Three brides in search

of the perfect dress—

and the perfect husband!

Welcome to this fabulous new trilogy by

talented Presents® author Sharon Kendrick. On a bride’s special day, there’s nothing more important to her than a beautiful wedding dress—apart from the perfect bridegroom! Meet three women who are about to find both....

In February you met Holly Lovelace in

One Bridegroom Required! In March,

Holly’s very special wedding dress was worn

by Amber for her big day in

One Wedding Required! And this month in

One Husband Required!, Amber’s sister,

Ursula, walks up the aisle in it, too!

Read on and share the excitement as

Holly, Amber and Ursula meet and marry

their bridegrooms!

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

One Husband Required!
Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the Fabulous Fozards—

Baz (Benito), Gill (Wigs), George, Franny and Tot

Contents

Cover Dear Reader About the Author Title Page Dedication PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE Copyright

PROLOGUE

THE wedding dress gleamed pearl-gold in the morning light. Finest silk-satin and sheer organza. A drift of tulle, like a summer cloud. Ursula ran her fingers lightly over the plastic cover which protected it, and sighed.

It was sleek, stark and stunning—the perfect gown to make a beautiful bride. Ursula’s mother had bought it for her daughters for just that reason, but Ursula knew in her heart that she would never wear the dress.

For a start it was much too small.

And the man she loved was married to someone else...

CHAPTER ONE

July

‘URSULA?’

‘Yes, Ross?’

‘Um...are you doing anything on Saturday?’

Ursula O’Neil was a practical woman who usually ran on automatic pilot until at least midday. But this one question was enough to make her hand hover over the telephone. She looked up at her boss in amazement

It was the ‘um’ as much as the question itself that made Ursula sit up and take notice.

Six years of working for a man meant you got to know him pretty well. He could be distracted when he was working, irritable on a deadline, and soft as butter with his daughter—but Ross Sheridan hesitating? Never!

Words were his business, his stock-in-trade. What Ross couldn’t do with a few words wasn’t worth knowing... He could make you weep, or giggle, or rush out to buy a certain brand of dog food—even if you didn’t own a dog! These days he was Chairman of the agency, true, but at heart he was still a simple copywriter.

And a man who never hesitated.

Ursula forgot all about the telephone call she had been about to make. ‘Would you mind repeating what you just said, Ross?’

Ross studied the pencil which was positioned between his long fingers like a spear. Then he looked up and smiled, and Ursula was caught in the crossfire of eyes so dark they were almost black. Inky, brilliant and unforgettable.

But the eyes were obscured by a frown. ‘I said, are you doing anything on Saturday?’

Well, he wasn’t asking her for a date, that was for sure. But Ursula allowed herself the brief and guilty fantasy that he was before she said, ‘Well, no, I’m not, as it happens. Why?’

‘We’re having a party.’

‘You’re having a party?’ she repeated carefully.

‘That’s right.’

‘Where?’

‘Where do people usually hold parties? At home, of course.’

‘Oh. I see.’ But she didn’t. Ross and his wife had held parties before and never bothered sending her an invitation. So why the sudden change in behaviour?

‘And I wondered whether you’d like to come along?’

Ursula continued to gaze at Ross, as if seeking clues for the invitation in a face which was much too interesting to be described as merely handsome. But it came pretty close...

‘Me?’ she squeaked, realising as she said it that she sounded like some latter-day Cinderella!

‘Yes, you,’ he agreed, frowning even more. ‘For pity’s sake, Ursula—I’ve never seen you so lost for words before! What do you think’s going to happen? I’m not planning to cosh you over the head and sell you off to the highest bidder!’

Interesting fantasy, decided Ursula.

He leaned back in his chair. ‘Have I shocked you so much by asking you?’

‘Not shocked,’ she corrected primly. ‘I think it would take a little more than that to shock me, Ross! Bemused might be a better description. I mean, in all the years I’ve worked with you—’

‘Please don’t remind me how many!’

‘I won’t.’ Years which had just blurred and flown. The reality of just how many should have disturbed Ursula far more than it seemed to disturb Ross—but then she never let herself stop to think about it. Because then she might start thinking she was in a rut and that it was time for a change.

And she didn’t want to change. For who in their right mind would ever change the perfect job and the perfect boss?

‘Ever since I first entered the mad, mixed-up world of advertising...’ she smiled ‘...and you plucked me from the obscurity of the general office to become your personal assistant—’

‘And?’ he cut in impatiently, as he was in the habit of doing if he thought something was irrelevant. ‘What’s that got to do with me asking you to a party?’

‘Well, you’ve never invited me to anything at your house before.’

‘That’s because you once told me quite emphatically that you didn’t like to mix business with pleasure!’

Ursula thought about this for a moment. ‘That’s true,’ she admitted. Well, true that she had said it, not that she had meant it, of course. Not deep down. It had been a survival technique to protect herself from the buckets of charm her boss possessed. She could have quite happily spent every evening in Ross’s company if the truth were known. Every lunchtime. Every breakfast. Every waking hour if she was being embarrassingly and brutally honest, and only one thing stopped her.

He was married.

And even if he wasn’t married—even if he wasn’t—there was no way he would look twice at her. Men like Ross Sheridan were never attracted to women with unfashionably curved bodies of softly cushioned hips, and breasts which looked like overripe melons. They liked their women slim. No. Skinny. With plenty of bones showing, like sleek racehorses. Classy women.

Like Jane. Ross’s wife.

Jane, who was tall and creative and possessed the kind of qualities which readers of teenage magazines were always aspiring to. Jane who could throw on a tatty old dress bought from the thrift shop and look like a million dollars in it.

Swallowing down whatever stupid emotion it was which had caused her throat to constrict, Ursula stared at her boss. ‘So what’s it in aid of—this party?’

For the first time in all the time she had known him Ursula saw Ross’s face grow slightly uncomfortable, as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind how to answer. So. First hesitation. Now tension. And all in the space of a single conversation. How very odd.

‘We promised Katy that she could have a birthday party,’ he drawled. ‘And Jane thought it might be a good idea to swell the numbers. Invite a few adults. And I immediately thought of you.’

‘Ah!’ Ursula smiled with pleasure. ‘Now I see!’

Katy was Ross’s daughter and Ursula loved her to bits. Sometimes he brought her into the office with him during the school holidays, when Jane was extra busy. Katy liked to trot round after Ursula like a little dog, and Ursula genuinely enjoyed her company.

She had taught Katy how to use the computer, and to play gin rummy, and in return Katy kept her up to date on the current fashions and music scene! It only seemed five minutes since the last birthday, when—come to think of it—Ursula had accompanied Katy and Ross on a trip to London Zoo. She screwed her nose up as she tried to remember. Now where had Jane been that day?

‘I can’t believe her birthday has come around again!’ she told him. ‘She’ll be eleven, won’t she?’

He shook his dark head. ‘Ten.’ He twirled the pencil like a drum majorette’s baton, in the way he always did when something was on his mind. ‘She just looks older.’

‘Acts older too,’ observed Ursula thoughtfully as she thought about Katy’s remarkable self-possession. ‘She’s a very grown-up young lady, and she knows more about fractions and base numbers than I ever will!’

‘Well, that doesn’t say very much,’ mused Ross, a glint of mischief lightening his dark eyes, ‘since you are the most mathematically challenged person I know!’

‘If that means I hate anything to do with figures, then you’re right!’ Ursula observed the twirling movement he was continuing to make with his fingers. ‘Is something wrong, Ross?’

His fingers stilled and his eyes narrowed warily. ‘Wrong?’ he repeated suspiciously. ‘What makes you ask that?’

If she admitted to studying his body language, and detecting an edginess simply by looking at his hands—then wouldn’t that make her look a bit sad? ‘You just seem a little preoccupied this morning,’ she told him truthfully. ‘You have done all week, to be honest.’ Indeed, all month if she was being brutally honest.

‘You know me too well, Ursula,’ he said quietly, only it sounded more like an accusation than a compliment.

‘Well?’ She ignored the warning look in his eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘My deadlines are mounting—’

‘Then delegate!’ she told him sternly. ‘You’re the Chairman of the agency, for heaven’s sake!’

‘But the client wants me.’

That was the trouble—the client always did want him. ‘Well, the client may not be able to have you!’ she glowered. ‘They may have to use Oliver instead, or one of the many creative whizkids you pay huge salaries to!’

‘We’ll see.’ He gave a dismissive shrug, then turned on his lazy smile. ‘So will you come, Ursula? Katy would love you to be there.’

Ursula only pretended to think about it. She had always refused to attend social events when they were connected with work, but this was the first time he had ever invited her to his house. She told herself that it was simply a genuine desire to help Katy celebrate her birthday which had her itching to attend. And it was. But deep down she was dying for a glimpse into his home life. Would he be as messy as he was in the office? Would Jane be clucking round the kitchen like a mother hen? ‘Thanks very much. I’d love to come.’

‘Good.’

‘What time on Saturday?’

‘About six o’clock? We promised Katy that she could have an early-evening party.’

There it was again, the ‘we’ word, reminding Ursula—if she had needed any reminding—that Ross was already spoken for.

‘So no jelly and ice cream?’ she questioned lightly.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that! If you’re very good, I’ll see if I can organise chocolate cake!’ He grinned back and began to draw funny little shapes onto the large sheet of paper in front of him, which told Ursula that he was about to go into creative mode.

Unusually—and lucratively—Ross Sheridan managed to combine the twin accomplishments of being artistic and yet having a strong head for business. In the competitive world of advertising he was already a bit of a legend—and he was still only thirty-two! As a copywriter, he was second to none—his the dizzy success story which others aspired to. As people said—any campaign with Ross Sheridan’s name on it was Midas-kissed!

His rise had seemed effortless—but Ursula knew how hard he had worked to get to where he was today. He had started out at Wickens, one of London’s biggest agencies, where he had quickly established himself as one to watch. Early on he had produced two brilliantly successful ads which had gone on to win national awards. That was where he had met Ursula, who had been temping because the money had been better and she had needed as much as she’d been able to get her hands on.

In Ursula, Ross had recognised talents which complemented his own. She was punctual, efficient and sensible. She didn’t spend hours on the phone to her boyfriend or come back from lunch all giggly with wine.

When Ross had left Wickens he had taken Ursula with him—to the buzzy ‘hotshop’ agency where all the brightest talents had converged, and where Ross had met Oliver Blackman. And when Oliver and Ross had formed Sheridan-Blackman—their own breakaway agency—Ursula had been their first full-time member of staff.

She’d been with Ross so long that sometimes she felt like part of the wallpaper—while at others it seemed that her life with him had sped by in a flash. And the one great constant was his charisma. That never dimmed, just kept drawing you to him, like a moth to the flame.

Like all creative personalities, he had his flaws. He could be irritable and exacting, short-tempered and impatient. But he compensated with his enthusiasm, his brilliance and the occasional smile which could make grown women swoon.

She looked at him now, trying to analyse his appeal.

Every day was dress-down day at Sheridan-Blackman, and today Ross was wearing trousers which made his legs look spectacularly long. He wore these with an open-neck shirt which couldn’t disguise those lumberjack shoulders or the lean body which every woman in the building dreamed of.

He topped six feet in his bare feet—which everyone knew because he often kicked his shoes off after arriving at the office! His hair was lighter than black but darker than brown—wavy, thick and usually in need of a trim.

Ursula sighed. It wasn’t easy working for a man who looked as if he should be starring in a jeans commercial!

Forcing herself to concentrate on something else, Ursula rose to her feet. ‘Do you want some coffee?’ she asked him.

‘Coffee sounds good.’

She was almost at the door when he said, ‘Ursula?’

She turned round, noticing blue-black shadows beneath his eyes, and thinking that he looked as if he needed a good night’s sleep. ‘Yes, Ross?’

‘Any chance of a couple of aspirin to go with that coffee?’

When he turned those big dark eyes on her like an abandoned puppy, there was every chance that she would grind the chalk to make the tablets herself!

‘Hangover?’ she quizzed sweetly. ‘Or some ongoing complaint I should know about?’

He scowled. ‘I just asked you for a couple of pills—I didn’t expect to have you carry out a full medical on me!’

Unwanted, X-rated thoughts went sizzling across her mind, but Ursula didn’t miss a beat. ‘Yes, boss,’ she said crisply. ‘You just carry on sitting there quietly relaxing while I run around and fetch for you.’

‘Thanks,’ he replied absently, scribbling on a notepad and not seeming to notice the sarcasm in her voice.

In the office’s adjoining kitchen, Ursula ground some coffee beans, then plugged the kettle in. She looked out of the window at the London skyscape as she waited for it to boil, reflecting on how lucky she was to work slap-bang in the centre of London, and in such a stunning suite of offices. For a girl with just a clutch of typing certificates to her name she hadn’t done too badly!

Like the rest of the building, the kitchen had been designed with the kind of flair you would expect from an advertising agency. Glossy and slick. As Ross had informed her on her first day at Wickens, ‘Image is everything in this business.’ Ursula remembered that he had said it in a very cynical, jaded kind of way, and she recalled wondering whether he was happy or not.

She remembered the day she had discovered that he was married, with a young daughter, and the great stabbing feeling of disappointment she had felt. Which had been utterly ridiculous when she had thought about it afterwards. Surely she hadn’t been expecting that a dreamy hot-shot like Ross would be interested in a plump Irish orphan like her?

But having her hopes dashed—however futile they had been—had meant that she had gone on to develop a strong working relationship with her boss, one that wasn’t based on false expectations of having him clasp her in his arms one day! That wasn’t to say that she didn’t still sometimes have the occasional little fantasy about him—but she wasn’t alone in that. So did every other woman in the building!

‘What’s happened to the coffee?’ came a low growl from the office. ‘Are you boarding a plane for Colombia to harvest the beans yourself?’

Ursula smiled as she popped two aspirin out of their foil container, poured him a glass of water and carried them through to him.

He looked pale, she thought critically, handing him the drink and the tablets.

‘Thanks.’

‘Are you ill, Ross?’

He shook his head. ‘Just sleep-depleted.’

‘Well, don’t frown,’ she told him sweetly. ‘It’ll give you lines,’ and went back out to the delectable smell wafting from the kitchen before he had time to come up with a smart reply.

Pinned on one of the walls of the kitchen was a framed still of one of Ross’s most successful campaigns, featuring a glossy young blonde with bee-stung lips, sipping from a glass of iced cocoa. The blonde had been sitting on a beach, clad in the skimpiest of bikinis, and Ross’s copyline had read, ‘Not Just For Bedtime...’.

The campaign had exploded the myth that cocoa was only drunk by fuddy-duddies. It had also started a hot and angry debate in the women’s pages in newspapers about whether it wasn’t time to stop using sexist images to sell products. Ross had refused to comment.

Sales had shot through the ceiling, and Ross had become the hottest property in town—and in more than just a commercial sense. With his creative genius, a body that was lean and hard—and eyes which could sometimes resemble hell’s fire—Ross Sheridan was the man whom everybody wanted to be seen out with.

Except that he was seen out with nobody because he had a wife and daughter at home!

And Ursula admired him for that. Over the years, the man had had enough temptation put in his path to have tempted the holiest of saints. She had seen models and actresses coming on to him like nobody’s business. But Ross hadn’t just resisted—he had shown absolutely no interest.

Which only added to his appeal. The irresistible man who was beyond temptation. Moody, spiky, brilliant and erratic.

She carried the tray of coffee through, added a plate of his favourite biscuits. She had poured them both a cup and settled back down at her desk when his deep voice punctured the silence.

‘Ursula?’

‘Yes, Ross?’

‘Um, how old are you exactly?’

Ursula blinked. Again, the uncharacteristic use of the word ‘um’. ‘But you know how old I am!’

His mouth assumed a stubborn little-boy curve. ‘Not exactly, I don’t,’ he hedged obstinately.

‘How exact do you want? Down to the nearest minute? Are you plotting my horoscope for me?’

‘Very funny.’

‘Don’t you know that it’s rude to ask a lady her age?’

‘But I don’t know any ladies,’ he mocked. ‘Only women.’

The velvet sensuality which underpinned his words had the undesirable effect of making Ursula’s cheeks grow scarlet.

‘Ursula,’ he teased, ‘you’re blushing.’

‘Well, you caused it!’ she snapped.

‘Only because you were being so coy about your age.’

‘That was not coyness!’ she returned. ‘It was a perfectly natural wish to keep something of myself back!’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. You keep plenty of yourself back,’ he remarked obscurely, and took a sip of his coffee before catching her in the inky crossfire of his eyes. ‘So are you going to tell me?’

Ursula found herself wondering briefly whether there was ever an age that a woman was happy to admit to! ‘I’m twenty-seven—twenty-eight soon.’ She stared across the room at him. ‘Why do you want to know?’

He batted her back an innocent look. ‘Does there need to be a reason?’

Ursula shrugged, and the upward movement caused her long dark hair to catch the light in a blue-black gleam. She wore her hair loose and flowing around her shoulders—not a terribly practical style for work, but at least it diminished the width of her unfashionably round face. Or so she thought. ‘Of course there needs to be a reason!’ she told him. ‘I’ve worked with you for the past six years and you’ve never bothered asking me before!’

‘Maybe I’m planning to surprise you—’

‘You mean you’re going to turn up on time tomorrow morning?’

He laughed, but it was a slightly uneasy laugh. ‘You’re right,’ he sighed. ‘I have been late a lot recently.’

Ursula quickly straightened the papers on her desk into a neat line. She wasn’t going to ask why. Didn’t need to. Married men who kept turning up late in the morning usually had a very legitimate reason for doing soy—presumably because they had been distracted by the womanly wiles of their wives.

And that was an area of Ross’s life which Ursula determinedly kept her nose out of. She was glad that Ross was happily married—she just didn’t want it rammed down her throat every five minutes.

‘So why the sudden interest in my age?’ she quizzed. ‘Have you decided that I’m due a pay rise as a reward for long service? Or maybe just for being long-suffering?’

Ignoring her question, Ross picked up a pencil and with three swift, hard strokes on a sheet of scrap paper managed to produce an uncanny likeness of a philandering Cabinet Minister who had been in the news all week. ‘It’s disturbing,’ he said, after a minute, ‘to think of you getting on for thirty.’

‘It is very disturbing,’ Ursula agreed equably, ‘when you put it like that. Because I’m not! Now who’s the mathematically challenged one? I happen to be more than two years off thirty! I’m not exactly queuing up for my pension just yet! And, besides,’ she added defensively, because taking a resolute attitude helped diminish the fear of a lonely old age, ‘thirty isn’t very old, not these days.’

‘No. You’re right. It isn’t.’ His voice was thoughtful as he fixed luminous dark eyes on her. ‘And is there a man on the scene?’

Ursula blinked with surprise. What on earth was the matter with Ross today? First inviting her to Katy’s party. And now this. He had never asked her about her love life before. ‘Y-you mean...a boyfriend?’ she asked breathlessly.

Ross gave an odd kind of smile. ‘Do you only go out with boys, then, Ursula?’

If only he knew!

But no one knew, not even her sister, though Ursula suspected that Amber must have guessed her embarrassing secret. That she had reached the grand old age of twenty-seven and had only ever had one serious boyfriend. And even he hadn’t been that serious; not if you judged the relationship in the way everyone else did—in terms of sex. Because—shame of all shames—in a liberal world where experience was everything, Ursula O’Neil remained an out-of-touch virgin.

‘No, there isn’t a boyfriend,’ she told him, hoping she didn’t sound too defensive. ‘I’m quite busy enough with my line-dancing and my French Appreciation lessons. And I read a lot. I don’t need a man to justify my existence, you know!’ She frowned at him suspiciously. ‘And why have you suddenly started taking an interest in my personal life?’

‘No reason,’ said Ross innocently. He absently took a bite from his biscuit and then looked at it in surprise before finishing it, like someone who hadn’t realised how hungry they were before they started eating. He popped the rest of it in his mouth and crunched it.

‘Miss breakfast this morning, by any chance?’ queried Ursula.

‘How did you guess?’

‘The way you practically bit your fingers off? That gave me just a tiny clue!’

He smiled as he licked a stray crumb off his finger with the tip of his tongue. ‘You know, you’re bright, funny and extremely tolerant, Ursula.’ There was a pause as he looked across his desk at her. ‘Do you ever think about changing your job?’

Ursula might have felt insecure about her looks and lack of attraction to the opposite sex, but she was supremely confident about her work, and it didn’t occur to her that Ross might be hinting at her to leave. She assumed an expression of mock shock. ‘You really want me to answer that? On a Monday morning, when you’ve got a headache? What’s up, Ross—worried that I’ll walk out and leave you in the lurch?’

‘I’m serious, Ursula.’

‘Well, so am I.’ She blinked at him, dark, feathery lashes shading her unusually deep blue eyes. Her best feature, or so her mother always used to say. ‘I presume that wasn’t a prelude to “letting me go”, or whatever horrible euphemism it is they use these days when someone wants to sack you! Was it?’

‘Sack you?’ He gave a gritty smile. ‘I can’t imagine the place without you, if you must know.’

Which sounded like a compliment, but left her with a rather disturbing thought. ‘Do you think I’m stuck in a rut, then, Ross?’

‘The question rather implies that other people do,’ he observed. ‘Anyone in particular?’

‘My sister,’ Ursula admitted.

Ross knitted his dark brows together. ‘Amber? The model?’

‘She doesn’t really model very much these days—not since she got herself involved with Finn Fitzgerald—’

‘But she doesn’t approve of you working here?’

Ursula bit her lip, wishing that they’d never started this wretched conversation. Life was so much easier if you just drifted along without asking too many questions along the way. ‘She thinks six years in one place is a long time.’

‘And she’s right,’ he said slowly.

Ursula looked up in alarm. Maybe she had misjudged things. Him. Maybe subconsciously he did want her out.

Ross saw the wide-eyed look of fear on her face and shook his head. ‘Now what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?’

‘Don’t you patronise me!’ she snapped. ‘Or tell a lie!’

‘And how am I telling a lie?’

‘I am not pretty!’

‘Well, that’s purely subjective, and I happen to think you are—exceedingly.’ He saw her blush, and smiled. ‘In fact, if I go so far as to be objective—then I’d describe those enormous eyes as sapphires set in a complexion as dewy and as fresh as creamy-pink roses left out in the rain—’

‘Now you’re letting your copywriting skills run away with you!’ she interrupted drily. ‘Just what are you trying to say to me, Ross? That our working partnership has grown stale? That there’s some hungry new female champing at the bit to replace me, and you do want me to go?’

Ross sighed. ‘No, I don’t want you to go. Right now, all I want is to resist the temptation to make any comments about female logic. Or the lack of it,’ he added in a dark undertone. ‘But I am interested in hearing your sister’s objections to you working for me. Particularly since I’ve met her on very few occasions. She hardly knows me!’ he finished indignantly.

‘Oh,’ she said, with an evasive shrug of her shoulders. ‘You know.’

‘No, Ursula, I don’t.’ He looked at her.

‘She...she...’

‘She...?’ he put in helpfully.

She didn’t dare tell him her sister’s real reason for urging her to leave Sheridan-Blackman. That Amber thought Ursula was being unrealistic. Wasting her life by pining for a man who could never be hers. Except that I’m not pining! Ursula thought defiantly. Or being unrealistic.

Just because she happened to like Ross as a man, and enjoyed working with him—it didn’t necessarily mean she wanted to start ripping his clothes off! ‘She thinks that a change of scene would do me good.’

‘It’s worth thinking about,’ Ross said unexpectedly.

‘It is? Then that does mean—’

‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ he put in impatiently. ‘Other than that it might be an idea to consider any other offers which may come your way.’

Other offers? Ursula stared at him in confusion. ‘But they’re not likely to, are they? Not if I’m not actively seeking employment. I’m a personal assistant, not an account executive, and I’m hardly a prime target for head-hunters!’

‘I guess not,’ he answered tersely. ‘Do you have a lot of work to do, Ursula?’

‘Not particularly.’ She tried to answer lightly, but it wasn’t easy now that he had sown seeds of doubt in her mind. Somehow she had gone from complacency to insecurity in the space of about half an hour. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting swopping idle chit-chat with you.’

‘Then maybe you could pop down to the market and buy me some oranges?’

She didn’t miss a beat—but then she was used to bizarre requests by now. ‘How many?’

‘A dozen.’

‘And these oranges—are they for eating, or looking at?’

‘For looking at. I need inspiration! There’s a new juice campaign coming up—and Oliver’s pitching for the account. So we need to compose the perfect catchphrase which will have people ransacking their supermarkets for Jerry’s Juice. So. Any brilliant ideas?’

Ursula knitted her brows together in concentration. What did she like best about orange juice? ‘Everyone always emphasises how sweet it is...’

‘Yeah. And?’

‘Well, why not do the opposite—emphasise how sharp it is?’

‘Any ideas?’

Ursula shrugged. ‘Oh, the possibilities are endless—sharpens the appetite, that kind of thing. You know! You’re the copywriter, Ross!’

‘Mmm, I am,’ murmured Ross slowly. ‘But maybe you should be, too. You’re in the wrong job, you know, Ursula.’

‘No, I’m in the right job!’ Ursula unlocked the petty-cash tin and took a ten-pound note out. ‘Just because I happen to have a fertile imagination and an active mind doesn’t mean I want to be a copywriter!’

He laughed. ‘So you’ll come to Katy’s party on Saturday?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she promised airily.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE was a click as the connection was made. ‘Hello?’

Ursula paused before saying, ‘Is that you, Amber?’

‘Of course it’s me! Surely you know the sound of my voice by now! I am your sister!’

‘You just sounded... I don’t know...odd.’

Amber gave a heavy sigh which reverberated down the line. ‘Just fed up. Finn’s overworking. Again. How are things with you?’

‘Er, fine.’ Ursula hesitated. ‘Ross has invited me to a party on Saturday.’

‘Gosh. What does his wife say about that?’

Ursula silently counted to ten. She loved her sister very much, but sometimes, honestly... ‘I have no idea,’ she replied frostily. ‘But I should imagine that he checked with her before he asked me. I do wish you wouldn’t make assumptions, Amber. I’m hardly worthy competition, and anyway—I like Jane.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

It was time, Ursula decided firmly, to put an end to Amber’s totally false speculations about what kind of party Ross had invited her to. ‘I do like her,’ she reaffirmed, though more out of duty than conviction. ‘What little I know of her. And anyway—it’s Katy’s birthday party.’

‘Oh.’

‘Why do you say “oh” in that tone of voice?’

‘Oh, nothing. I suppose I imagined that he was whisking you off to some glamorous advertising-related function.’

‘Well, he’s not. And I never go to those, anyway.’

‘So you’ve been invited to a child’s tea party?’

‘It’s an early evening supper, actually.’

‘Wow!’

‘Don’t be mean, Amber.’

‘I’m not. I’m being objective. And protective.’

‘Protective?’

‘Of course. And it’s slightly worrying that this... party...is your social affair of the month!’

‘It isn’t!’

‘Well, what else have you done this month?’

Ursula even found herself cringing as she answered her sister’s question. ‘I went out for a meal with my French Appreciation class last week—’

‘And were there any men there?’

‘Lots!’ said Ursula brightly, as she recalled the portly doorman from the nearby Granchester Hotel who sat next to her in class. He was planning to visit Marseilles for a holiday to trace some of his forebears and had grown hot and sweaty around the collar before asking Ursula if she wanted to accompany him on the trip! She had politely declined.

Then there was that rather nice young sculptor whose pint she always paid for if the class went to the pub afterwards, because he never had any money. True, he was only twenty—but terribly friendly. And very interesting.

‘Eligible men?’ put in Amber sharply.

‘That’s so subjective I can’t possibly answer it!’ responded Ursula smoothly.

‘Well, if everything is so marvellous, then why are you ringing me, Ursula?’

‘Because I don’t know what to wear!’ wailed Ursula.

There was a short silence.

‘Oh, I’m not suggesting borrowing something of yours!’ said Ursula hastily, sensing her sister’s embarrassment. ‘I wouldn’t like to try and squeeze myself into one of your size eight Lycra miniskirts!’

‘I’m a size ten now,’ said Amber, the gloom in her voice suggesting a disaster of national proportions.

‘Oh, that’s terrible, sweetie!’ teased Ursula, though she had to bite back her first comment, which was that she would be in seventh heaven if she were anywhere near that size! She had gained extra weight as a teenager, and never really lost it. ‘But it doesn’t help me to decide what to wear!’

She could have asked Amber how she imagined it must feel when your main criterion for buying any outfit was whether or not it made your bottom look fat and wobbly. But of course she couldn’t do that. If Ursula’s bottom was bigger than she would have liked, then it was nobody’s fault but her own. If you ate too much, you got fat. Cause and effect. Simple. And, while she might occasionally justify her plumpness by calling to mind the grim reality of her growing-up years, nothing altered that simple fact.

‘Wear jeans,’ advised Amber succinctly. “They’re always useful around children.’

‘Jeans! If I wore jeans, they’d be digging out their safari clothes—I look like a hippo in jeans!’

‘Well, I’m not going through a whole list of suggestions just so that you can shoot them down in flames! What do you want to wear?’

Ursula’s voice was unusually hesitant, and shy. ‘Do you think the cream trousers and top you helped me choose would be okay? I haven’t worn them yet.’

‘Perfect!’ said Amber immediately. ‘The colour emphasises how dark your hair is, and brings out the roses in your cheeks. Oh, and clip your hair back at the sides with those mother-of-pearl slides I bought you for your twenty-first.’

‘Okay.’

‘Oh. and Ursula?’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘Be good!’

Amber’s words echoed around Ursula’s ears on Saturday evening, as she stood opposite Ross’s house, trying to summon up enough courage to go up to the front door and knock. Be good, indeed! She didn’t think she’d have a problem sticking to that advice! She doubted whether there would be any men there whom Amber would consider ‘eligible’, and even if there were they wouldn’t spend a moment looking at her.

She swallowed nervously as she gazed up at the house. How she wished she’d had a drink before she had set out!

She hadn’t even bothered asking Ross how many others were going, or who they were. She just prayed frantically that all the women weren’t in the same kind of league as Jane, his wife.

She stared down at her toes poking through the strappy sandals which were the most summery shoes she had—an absolute necessity on a night like this. It was baking hot, even though the sun was getting low in the sky.

Ross lived in Hampstead, which was miles on the underground from Ursula’s little flat in Clapham Common. It had been far too hot on the train, but not much better once she’d got off and begun to walk up the hill.

The air had a strange, almost suspended sense of stillness about it, with no breeze existing to lift it away. It had made her feel hot and bothered. Still did.

Ursula surreptitiously wiped her brow with the back of her hand, and the little hairs on the back of her neck prickled up, her senses on full alert, as if suddenly aware of someone watching her. She narrowed her eyes as she allowed herself a closer look at the imposing, late-Victorian house.

Someone was!

She glanced up and saw a figure blackly silhouetted against an arched window on the first floor and she could tell, even from this distance, that it was Ross. She studied him dispassionately, cushioned by the safety net of distance, thinking that the pose he struck highlighted the complexity which lay at the heart of the man. He looked both relaxed and yet alert.

Watching.

Waiting...

Well, there was no way she could possibly dawdle any longer, not without looking a complete idiot. Ursula clutched her handbag even tighter and, tucking Katy’s birthday present under her arm, she crossed the road, went up the steps to the front door and banged loudly on the knocker.

It was opened by Katy herself, looking more grown up than her ten years in short blue denim skirt and a sparkly blue tee shirt, which looked expensive. She was a tall girl for her age, and the platform shoes she wore made her even taller.

Katy had her father’s deep brown eyes and even deeper brown hair—but hers curled into wild corkscrews whereas Ross’s just waved gently against the nape of his neck. Her wiry height she owed entirely to her mother, along with a nose which was a cute, freckled snub and rosebud-pretty lips.

‘Happy birthday, Katy!’ beamed Ursula, and held the present out towards her. ‘I love your tee shirt!’

But Katy seemed more interested in a hug, hurling herself into Ursula’s arms with a fervour which was as surprising as it was touching.

‘Ursula!’ she squeaked. ‘You’re the first here! I’m so glad you came! I made Daddy invite you!’

Ursula willed her face not to react, but there was nothing she could do to stop her heart from plummeting like a dropped stone. So it had been Katy’s idea to invite her, had it? Not her father’s at all... She just hoped that she wasn’t going to stand out from the other guests like a sore thumb.

‘I’m so glad I came, too—and I’m flattered to be invited,’ she told Katy truthfully. ‘I don’t get to go to many birthday parties these days.’

‘Why not?’

Ursula shrugged. ‘Because grown-ups only tend to have parties when they’re twenty-one, or forty—’

‘How boring!’

‘Very boring,’ agreed Ursula gravely. ‘Now open your present and tell me whether you like it,’ she added gently. ‘You can always change it if you don’t.’

Katy needed no second bidding, immediately dropping to her knees and ripping the shiny paper off the carefully wrapped parcel with all the energy of a highly excited child.

Inside was a box of water-colour paints, a small packet of oil-pastel crayons, and a thick block of sketching paper. Katy sat back on her heels and stared at it.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Ursula nervously. ‘I thought you were very good at drawing, just like your daddy—’

‘Oh, I love it!’ said Katy earnestly, looking up at Ursula with shining eyes. ‘I really, really love it!’

Ursula smiled widely. ‘That Christmas card you sent me last year was so good that I’ve kept it—that’s what gave me the idea for the present. I keep meaning to have it framed.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’ Ursula nodded solemnly. ‘You have a real gift for drawing, you know, Katy.’

‘And does Daddy have a gift, too?’

‘Oh, definitely. Your daddy’s the best!’

‘Why, thank you, Ursula,’ came an amused voice, and they both looked up to see Ross at the top of the staircase watching them, making Ursula wonder just how long he had been standing there. ‘How heartening to hear such praise—and this from the woman who usually nags me about my untidiness!’

‘Only because if I didn’t I wouldn’t be able to reach my desk for the mountains of paper in the way!’ she responded crisply, but her heart was beating faster than usual.

It was odd seeing him in the unfamiliar surroundings of his home. Their relationship had evolved in the everyday environment of the office, and even when they had a client lunch in an upmarket restaurant it was strictly business. Transplanted here, with not a work-related product in sight, she felt like a fish out of water!

Feeling slightly flustered, but hoping it didn’t show too much, Ursula scrambled to her feet with as much grace as she could muster. ‘This is an amazing place you’ve got here, Ross!’

Why was he studying her like that—as if they were meeting for the first time? She suddenly felt as uncertain as a teenager as she wondered what he saw. His frumpy assistant? Or a reasonably well-presented young woman?

The silk trousers and top were the pale colour of buttermilk, and Amber had been right—the creamy shade did emphasise the blackness of her hair. The design of the outfit was deceptively simple, fluidly skimming the curvy shape of her body—and the delicate fabric felt unbelievably soft where it clung to her bare skin. And although the outfit was practical, it was also intensely feminine—the kind of clothes she wouldn’t have dreamed of wearing to the office.

Was that why his eyes were out on stalks like that?

‘Hello, Ursula,’ he said softly. ‘Nice outfit’

‘Th-thanks.’ She smiled uncertainly.

‘It’s unbelievable,’ he murmured. ‘You look completely different, dressed like that!’

‘Whereas you look exactly the same!’ she shot back, wondering what on earth they were supposed to do now. And why was Katy just standing there, serenely watching the two of them? Why wasn’t she interrupting, the way children were supposed to do?

At work, Ursula could bury her feelings in a flurry of activity, but here there was nothing to buffer her from the impact of Ross as a man, rather than an employer. Was he oblivious to the fact that he was a highly desirable man?

‘Where’s Jane?’ asked Ursula quickly.

‘Mummy’s going to be late,’ said Katy, in a sulky voice. ‘Again!’

‘Jane’s been tied up at work, unfortunately,’ said Ross, his voice as smooth as a pebble.

‘Not literally, I hope!’ joked Ursula, but her feeble joke didn’t even raise a smile and left her wondering why she had bothered making it, until she realised that her fingertips were now trembling with nerves.

‘She’s doing the costumes for the new Connection tour,’ Katy informed her, sliding a shy hand into Ursula’s.

Ursula’s eyes were like saucers. ‘The Connection? Wow! Their last album was brilliant! I’m impressed.’

‘Well, don’t be! They’re all self-obsessed substance abusers!’

‘Katy!’ exclaimed Ross, looking shocked.

‘Well, you were the one who said it, Daddy!’

‘Not in front of you, I didn’t,’ he told her grimly.

The ringing of the front doorbell sounded like salvation, and Katy beamed with delight when she discovered five of her school friends standing on the doorstep.

‘We all came in Mum’s station wagon!’ exclaimed one. ‘Polly’s bought you the soundtrack from Musketeers!’

‘Thanks for spoiling the surprise!’ grimaced Polly.

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter—I’m far too old for surprises,’ said Katy airily. ‘Come on, shall we go next door and play it?’

‘Great!’

‘And Sally’s bought you the Musketeers! video!’

‘Great!’

Squealing with excitement, the girls ran off, and Ursula was left alone in the hall with Ross in a space which was probably almost as large as the office they shared, but which now seemed claustraphobically confined.

‘They seem nice girls,’ she commented, hoping that she didn’t look as awkward as she felt. ‘Katy’s friends.’

‘Yes.’

She saw the brief but unmistakable glance he sent at his watch. ‘Can I do anything to help, Ross?’

He seemed to switch on a smile with an effort. ‘Sure. You can come into the sitting room and have a drink with me.’

She shook her head. ‘I meant, do you want me to cut the crusts off the sandwiches—or ice funny faces on cupcakes?’

‘I know what you meant, and, no, I don’t. But thanks, anyway.’ He smiled more as though he meant it this time. ‘Children’s parties have changed since our day. I’m afraid that your prediction of no jelly and ice cream is completely accurate! I suggested it to Katy and she did a convincing impression of someone about to throw up! And then informed me that they’d like to ring out for pizza!’ He sighed dramatically. ‘Kids’ parties ain’t what they were in our day!’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Ursula, without thinking. ‘I never had a birthday party when I was growing up.’

He looked quite shocked. ‘What—never?’

‘Never!’ Ursula’s mouth twitched. ‘You think that’s such a terrible thing?’

‘It’s certainly rather unusual. Why not?’

‘Oh, you don’t want to know.’

‘Don’t tell me what I don’t want, or what I do want! You can’t clam up on me here, Ursula—we aren’t at work now.’

‘No.’ Because if they had been they wouldn’t be talking this way. Softly. Intimately. With Ross’s possessions all around only adding to this unwelcome familiarity...

‘So why no parties?’

Ursula gave him a wry look. ‘You are a very persistent man!’

‘I need to be.’ He studied her carefully. ‘Because you never seem to want to talk about your childhood.’

‘Well, come to that—neither do you!’ she retorted. ‘I thought we were there to work—not have in-depth therapy sessions!’

‘Tough, was it?’ he queried softly.

‘Parts of it,’ she hedged, because she didn’t want him thinking she felt sorry for herself. ‘My mother was a widow—and her whole life was spent juggling jobs in order to provide for me and Amber. She was worn out most of the time, and every single penny counted, so a birthday party would have been right out of the question. But Mum sometimes used to make a cake and stick a few candles in it, and the three of us would finish the lot!’ There was a long pause. ‘The last time she made a cake, Amber was about Katy’s age.’

‘And then?’

She stared at him. ‘You want to hear the whole thing?’

‘Don’t you want to tell me?’

Ursula hesitated. ‘When we were in our teens my mother got sick,’ she said baldly. ‘She was ill for a long time. She died last year.’

‘And you cared for her, I guess?’

She looked at him in surprise, then nodded. ‘Yep. Nursed her at home until just before the end.’

‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘That explains a lot.’

‘Oh?’ Her fingers moved up to check the mother-of-pearl slide which clipped back a great handful of black hair. ‘Like what?’

‘Your kindness. Your maturity. Other things, too, but you’re right—’ he gave her a gentle smile ‘—this isn’t a therapy session. Let’s go and have that drink now. You look like you could use it.’

‘That sounds good.’ But she hadn’t found his questions invasive at all. It had been almost a relief to tell him. Sometimes you locked away the bad, sad bits of your life so that they festered, like a sore.

She followed him from the hall into one of the reception rooms, where leaded windows gave the room an old-fashioned look which was enhanced by the blaze of colour from the garden beyond. The style of the room remained as simple as the large hallway they had just left—with polished floorboards strewn with rugs, and carefully chosen, non-matching pieces of furniture which gave the room a very modern appearance.

There was an already opened bottle of champagne on ice, and Ross gestured towards it. ‘Like the best boy scout, I came prepared. How about some of this?’

Ursula wasn’t really the kind of person who drank chilled champagne before the sun had even gone down, but she certainly wasn’t going to ask him for a glass of beer!

‘I’d love some,’ she said.

He poured them both a flute and handed her one, and Ursula took it over to the open French doors, to have a better look at the garden. It was large enough to require both passion and dedication to have it looking as good as that, she decided.

‘So who does the gardening?’ she asked him. ‘You or Jane?’

‘Oh, Jane hates gardening,’ he told her, with an odd kind of laugh. ‘She likes cut flowers bought from expensive florists and wrapped in pretty paper! She has an aversion to mud and bugs!’

‘And what about you?’ she quizzed curiously. ‘Do you have an aversion to mud and bugs?’

He smiled. ‘On the contrary—I like the feel of the soil on my hands. There’s something very satisfying about planting something in the ground and watching it take root and grow. No, my excuse for employing someone else to do the garden is that any free time I have, I prefer to spend with my daughter.’

He had moved slightly closer to her, and Ursula could detect the faintest trace of aftershave—a combination of musk and lemon which somehow seemed more heady out here in the open air than it ever did in the office. He must have been in the shower shortly before she arrived, since his hair was still very slightly damp.

Ursula shivered, in spite of the sun still beating fiercely down on their heads. She began to long for someone else to arrive, almost as much as she hoped that no one would.

She took a hurried mouthful of champagne. ‘So is anyone else coming to the party?’

‘You mean more children?’

‘I meant more adults.’

‘Just Jane,’ he told her. ‘And whoever she decides to invite at the last moment—which leaves the field wide open.’

She ignored the caustic tone in his voice. ‘No grandparents?’

‘No. Like you, my parents are both dead. And Jane’s are divorced—she doesn’t see her father, and her mother lives in Australia.’

‘No godparents?’ She saw the tightening of his features. ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to pry.’

He shook his head. ‘That’s okay. It’s natural enough to ask. We’ve never actually had Katy christened. Jane has a horror of organised religion.’ He took a sip of champagne. ‘You obviously disapprove.’

‘My opinion doesn’t matter,’ she told him frankly, then smiled and raised her glass. ‘But I’m honoured—to be the only other adult invited!’

There was a pause. ‘And what if I told you that I had lured you here under false pretences?’

Ursula felt her heart bashing against her ribcage as wild fantasies sprang into rampant life. ‘In what way?’ she croaked.

‘Just that Jane sometimes gets carried away with work, forgets about the time, that sort of thing—’

Ursula suddenly understood. ‘And you needed someone you could rely on, to pick bits of pepperoni up off the floor?’ Someone, moreover, who would not read too much into the invitation—because Ursula was certain that there must have been tens of women who would have been delighted to step into Jane’s shoes for an evening and mastermind a children’s party...

‘Someone with the organisational skills to co-ordinate a game of musical statues, actually.’

Ursula hid a smile. ‘I think you’ll find that ten-year-old girls will find musical statues too “babyish”.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Yes, I do.’

Ross had gone quite pale. ‘Then what do you suggest we do with them for the next three hours? I didn’t bother hiring an entertainer!’

Ursula smiled. ‘Don’t panic! Right now they’re listening to a CD, and at that age they have the capacity to listen to it over and over again—for hours on end! Then they’ll probably want to watch the video while they eat their pizza. They’ll want us adults as far away as possible—they’re quite easy to please, really.’

‘You aren’t a secret mother by any chance?’ he teased. ‘With a brood of children hidden away at home?’

‘No.’ It was an image which stubbornly refused to be credible, but not because she couldn’t imagine herself as a mother. Simply that she had terrible difficulty conjuring up the idea of anyone as the father... ‘But I brought up my sister when our mother became too ill.’

‘But now that Amber has flown the nest...you don’t have anyone to take care of?’ he said softly.

‘I don’t need anyone to take care of!’

‘Oh, yes, you do! You were born to care, Ursula,’ he told her gently, and appeared about to qualify this extraordinary statement, when they heard a key being turned in a lock and then the sound of voices, and muffled laughter.

Silence.

Whispers.

Then more laughing.

‘That must be Jane,’ said Ross abruptly, just as his wife came into the room, closely followed by four men wearing rather theatrical clothes.

Musicians, thought Ursula immediately.

‘Hi, honey!’ smiled Jane breezily, and blew Ross a kiss. ‘Who’s this?’ She narrowed her eyes in Ursula’s direction. ‘Oh! It’s you! The indispensable assistant!’ She gave her a brief nod. ‘Hello, Ursula!’

Ursula pressed her lips together in a smile. ‘Hello, Jane. Nice to see you.’

Jane was very easy on the eye, the kind of woman about whom other women always said, ‘I don’t know what people see in her!’ But Ursula knew exactly what people saw in her. Men especially.

It wasn’t just that she was tall and skinny, or had hair so thick and curly it resembled a lion’s mane. Or a mouth so wide her smile could dazzle you. Not that she smiled very often, mind you—certainly not when Ursula had met her. No, her looks were more than a total of her parts—she had that indefinable quality called style, which could not be bought.

Today she was wearing green velvet hot-pants and a tiny matching bolero, which only just covered her small breasts. Her midriff was bare and smooth—lightly tanned to the colour of cappuccino—and Ursula wondered whether Ross minded his wife walking around the place dressed like that—like a teenager who had worn the outfit for a dare.

Ursula looked again at the four men, whose long hair and deathly pallor proclaimed them as rock stars, and even Ursula—who wasn’t really a star-spotter—sucked in a breath of disbelief when she spotted that one of them was Julian Stringer, lead singer of The Connection, his wild green eyes slitted as he drank deeply from a bottle of beer.

Ursula watched him with fascination, thinking that he had that total disregard for the conventional which only the really famous ever displayed.

He sensed Ursula watching him and his eyes widened slightly, and in that moment she understood exactly why women all over the world threw their underwear on stage whenever he was in concert.

He wasn’t really tall enough to be described as conventionally good-looking. He had the hips of an adolescent boy and the shoulders of a man, and his hair spilled untidily around his face and shoulders. But he had a kind of mad, wild beauty, with his too-white skin and bright green eyes, and you could sense the passion which ran beneath that rather twitchy exterior. He wrote savage love songs with haunting tunes. No wonder people fell in love with him, thought Ursula.

He turned to Jane. ‘Want us to play something for your kid, baby?’ he drawled. ‘We’ve got all the gear outside in the van.’

‘Wow! Would you really?’ Jane looked at Ross with excitement. ‘What do you reckon?’

Ursula knew Ross well enough to know when he was angry, and right now she could see that he was absolutely furious.

‘I don’t think that now is the right time for an impromptu gig from The Connection,’ he answered repressively.

‘Oh?’ Julian Stringer scowled like a petulant child. Last summer they had topped the Billboard charts in the States, and he was not used to having his offer to play for free turned down! ‘Like to tell me when is the right time, then, man?’

Jane laid her hand on Ross’s and Ursula saw him tense up. ‘Ross,’ she said softly. ‘It’s a great honour to have Julian and the boys play for us. Think what a treat it would be for Katy! It would be a birthday she’d never forget!’

‘You mean, it would be a birthday you’d never forget,’ argued Ross, then gave a weary sigh as his wife opened her mouth to object. ‘Okay, go ahead. Ask Katy.’

Katy and her friends were ecstatic, and didn’t make any attempt to be cool.

‘Julian!’ they squealed in excitement when they saw him. ‘Can you play “Space in my Heart”?’

Adulation was obviously what Julian liked most. He removed his lips from the vacuum of the empty bottle and grinned for the first time, and Ursula found herself thinking that if she had all his money and teeth that looked like that, then she would invest in a decent orthodontist at the first opportunity!

‘Sure can. I can play you anything you want. Wanna get the gear in?’ he mumbled to the rest of the band.

But the rest of the band were in the process of opening bottles of champagne. They were tired from touring and lack of sleep, and had no intention of doing anything other than getting drunk on this sweltering evening.

‘Give us a break, Julian! It’s too hot, man! Why don’t you just sing something with the acoustic guitar?’ suggested the dark one with the heavily tattooed shoulders and a small diamond studded into the centre of his tongue.

It was, Ursula reflected as Julian tuned up, just unfortunate that he had drunk so much. His voice was flat and out of tune and his phrasing was incoherent. And halfway through his chart-storming hit he actually forgot the words!

Clustered at his feet sat a circle of small girls, looking confused. ‘It doesn’t sound anything like the record!’ whispered one.

Ursula couldn’t decide whom she felt most sorry for. Katy. Or Ross. Or Julian Stringer.

‘Maybe we should ring out for pizza now?’ suggested Ross impatiently, as the number came uneasily to an end.

Jane glared at him. ‘Don’t be so rude, Ross. I don’t think that Julian’s finished playing yet!’

Ross’s face remained calm. He looked at his daughter and her friends. ‘So what’s it to be, girls? Pizza? Or more music?’

They looked at each other like conspirators. ‘Pizza!’ they shrieked in unison.

Jane bent her head to speak. She spoke very quietly, but Ursula heard it all the same as Jane hissed into her husband’s ear, ‘You bastard! I’ll never forgive you for this, Ross!’

And Katy heard it, too. Her mouth trembled.

‘Why don’t you show us all the rest of your birthday presents while we’re waiting for the pizza, Katy?’ Ursula suggested brightly.

Suddenly, she just wanted to go home.

CHAPTER THREE

IT TOOK a few days before Ursula felt back to her normal, cheerful self after Katy’s birthday party. Seeds of discontentment had been sown onto exceptionally fertile ground. She found herself asking why Jane Sheridan didn’t count her blessings and rejoice in having a gorgeous daughter and an equally gorgeous husband instead of behaving like a spoilt child.

Left to Jane, the party would have fizzled out like a damp firework.

Julian’s disastrous solo had produced instant sulking, not just from Jane, but from Julian, too. Ursula had overheard him complaining about Ross—whom he’d blamed for the ‘bad vibes’ which apparently were responsible for him forgetting the words to a song he had written. This had led to all kinds of silent, angry looks being projected across the room by the main protagonists.

‘This is your doing!’ Jane snapped at Ross. ‘You’ve just ruined Julian’s creative flow! You can’t bear to think that somebody else might be the centre of attention, can you?’

‘You mean other than Katy?’ he queried evenly. ‘Whose birthday it happens to be?’

Ursula stole a glance at Ross. She had never seen him quite so angry—even though he was doing a pretty good job of hiding it. But Ursula was an expert on Ross’s face—she’d studied it in so many different guises! And she could see that it was taking every bit of self-restraint he possessed to appear pleasant.

Ursula began to grow impatient with the atmosphere. It was supposed to be a child’s party, for goodness’ sake—not a wake! The Connection had now started drinking red wine, and she dreaded to think how drunk they would get if they didn’t have something to eat pretty soon. She could have wept with joy when she heard the approaching sound of a motorbike as it screeched to a halt outside.

‘That’ll be the pizza!’ she said brightly, and saw Katy perk up. ‘Lead me to it—I’m absolutely starving!’

‘Ye-es.’ Jane raised her eyebrows at Julian. ‘I expect you must be—’

Julian snorted with laughter. ‘Yeah! Right! It takes a lot of fuel to stoke a big engine—am I right, baby?’

Ross narrowed his eyes. ‘I think you’d better—’

‘Ross!’ Ursula’s voice rang across the room, and they all turned to look at her. ‘Don’t,’ she beseeched him. ‘It doesn’t matter what anyone says about me. Honestly.’

But Ross shook his head, his voice full of quiet determination. ‘Oh, yes, it does,’ he contradicted stubbornly. ‘I won’t stand here and have you insulted, Ursula.’

‘But I’m sure that Julian didn’t mean to be unkind to me,’ said Ursula, sending the rock star an innocent look of understanding which soon had him blushing with discomfort. ‘Did you?’

‘Er...no,’ mumbled Julian, fumbling around in his jacket until he found a cigarette and jammed it into the corner of his mouth. “Course I didn’t.’

‘I mean, I do have a very healthy appetite,’ agreed Ursula. She sent a rueful gaze down at her curvy figure in the creamy trousers and matching top. ‘As you can see for yourselves!’

‘Healthy?’ queried Jane archly. ‘Having more than ten per cent body fat is hardly what I’d call healthy!’

‘But I suppose that substituting meals with black coffee and cigarettes is?’ Ross challenged.

Jane’s whole demeanour altered. Perhaps she sensed that out-and-out aggression wasn’t getting her anywhere. Whatever it was, her whole persona seemed to transform itself before their eyes, as she became sex-kitten and super-wife rolled into one. ‘But I’ve stopped smoking, Ross,’ she told her husband in a husky voice. ‘You know I have.’

‘Really? Well, in that case you won’t mind that I chucked away the carton I found hidden in the understairs cupboard?’ he queried innocently.

Jane’s mouth became a thin line that for a brief moment looked almost ugly. ‘Oh, for God’s sake—do you have to be such a control freak?’ she snapped. ‘Going around checking up on me!’

He didn’t react. ‘Tempers seem to be getting a little frayed,’ he observed calmly. ‘So why don’t we all eat something?’

‘Didn’t you say we could eat outside if it was sunny?’ questioned Katy, jumping to her feet.

Ross smiled at his daughter. ‘Of course we can! Why don’t you girls take some rugs out onto the lawn?’

Katy and her friends seemed pleased to have a distraction from the simmering discontent provided by the adults. Ursula helped Ross carry the cardboard boxes of warm pizza out onto the lawn, while Jane and The Connection organised trays of drinks.

‘Don’t forget the cola, Mummy!’ called Katy plaintively. ‘We’re not old enough for wine!’

Ursula thought that they made an ill-assorted gathering, all lying on plaid rugs beneath a sweet chestnut tree and swatting at the occasional wasp which dared to dive-bomb the pizza. The children, Ross and most of The Connection ate heartily, and Ursula limited herself to just two delicious pieces, then sat licking her fingers. But Julian continued to swig from a beer bottle, staring at Jane intently, while Jane ate nothing at all.

Once they had staved off their hunger, the girls began to grow restless.

‘What can we do, Ursula?’ asked Katy.

Ursula had been expecting this. ‘Why don’t you each bring me back seven different leaves?’ she said. ‘And I’ll award a prize to the child who finds the most interesting one! But please don’t take any from a plant which looks already bare!’

‘Bags I look down by the Wendy house!’ yelled Katy. She kicked off her impractical platform shoes and ran barefoot over the grass, looking her true age at last, and not just a scaled-down version of a grown woman.

Ursula hastily excused herself and went off to explore the walled garden, glad to escape the fractured atmosphere herself. She thought how parched the flowers looked against the warm, red bricks. The heat was bouncing off the walls, sizzling behind the sweet peas which were massed in a fragrant blaze of mauve and pink.

She stopped by a sundial and slowly traced her finger round the metal circle of the clock. She was peering closer to see how accurate it was when a dark shape fell over the clock face, and she looked up to find Ross standing there studying her, his expression shadowed and heavy.

They looked at one another in silence.

‘Well, go on, then—’ his voice sounded raw and grazed ‘—say it.’

‘Say what?’

‘What you’re really thinking—or are you afraid it will hurt me too much?’

‘I don’t imagine that the truth would hurt you,’ she said slowly. ‘I was thinking about how hot it was, if you must know, and before that...’

He was very still. ‘Yes?’

‘Before that I was wondering how you could bear to have Jane bring that band to your daughter’s birthday party.’ She shrugged. ‘Though I guess she could say the same thing about me.’

‘The difference is that you’re a positive asset at a party, while Julian and the others are a bunch of self-indulgent idiots! But that’s probably how she’ll seek to justify it,’ he agreed.

Ursula looked at him in bewilderment. ‘You make it sound like a war, Ross!’

‘No.’ His look was sceptical, his laugh bitter. ‘Just a marriage.’

He sounded so disillusioned. ‘But if it’s like that, then...’ ‘Then, what? We have a child, you know, Ursula.’

‘Yes, I know.’ And to children, parents meant stability. Hadn’t she once read somewhere that a child was often the glue which held a marriage together? Was that the case here?

He was still looking at her. ‘Ursula—’ he began. ‘About Jane and Julian—’

‘I know what you’re going to say, Ross, and it doesn’t matter.’

‘How can you possibly know what I’m going to say?’

She pushed a damp strand of hair back off her hot cheek. ‘That you’re sorry if I was offended by any of the many references they made about my weight?’

‘Well, that too,’ he offered drily. ‘It was damned rude!’

‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it.’

‘Oh?’

‘Sure,’ she shrugged. ‘People often tease me. Sometimes the things they say are flattering—like telling me that Rubens would have adored to have painted me. And telling me that skinny women don’t have pure, clear skin like mine.’

‘Well, while we’re on the subject, you do have an extraordinarily fine complexion.’

Ursula smiled. ‘You see?’

‘But what gives people the right to think they can say things like that to you?’

‘It’s because I’m not big enough to be labelled as obese, so they think I don’t care—’

‘But you do care?’

She gave him a steady look. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think that you should wear that colour more often,’ he told her unexpectedly. ‘It makes your hair look sensational.’

‘That’s exactly what my sister told me!’ She screwed up her eyes suspiciously. ‘Unless you’re just saying that to make me feel better.’

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