her, tapping out numbers on a cordless phone. Clearly he didn’t miss much.

‘I—I was just looking at the garden.’ Olivia bit her lip. ‘It’s beautiful. Who—who does it belong to?’

‘Everyone whose house backs on to it,’ he returned laconically. ‘It’s a communal venture.’

Then, into the phone, ‘Sasha—sorry to annoy you at the weekend, but do you have any place available in that doss-house of yours?’ The lines beside his mouth deepened in amusement as he studied Olivia’s sudden rigidity. ‘Yes, just one waif and stray—female—wandering in off the street.’

He laughed. ‘No, not feline, although I’d say she had claws.’ He listened for a moment, grinning. ‘Not a chance, my love. She’s definitely not my type, and claims to be spoken for anyway. You can? You’re a saint. I’ll send her round.’

He switched off the phone. ‘Well, that’s you fixed up.’

She glared at him. ‘It never occurred to you that I’d like to make my own arrangements, I suppose?’

‘Frankly, no.’ His grin deepened. ‘So, what was your major plan? Camping on my doorstep, looking hopeless and helpless, until Jeremy comes back?’ He shook his head. ‘You’d lower the tone of the neighbourhood.

‘No, you’ll be all right with Sasha,’ he went on, ignoring her furious gasp. ‘Her lodgers seem to be a transient population, so she’s usually got a room free.’

‘Sasha.’ Olivia paused. ‘Is she Russian?’

‘No.’ His face softened momentarily, making him seem almost human. Even attractive. And increasing that vague sense of familiarity. ‘Just eccentric.’

He gave her a level look with no amusement at all. ‘And she’s got a kind heart, so I would take it personally if she was made a fool of in any way. By someone doing a runner, for instance, without paying the rent.’

‘She’ll be paid.’ Olivia stopped trying to work out where she could possibly have seen him before, and reverted effortlessly to simply loathing him again. ‘Although I don’t expect to be staying there long.’

‘Of course not. You’ll be waiting for Jeremy to provide a suitable love-nest, no doubt. And maybe he will. Only it won’t be under my roof.’

‘And what the hell has it to do with you?’

He shrugged, unruffled. ‘As I mentioned, he’s married. Maybe I have more scruples.’

And, as if on cue, a girl’s voice called, ‘Declan—Declan, darling, where are you?’

Olivia, glancing toward the hall, could see long bare legs descending the stairs. Up to that moment she’d thought no one could be wearing less than her reluctant host, but she was wrong.

The redhead who now appeared and stood, posing coquettishly, in the doorway was using a peach-coloured towel as an inadequate sarong.

‘Darling,’ she said, pouting reproachfully. ‘I woke up and couldn’t find you. It was horrid.’ She glanced towards Olivia, her glance hardening fractionally. ‘But I didn’t realise you were—entertaining.’

Her laugh was slightly metallic. ‘If this is your latest, then your taste must be slipping.’

Indignant colour flared in Olivia’s face at this piece of gratuitous rudeness, but before she could speak Declan stepped forward.

‘Wrong on all counts, Melinda, my sweet. Ms Butler is just a passing acquaintance.’ He sent Olivia an edged look. ‘And, hopefully, passing out of my life for good very soon. Now go back to bed, and I’ll see you presently.’

The girl sent him a radiant smile, the tip of her pink tongue caressing her lower lip. ‘Is that a promise?’ she asked huskily.

‘Trust me.’ His voice was low-pitched, intimate. The air in the room seemed suddenly alive—electric.

For a shocked moment, Olivia was aware of a slight frisson—a tingle down her own spine.

The Owner might be loathsome, but he was also undeniably sexy—if you liked that sort of thing. As the redhead falling out of the peach towel obviously did, for she was turning and trailing obediently back upstairs.

Olivia felt oddly desolate, suddenly. But small wonder, she thought. After all, she’d arrived expecting a blissful reunion with Jeremy, leading to a passionate consummation, and instead here she was, an intruder, forced into the role of voyeur in someone else’s love-life.

There was a strange silence in the room that she needed to break.

She cleared her throat. ‘I gather you don’t have any moral scruples about your own conduct?’

‘Correct.’ His grin was unabashed. ‘But I’m not married, and never have been. That makes a difference.’ He paused. ‘Nor am I a home-wrecker.’

The atmosphere tingled again.

Olivia said coldly and clearly, ‘If you’ll give me this woman’s address, I’ll go.’

He picked up a message pad and wrote on it. ‘It’s on the other side of the garden. You’ll be able to pick up a black cab at the end of the road if you can’t walk that far with your luggage.’

‘I hope you don’t expect me to thank you effusively.’ Olivia accepted the slip of paper, then stalked into the hall and picked up her case.

‘I gave up believing in miracles a long time ago.’ He unfastened the front door and held it open for her. ‘Goodbye, Ms Butler.’

‘Oh, that’s such a final word,’ she said with saccharine sweetness. ‘I much prefer au revoir, don’t you?’

‘Not,’ he said, ‘where you’re concerned. I’ll tell Jeremy where he can find you. Against my better judgement, I may say,’ he added grimly.

The door slammed, shutting her out into a sunlit day which seemed suddenly to have lost its warmth.

‘To hell with him,’ she muttered, hefting her case down the steps. ‘Jeremy will be back soon—and then our life together will begin.’

She gave a last look back at the house.

‘And there isn’t a thing you can do about it,’ she added defiantly, just as if he was listening.

She walked away, without looking back, but found herself wondering, at the same time, if he was standing at one of the windows, watching her go. And, if so, precisely why should it matter to her anyway?

CHAPTER TWO

BROODINGLY, Declan stood at the study window, watching Olivia’s slim figure walk away. He was already regretting the quixotic impulse to suggest Sasha as a temporary refuge for her.

I should have taken her to Paddington—put her on the next train west. Saved a hell of a lot of trouble all round, he told himself irritably.

He saw her stop and put down her case, flexing her fingers before transferring it to her other hand and walking on. Her straight back looked gallant, and somehow vulnerable, and he cursed silently. He knew that if he’d been dressed he’d have felt obliged to go after her. Help her with the bloody thing. Take her to Sasha’s and introduce her, even.

And yet there was no obligation on his side. On the contrary, he reminded himself bitterly. All he’d probably done by his intervention was make a bad situation worse.

For a moment or two he let his thoughts dwell unpleasantly on Jeremy Attwood, and the things he would have to say to him on his return.

That done, the ball would be in Jeremy’s court. This is his damned mess. Let him sort it out, he told himself curtly as he turned determinedly away from the window.

In the meantime, he had a problem of his own to deal with.

He went swiftly up the stairs to the first floor. The drawing room was there, with its panoramic view over the garden, but he didn’t waste a glance on it, heading instead for the door at the back of the room which led to his private suite. For his next task he needed to be fully dressed, with his head firmly together.

He stepped through into the narrow passage, and turned right into his dressing room, grabbing some underwear, a white cotton shirt and a pair of jeans. He was on his way into the bathroom opposite when he realised that his bedroom door at the end of the passage was standing ajar, and he knew he’d left it closed.

Still holding his armful of clothing, he moved noiselessly along the passage, his foot tangling in something lying on the floor in front of the door. Mouth tightening, he recognised the peach towel from the guest bathroom on the second floor, and swore under his breath.

He pushed the door wide, and stood in the doorway. Melinda was propped artistically against the pillows of his bed, the covers draped across her hips.

‘Hello, darling.’ Her smile was pure invitation. ‘What an age you’ve been. Did you manage to get rid of the little brown mouse?’

Declan leaned a shoulder against the doorpost. He felt unutterably weary. ‘What are you doing, Melinda?’

‘Waiting for you, darling, what else? You did tell me to.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I said I’d see you later. Not the same thing at all.’

‘Don’t be picky, sweetie.’ She moved slowly, luxuriously, stretching her arms above her head. ‘Doesn’t this bring back some happy memories?’

‘I won’t deny that.’ Declan kept his eyes fixed steadily on her face. ‘But I also remember that you’re engaged—to Bill Fenner. Maybe you should, too.’

‘Bill’s in Warwickshire, staying with his dreary family,’ she said with a touch of impatience. ‘That’s why he didn’t take me to the party last night. He can be so boring sometimes.’

‘And this is pay-back time—for being boring?’ Declan sighed. ‘No, Melinda. That’s not how it works. Now go and get dressed, and I’ll call a cab for you.’

She lifted a hand, admiring the sparkle of the enormous diamond she wore on her left hand.

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘Bill might want to know why I ended up naked in your bed last night. He might feel you’d taken advantage.’

‘You actually ended up naked in the spare room bed,’ Declan said dispassionately. ‘I had to bring you here because you were drunk, and making a nuisance of yourself at the party. I’d have taken you home, but the cab driver refused to go any further in case you threw up. I undressed you for the same reason.’ He gave her a level look. ‘And Bill will almost certainly not want to hear about that.’

‘My word, haven’t we got virtuous all of a sudden?’ Melinda wasn’t smiling any more. ‘Could this be the influence of Little Miss Well-Scrubbed downstairs?’

‘No,’ Declan said wearily. ‘It’s all my own idea. What we had is over now. We’ve both moved on, so let’s leave it like that.’

She threw back the covers and walked towards him, body moving sinuously. ‘I could make you change your mind.’

Once, he thought. But not any more. Once he’d have damned all thought of decency, and reached for her. But his mind had stopped wanting her a long time before his body did. A realisation that made him ashamed, because in those last weeks they’d spent together he knew he’d just been using her.

He said more gently. ‘You could probably bring a stone statue to life, Melinda. You’re a beautiful woman. But you’re not my woman—and that makes all the difference.’

‘Or perhaps you’re just losing it,’ she said contemptuously as she went past him. ‘And I’ll get my own cab,’ she threw back over her shoulder.

Maybe she was right, Declan told himself with wry derision as he stood under the shower a short while later. Certainly he hadn’t put himself out to find female company lately. And the few dates he’d had had been strictly casual.

He could say he’d been working too hard to pursue any personal relationships. As well as writing a weekly political column for the Sunday Clarion, his television commitments were burgeoning. A new series of Division Bell was starting next week on First City TV, and he’d also been asked to research and draw up a proposal for a series on Prime Ministers of the past, covering the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Never a dull moment, he thought drily. But it left him with little free time. And what there was he preferred to spend in Ireland, at his parents’ stud farm, helping out with the horses rather than doing the social rounds.

However, there’d been a girl at the party last night who’d made her interest in him perfectly clear—until Melinda had started behaving badly, and their hostess had quietly begged him to remove her.

She was an interior decorator, tall, blonde, and definitely attractive, and he had one of her cards somewhere—probably in his jacket.

‘In case you want advice about a room,’ she’d told him, smiling.

He’d ring her presently, he decided as he towelled himself down. Apologise for his abrupt departure, and ask if she’d like to have dinner. See where it might lead.

She was called Claudia, he remembered, and it was a name he liked. An unusual name—rather like Olivia.

His mouth tightened in irritation. He hadn’t planned to throw another thought in her direction. But the image of that slight, lonely figure walking down the road with her case seemed etched on his mind.

All the more reason to call Claudia, he told himself cynically. Because Olivia was bad news, and he wasn’t going to waste another thought on her—or any of Jeremy’s leavings for that matter.

Sasha was a small woman, slender to the point of emaciation, and draped in a black caftan ornamented with embroidered tropical flowers. She had rich magenta hair which she wore twisted into dozens of little spiral curls, and amazing dark blue eyes, heavily emphasised with kohl. In one hand she held a cheroot. The other was attempting to control a small, brown terrier, spitting out fire and fury on a high-pitched note between a yap and a warble.

Her voice was surprisingly deep and husky, probably, Olivia thought, because of the cheroots.

‘So you’re Declan’s waif.’ Olivia was looked up and down, and assessed in one sweeping glance.

‘The flat’s down here, darling.’ She led Olivia down a flight of outside steps to the basement. ‘There’s only one room, but it has its own separate kitchen, and I had the bathroom fitted two years ago. The rest of the basement I use for storage.’

She opened the living room door, and motioned Olivia to go in. ‘The sofa turns into a bed, and I can lend you linen and stuff till you get fixed up. Will it do?’

‘It’s wonderful,’ Olivia admitted. She bit her lip. ‘But I must warn you I don’t expect to be staying long.’

‘People don’t.’ Sasha shrugged. ‘They come and go, and that’s fine with me. I’m just a stepping post on their journey.’ She paused. ‘What about the rent, darling?’ The dark blue eyes flicked shrewdly over her again, and she nodded. ‘It’s seventy-five pounds a week. Can you manage it? You’re not working, are you?’

‘Not yet,’ Olivia said quietly. ‘But first thing on Monday morning I’m going to start job-hunting.’

‘What sort of thing are you looking for—acting—modelling?’

‘Heavens, no.’ Olivia felt emotionally battered by the events of the morning, but she managed a weak giggle. ‘In Bristol I taught computer systems in offices, but I thought I’d look for a secretarial agency—start by temping.’

‘Oh.’ Sasha gave her an astonished look. ‘You mean real work. Such a novelty. My tenants are usually waiting tables and stacking shelves while they wait to be discovered.’

She swept to the door, the tropical flowers billowing, the dog firmly tucked under her arm. ‘When you’ve unpacked, come on up and we’ll have some coffee, introduce ourselves properly. I can brief you on local shops, house rules and things at the same time. Humph and I will be in the kitchen. Just push the door open and yell.’

‘Thank you.’ Olivia gave her a resolute smile. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘Ah, well, darling,’ said Sasha. ‘Declan sent you. And I’d do anything for Declan.’

So would I, Olivia thought bitterly, as she unfastened her case. As long as it involved red-hot irons and a few gallons of boiling oil.

But she seemed to have fallen on her feet, she admitted, looking round her. The room was large, the furniture was simple and comfortable, and it was spotlessly clean. And amazingly cheap, for London, too. She’d expected to be charged twice or three times as much.

Sasha’s kitchen was big, cosy and chaotic. As she went in Olivia was greeted by the small brown dog, warbling menacingly at full throttle.

‘Quiet, Humph, you fool.’ Sasha, percolator in hand, swept a pile of newspapers, empty envelopes and special offer coupons from the large pine table to the floor with one magnificent gesture. ‘You’ve got to tell friend from foe. He’s a Norfolk terrier with the soul of a Rottweiler,’ she added. ‘Grab a chair, darling, but not the one with the embroidered cushion—that’s Humph’s.’

She poured the coffee into attractive pottery mugs, set cream and sugar beside them, and offered home-made carrot cake which Olivia fell on thankfully.

‘So, tell me all about yourself,’ Sasha said, lighting another cheroot. ‘How long have you known my lovely Declan?’

Olivia put down her mug, her stomach churning in swift apprehension. ‘Er—not long.’

Oh, come on, she chided herself. Tell the truth, even if she dumps you back on the pavement. She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I met him for the first time about an hour ago. I—I was looking for someone else entirely.’

‘Serendipity,’ Sasha nodded, apparently unfazed. ‘A happy accident.’

‘Not,’ Olivia said tautly, ‘how I’d have described it.’

‘Ah, you clashed.’ Sasha gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Excellent.’

‘I don’t think he sees it that way,’ Olivia said thinly.

‘Well, of course not. He’s had to beat women off with sticks since he could walk. And now he’s a media personality I expect he gets targeted by all sorts.’

‘Media personality?’ Olivia stared at her, while connections in her brain jangled into place. ‘My God,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘I’ve just realised—he’s Declan Malone. He interviews politicians on television. I knew I’d seen him somewhere.’

But not, she thought, next to naked on a doorstep.

Sasha gurgled. ‘You could say that, darling. I think I’m going to like you.’ She paused, frowning slightly. ‘Declan can be abrasive sometimes, because his work demands it, but his heart’s in the right place or you wouldn’t be here now. Why, he’s even got one of his in-laws lodging with him, which I think is carrying charity too far.’

Olivia swallowed her last morsel of carrot cake. ‘One of his in-laws?’ she repeated.

‘Well, almost.’ Sasha gestured broadly, doing no good to yet another pile of miscellaneous paperwork. ‘The chap who’s married to his cousin Maria. But she and Declan were practically brought up as brother and sister, so I suppose it counts.’

‘Yes,’ Olivia said, dry-mouthed. ‘I—suppose it does.’

She felt deathly cold—shrivelling inside. She wanted to throw her head back and howl like a banshee.

My God, she thought, despairingly. He’s Maria’s cousin, and I just marched up to his door and laid my claim to her husband. What have I said? What have I done?

Oh, Jeremy—Jeremy. Why didn’t you warn me?

Because he didn’t know you were about to descend on him, a small, flat voice in her head reminded her. You did it all off your own bat, and now you have to live with the consequences. Whatever they are.

‘Are you all right?’ Sasha was staring at her. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, darling.’

‘No.’ Olivia mustered a smile. ‘I think I’ve just realised how much I’ve bitten off—and I’m wondering if I can chew it.’

‘While on the subject of chewing.’ Sasha grabbed an envelope and drew a swift sketch map on the back of it. ‘The Portobello Road, darling, and our closest food source. Today’s market day, so you’ll find everything you need, but keep a close grip on your wallet. Pickpockets are practically endemic down there, so try not to look like a tourist.’

She didn’t feel like a tourist, Olivia thought an hour later, as she picked her way warily along the crowded Portobello pavements. More like an alien from the Planet Zog.

She’d spent a fraught hour with Sasha, being interrogated with the utmost charm on her background from birth to the present day. Nothing to hide there, but she’d had to dance round the subject of why she’d come to London, and how she’d happened to fetch up in W11.

She’d said far too much about her association with Jeremy already, and she suspected Sasha would approve no more than Declan Malone.

She’d been quite glad to make her urgent need to shop for provisions an excuse to escape.

And now here she was, walking down the Portobello Road. At first she thought she’d come to the wrong place, because all she could see on both sides of the road were antiques shops. The displays of silver and crystal were certainly mouth-watering, but there was no sign of any food outlets.

She crossed a road, and suddenly found herself absorbed into an alternative reality. A rowdy, brash reality, where dozens of ethnic accents brayed and clashed. Where clumps of street musicians vied for attention with a non-stop assault on the eardrums. Where stall-holders bellowed incomprehensible special offers. Olivia was wearing her bag slung diagonally across her body under her jacket, and she kept a protective hand on it as she found herself almost borne along on a tidal wave of humanity.

She was used to crowds, for heaven’s sake. She’d lived and worked in Bristol. But here the noise and numbers suddenly threatened to overwhelm her.

She’d never seen a market like it. As well as all the fruit and vegetables on offer, there were innumerable stalls offering bric-à-brac, second-hand clothing—including a display of old fur coats and military uniforms from another century—books, jewellery and musical instruments.

The temptation to linger and explore was fierce, but buying food had to be her main priority.

She turned and fought her way back, diving into a supermarket with something like relief. She filled a basket with staples, then pushed her way up the road to a specialist bakery she’d noticed earlier, where tempting displays of every kind of bread and pastry were presented outside for customers to pick and mix.

Olivia chose some focaccia bread, with a mini-baguette filled with smoked ham and salad, which, with fruit, would serve as lunch. She selected apples, plums, tomatoes and peppers from a street stall, and then stopped at the old-fashioned butcher’s further up the road and bought a chicken and enough minced pork and beef to make a pasta sauce.

On her way back, she passed the end of a cobbled mews and paused for a moment, looking wistfully at the narrow smart houses, painted in pastel colours. One of them she saw, even had a ‘For Sale’ board hanging from its first-floor balcony.

As she hesitated a couple came out of the house opposite, walking fast, hand in hand, the girl looking up into her companion’s face and laughing. Olivia stepped back to let them pass, an intense pang of envy twisting inside her as she wondered what it would be like to live there with someone you loved.

She allowed herself to indulge a brief fantasy of being there with Jeremy. Wandering out to buy fresh croissants and oranges to squeeze for breakfast, while he stayed in bed with the newspapers. Then, later, going for a stroll together round the second-hand bookshops and junk stalls, choosing something for the house—a piece of pottery, maybe, or some glassware. Something to provide memories in the years ahead.

She stopped herself right there. At the moment there was no guarantee that she was going to share any time with Jeremy, she thought wretchedly. Not after her appalling gaffe at Lancey Gardens.

She shuddered as she walked slowly back up the hill, weighed down by her shopping and the remembrance of the morning’s confrontation.

Because she could just imagine the row there would be when Jeremy got back, she thought despondently.

Declan Malone had caught her off guard—flicked her on the raw—but that was no excuse. She’d behaved like an idiot, pushing herself forward like that before she’d sussed out the situation.

If only Jeremy had told her that he was holed up temporarily with his wife’s cousin. Instead, she’d gained the opposite impression—that he had his own independent flat, that he was making a life which she would be able to share.

I couldn’t have been listening properly, she admitted, with a sigh. Or else I simply heard what I wanted to hear.

Nothing, but nothing was working out as she’d expected. And she could well end up on her own in one of the world’s great uncaring capitals.

Or she could go back to Bristol, she reminded herself. No one apart from Beth knew why she’d come to London, and her flatmate was too kind and loyal to have spread the word. She could probably even get her old job back.

My God, she thought in swift horror, as she crossed the road to Lancey Terrace. That was real defeatist talk. Return to square one and occupy her familiar rut. When in fact it had been more than time for a change. For her to take hold of her life by the scruff of its neck and shake it.

She had a career—valuable job skills to offer. She could earn her living—pay her way. She’d come to London to share Jeremy’s life, not to become some pathetic dependent.

And whatever happened, she intended to survive.

Lifting her chin, she strode the last hundred yards.

Her shopping unpacked and put away, Olivia sat down to eat her lunch and take a long look round her. The flat was starting to look occupied, and she had her small portable radio to fill the silence. She’d noticed, too, there was a TV aerial in the room. And from the information that Sasha had thrown at her earlier about Notting Hill Gate she reckoned she’d be able to rent a set quite easily.

That will be my project for the afternoon, she thought. Keep busy—keep interested—and, above all, don’t brood.

She’d found a vase in one of the cupboards. She’d get some flowers to go in it. And some wine. If it turned out there was nothing to celebrate, then she’d drown her sorrows instead, she decided, squaring her shoulders.

She got out her A to Z of London, working out the shortest route to the Gate.

Sasha had told her she could find anything there, and that seemed to be true, she thought as she battled with the other Saturday afternoon shoppers. Like Portobello, it seemed to be fizzing with life. She gave herself time to look properly, lingering in front of boutiques and reading the menus of the various bistros, walking, inevitably, much further than she’d planned.

But if Notting Hill was to be her home, at least for the time being, she needed to get to know it. She wanted to look as confident and purposeful as the people who streamed past her, and feel it too.

She thought suddenly, I want to belong.

At a wine shop she bought some red Italian wine to go with the pasta, a decent Chardonnay for the chicken, and an optimistic Bollinger for her reunion with Jeremy, investing in a strong canvas bag in which to lug her purchases home, as most of her shopping was likely to be done on the hoof from now on.

She discovered a TV store without difficulty, and ended up buying a reconditioned portable with a reasonable warranty for far less than the cost of an annual rental, treating herself to a cab to get it back to Lancey Terrace. After all, she reminded herself, she couldn’t waste good job-hunting time waiting at the flat for a delivery to be made.

In spite of her personal reservations, there was a curious satisfaction in making her basement look like home.

But, when it came to it, the idea of spending her first evening in London concocting a pasta sauce for one held little appeal.

Up to now there’d always been people around her—family first, then friends, and flatmates. Always someone to laugh with, or moan to, or simply exchange the news of the day.

This was her first experience of being single in the city, and she needed to tackle it positively.

So she wouldn’t skulk in the flat, feeling hard done to. She would go out. Go to the cinema in the Gate, and have a meal afterwards. Make her first night in London an occasion.

She changed, putting on black leggings, a cream shirt, and a long black linen jacket, and set off. She had a choice of films, including a well-reviewed romantic comedy, but it seemed safer in her present state of mind to opt for a thriller, with a plot convoluted enough to keep her mind engaged, and, consequently, off her personal problems.

She emerged feeling more relaxed then she’d done all day. Now all that remained was to find somewhere to eat. Probably not easy, she realised, surveying the still crowded pavements. Maybe she’d have to settle for a take-away.

She’d intended to head for one of the bistros she’d checked out earlier, but instead found herself wandering up Kensington Park Road.

The lit window of a restaurant drew her across the street, but one look was enough to convince her that it was not only full to bursting point with beautiful people, but, more significantly, out of her price range.

She was just moving on when she saw a diner seated at a table for two in the window itself turn, hand raised, to summon a waiter.

She recognised him with stomach-churning immediacy. Declan Malone, she thought, stiffening, her hackles on full alert. But not with the morning’s exotic redhead, she noticed at once. His evening’s companion was a willowy blonde decorously clad in a dark trouser suit. For the moment anyway. Presumably the peach towel outfit came later.

‘Poor girl,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Does she realise she’s simply feeding the ego of a serial womaniser?’

Clearly she didn’t, because she was devouring Declan Malone with her eyes, to the complete detriment of the food on her plate. And he was looking at her and smiling in a way that had been totally lacking in his dealings with Olivia.

In fact, Olivia acknowledged without pleasure, she would hardly have recognised him.

A taxi drew up, and three girls got out, all stick-thin, and talking and giggling at the tops of their voices.

As the new arrivals pranced past her into the restaurant, shrieking their hellos and air-kissing everyone within reach, Olivia started, as if she’d been woken abruptly from some spell.

What the hell am I doing? she demanded silently. Hanging round here with my nose pressed against the glass like the Little Match Girl? Do I want him to look up and see me?

Hastily, she turned away, retracing her steps towards the Gate.

She realised with sudden bleakness that her appetite had totally deserted her. And, more disturbingly, that she had never felt quite so cold, or so lonely in her life before.

Claudia Lang was not a particularly conceited girl, but she was sufficiently keyed in to know when her dinner partner’s attention was wandering, and human enough to be piqued by it.

She reached across the table and put a scarlet-tipped hand on Declan’s sleeve.

‘Is something wrong?’

Startled, Declan wrenched his frowning gaze back from the window.

‘No—I’m sorry. I—thought I saw someone outside. Someone I knew.’

Claudia directed a sceptical glance over her shoulder at the darkness beyond the window. ‘Then you must have X-ray vision,’ she commented lightly. ‘Do you want to go and check?’

‘Of course not.’ The frown faded, and the smile he sent her was charming and repentant. ‘I’m probably wrong, and anyway, it’s really—not important.’ He paused, then added with cold emphasis, ‘Not important at all.’

And wondered why he’d needed to say that.

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