Sara Craven
THE VIRGIN’S WEDDING NIGHT

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Endpage

CHAPTER ONE

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

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

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

‘But surely if you explained to her…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It seems an obvious choice,’ she countered.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is that a reference to your mother?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that she could allow it to make a difference.

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

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

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

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

She turned and swept into the building.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which was, she told herself, totally absurd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Les nodded unhappily, his ruddy face deepening in colour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Of course. One moment.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Darling…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or if I’d stayed away…

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows lifted. ‘An apology for what?’

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

He shrugged. ‘Why should I?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Drink this.’

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

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

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

‘You do now.’ He was inexorable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER THREE

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

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

That was if she felt gracious.

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

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

She could not believe how her life had suddenly changed.

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

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

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

Or that had been her intention, she thought bitterly.

Her precious, foolproof plan. Now wreckage.

The rung on the corporate ladder. Broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And her time was now wasting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh, I’ll make that very clear.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How did you manage that?’ she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes.’ The monosyllable gave nothing away.

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

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

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

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