“For heaven’s sake, Finn!”

Harriet protested, struggling to escape from his iron grip. Unfortunately, the more she twisted and turned, the more she found herself becoming entangled with the rumpled sheet. “Has it ever occurred to you that there might be some women who don’t fancy you?”

“Well, now—let’s see….” Finn murmured, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter as he pretended to be giving serious consideration to the subject. “There was my first teacher at primary school, of course. Miss Wallace. She definitely didn’t like me—always claimed that I was easily the naughtiest boy in the school!”

“Let’s hear it for Miss Wallace!” Harriet muttered grimly. “Come on, Finn—please be sensible. What’s the point of playing these sorts of silly games?”

“I don’t think this comes under the heading of silly games,” he murmured softly, pulling her closer to his bare chest.

Reform of the Playboy
Mary Lyons

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

‘SO, TELL me more about this party tonight?’

‘What’s to tell?’ Finn Maclean spun the wheel of his large Mercedes to avoid a taxi, doing an illegal U-turn in the middle of Notting Hill Gate. ‘It’s just going to be the usual media shindig. Lots of champagne; loud music; not enough food—and everyone yelling at the top of their voices.’

‘Any gorgeous-looking girls?’ Tim asked hopefully.

‘No problem—there’ll be plenty of them!’ Finn turned to grin at his old friend. ‘But whether they’ll have anything inside their beautiful heads—apart from an interest in the size of your wallet, of course—is highly unlikely.’

‘That’s OK by me. I’m not fussy!’ Tim laughed as Finn deftly slotted the vehicle into a parking space and switched off the engine.

‘Well, good hunting! But you may have to find your own way home—because I’m not intending to stay very long,’ Finn warned him. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t have bothered to turn up if I hadn’t arranged to meet someone who knows of an apartment I can rent.’

‘But I thought you’d just bought that amazing penthouse in Holland Park?’

‘Yes, so I have. But unfortunately it needs a total refit,’ Finn said as he opened his car door. ‘And with carpenters, plumbers, and goodness knows who else crawling all over the place, it makes sense to clear out and leave them to it.’

‘How long is it going to take?’

‘About six months. And that’s the problem,’ Finn explained. ‘Because I need to live in this area—if only to keep an eye on the builders. Unfortunately, it’s proving extremely difficult to find anyone willing to rent me a flat for just a few months. Which is why,’ he added, ‘I’m dragging you along to what is likely to be a dead boring party—instead of us having a quiet dinner and a good bottle of wine at the Halcyon.’

‘That’s OK by me,’ Tim assured him. ‘But how come someone who’s had more girls than I’ve had hot dinners should be sounding so unenthusiastic about the prospect of wine, women and song? Which reminds me,’ he added with a grin. ‘What’s happened to the lovely Linda?’

‘I imagine that she’s still as lovely as ever,’ Finn drawled coolly. ‘However, I can’t give you an up-to-date report, since Linda and I split up well over six months ago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Tim murmured. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing very dramatic.’ Finn shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘She wanted to get married—and I didn’t. End of story.’

Climbing out of the car, Tim found himself wondering why his old friend—who was not only amazingly good-looking, but also a very wealthy and highly successful man—hadn’t yet found the right woman. Maybe it was something to do with the guy being almost too attractive?

Such an idea would never have occurred to him if his older married sister, Susie, after comforting one of Finn’s tearful ex-girlfriends, hadn’t bluntly stated, ‘That man is far too attractive and sexy for his own good. As far as I can see, he only has to turn those amazing blue eyes on a girl—and she’s a goner!’

However, when Tim had said that he wouldn’t mind having the same problem, his sister had merely given a caustic laugh before telling him to count his blessings.

‘You may be a boring old stick, Tim, but at least when a girl comes on to you it’s because she really likes you, and finds you interesting. Can you imagine the sheer boredom of having women throwing themselves at you—morning, noon and night?’

‘I reckon I could hack it,’ he’d retorted with a grin, before changing the subject. But it had since occurred to him that there might well be something in what his sister had said, after all.

While there was no doubt that his old friend was a genuinely nice, upright sort of guy—good with children, kind to old ladies and all that jazz—he was definitely spoilt as far as the female sex were concerned. Why, even now, as they entered the bar and restaurant which had been taken over by the film company for the evening, Finn’s appearance was instantly greeted with cries of delight by practically every woman in the place.

Way to go! he told himself, shaking his head ruefully as his friend was immediately surrounded by a crowd of nubile blonde nymphets, leaving Tim to make his own solitary way to the bar.

‘I can’t think why I let you drag me here…’ Harriet muttered, casting an apprehensive eye at the long line of expensive limousines double-parked outside the large white building. ‘This type of ultra-glamorous function really isn’t my kind of thing.’

‘Don’t be so stuffy! Besides, this is definitely one of the “in” places, at the moment,’ Sophie retorted as the large plate glass doors flew open at their approach.

‘But I’m not a sort of “in” person,’ Harriet protested weakly. ‘In fact, most of the time these days I’m feeling decidedly “out.”’

‘That’s only because you insist on going out with that boring banker of yours,’ Sophie told her, before giving their names to the doorman.

‘He’s not boring!’

‘Oh, yes, he is,’ her friend retorted bluntly. ‘For heaven’s sake, Harriet—can’t you see that he’s cast a complete blight over your love life? If you’re not sleeping with the guy—and I don’t blame you, since I reckon he’s about as attractive as a bowl of sheep’s eyes for breakfast—why waste your time with him?’

‘Kindly leave my private life out of this discussion!’ Harriet hissed, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Not for the first time, she found herself bitterly regretting the fact that, having drunk too much wine one evening, she’d found herself telling Sophie the truth about her current relationship with George Harding.

‘While you’re stuck with boring George, how on earth can you hope to meet “Mr Wonderful”?’ her old friend continued, clearly determined not to leave the subject alone. ‘Which is why it’s definitely time you traded him in, for a much more attractive, sexy sort of guy.’

‘George is a very nice man,’ Harriet retorted as they waited for their names to be checked off the list of guests. ‘And besides, I’ve known him for ever.’

Sophie gave a snort of grim laughter. ‘Which is precisely why it’s time you had a new boyfriend. Someone with a bit of life in them; someone reasonably good-looking and with a sense of humour. In fact, all the qualities that George totally lacks!

‘Yes, I know,’ she continued quickly as Harriet opened her mouth to protest. ‘I know your parents think he’s great. And that you regard him as a nice, safe escort—who’s not going to give you any hassle. Believe me,’ Sophie added with a laugh, ‘I’ve absolutely nothing against rich bankers. The more the merrier, as far as I’m concerned! But George really is heavy. And a lovely girl like you could do a whole lot better.’

Harriet glared down at her old schoolfriend. ‘Have you been drinking? I’m only asking,’ she drawled sarcastically, ‘because I’ve noticed that you always start having a go about poor old George when you’ve been lunching at one of those expensive local restaurants—supposedly chatting up your clients.’

Sophie giggled. ‘Yes, as it happens, I did have a very good lunch at 192,’ she agreed cheerfully.

But, while she probably had drunk far too much wine at lunch, she was still totally convinced that her oldest and dearest friend badly needed rescuing from George Harding. Unfortunately, despite explaining until she was blue in the face that if Harriet had decided she was frigid it was definitely George’s fault, not hers, she couldn’t seem to get her friend to listen to the message.

I know that I’m right, Sophie told herself, gazing up at the girl who towered over her own diminutive figure. With that luminous, pale alabaster skin, surrounded by a thick mane of deep red hair, Harriet could have stepped straight out of one of those Pre-Raphaelite paintings by Burne-Jones or William Morris. It was a crying shame that such unusual, startling beauty should be thrown away on her current, extremely dull boyfriend.

‘Well, I don’t think either of us are likely to meet “Mr Wonderful” at this sort of party,’ Harriet muttered as they entered the large room.

‘You never know who’s going to turn up—especially at a function which is being hosted by a film company,’ Sophie told her impatiently. ‘I gather they’re throwing a post-production party for everyone who’s been helping them on the movie. So relax—OK?’

It’s very far from being ‘OK,’ Harriet told herself, grimly eyeing the interior of the large space as Sophie began steering an unsteady course towards the bar.

She had no problem with the restaurant’s avant-garde decor—which had clearly been designed on the theme of a modern chemist’s shop: its windows outside lined with rows of pharmaceutical products, and the white-topped tables and stools in the shape of aspirins. But, after having to deal with builders all day, Harriet had been looking forward to a quiet evening, chatting over a bottle of wine with her old friend. Not mixing with a crowd of highly fashionable and glamorous strangers, all dressed up to the nines—and shouting at one another at the top of their voices.

Well over an hour later, Harriet had been given little cause to change her mind. Pinned in a corner of the room by a highly unattractive man, she found herself looking desperately around for an avenue of escape.

There was, of course, no sign of Sophie, who was probably busy chatting up some exciting film star, Harriet told herself glumly, bitterly aware that both her own height and colouring placed her at a distinctive disadvantage.

This bar and restaurant might be absolutely the ‘in’ thing at the moment—but so also, it seemed, were petite, stick-thin blondes. Which meant that no one was likely to be interested in a girl who stood six foot in her stockinged feet, possessed a reasonably slim figure but with curves in all the right places, and whose head was crowned by a mass of thick fiery-red hair.

Ignoring the drink in her hand—an evil-looking blue cocktail, which was probably highly toxic—Harriet stared over the shoulder of the man, who was still droning on about ‘camera angles’ and ‘light meters,’ towards a group in the far corner.

Well, at least they seemed to be having fun, she thought glumly, viewing the clutch of amazingly beautiful girls, all gaily laughing their heads off and flicking their long blonde hair—clearly trying to catch the notice of a man in their midst.

The lighting was far too dim to make out his features, but if he was attracting that amount of attention there was a good chance that he was likely to be drop-dead gorgeous. Which was definitely not the case with the man who’d now got her pinned her in the corner—and who seemed determined to bore for Britain.

‘Ah, there you are!’ Sophie cried, suddenly materialising from the thick crowd around the bar. ‘Come along—there’s someone I want you to meet.’

‘That’s the best news I heard all evening,’ Harriet muttered, thankfully allowing herself to be dragged away from the corner where she’d been trapped. ‘I’d just about given up all hope of rescue, and was getting ready to go home.’

‘Oh, come on—loosen up! That man you were with didn’t look all that bad,’ Sophie said, charging up to the bar and ordering two glasses of champagne.

‘Are you kidding? He had all the attraction of a dead fish!’

Sophie giggled. ‘Well, I’ve managed to chat up one or two quite handsome guys.’

‘Good for you,’ Harriet muttered, taking a sip of champagne. ‘As far as I can see, most of the men here seem to be either fat, rich and boring—or slim, gay and unavailable.’

‘I know what you mean, but I guess that’s show business,’ her friend agreed with a sigh. ‘Still, the man I want you to meet is definitely into women. In fact, not only is he absolutely gorgeous and as rich as Croesus—but he’s not married! How about that?’

‘Oh, yeah? So, what’s the catch?’

‘There isn’t one,’ Sophie assured her earnestly. ‘He’s just about perfect.’

‘Do me a favour!’ Harriet retorted with a grim laugh. ‘No one is that perfect! There must be something wrong with him. So what is it? Has he got the Mother from Hell? Is his current girlfriend the Fiend from Outer Space? Is he a transvestite, or…?’

‘Absolutely not!’

‘Well…?’

‘No, honestly—I’m not kidding,’ Sophie protested. ‘He’s really great.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Harriet snorted with derision. ‘If this guy is so “great”—why haven’t you snapped him up? It’s not like you to be backward in coming forward, is it?’

‘Thanks!’

Harriet laughed. ‘Come on—spill the beans.’

‘I am telling the truth,’ Sophie assured her earnestly. ‘And he really is currently available. Which is why I think I might be in with a chance. Well, I probably will be…just as soon as he moves into that second-floor flat of yours.’

‘What…?’ Harriet gazed at her in disbelief. ‘You must be joking.’

‘No, really—it’s a great idea.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Sophie—are you out of your mind? You know the builders only moved out today. I mean…’ She gave a helpless shrug. ‘Quite apart from anything else, the paint hasn’t even had time to dry.’

‘But I’ve worked it all out, and— Oh, my goodness! There’s Declan Malone, the famous TV reporter, and his new wife Olivia,’ Sophie exclaimed excitedly. ‘I must just try and have a quick word with him,’ she added, slipping off her high bar stool. ‘If I can maybe persuade them to sell their house, I’ve got at least two clients who’d be willing to snap it up straight away.’

Harriet sighed and shook her head. She was having difficulty getting used to her old schoolfriend’s metamorphosis into ‘Little Miss Fix-It.’ In fact, when introducing Sophie to the estate agent who’d been handling the sale of her aunt’s house in Lansdowne Gardens, Harriet had no idea that the other girl’s new career would prove to be such a success.

After living a butterfly existence, flitting from job to job and never staying in any position for more than a few months, it now seemed as though Sophie had at last discovered her true vocation.

As her friend had explained, only the other day, ‘It’s just the same as introducing friends at a party. Only instead of hoping that they’ll like one another—I’m hoping that they’ll fall in love with a house, instead.’ And, since Sophie possessed an address book practically bulging at the seams, it seemed very likely that she would be ‘introducing’ her friends and acquaintances to various properties in the area for some time to come.

Although Harriet had doubts about the wisdom of renting the lower ground flat in her own house to Sophie, that too had proved to be a great success. With its own private entrance out on to the street, it meant that the two girls, while remaining close friends, had no problem in living their own separate lives.

But, now that Sophie seemed intent on introducing a strange man into her house, Harriet couldn’t help thinking that things were going to change—and not necessarily for the better.

‘No, Declan and Olivia aren’t interested in selling their house,’ Sophie said, forcing her way through the crowd as she joined Harriet at the bar. ‘Still, it’s always fun to meet new people, and you never know—they might just change their minds and give me a call.’

‘Do you ever stop networking?’ Harriet enquired, the slightly caustic note in her voice going completely over her friend’s head.

‘Absolutely not,’ Sophie told her seriously. ‘After all, you never know when the bread you’ve thrown on the water isn’t going to be gobbled up by a nice fat duck—right? Which reminds me…we were talking about your new second-floor apartment.’

Harriet shook her head. ‘No. You were talking about it,’ she told her friend firmly. ‘The builders may have moved out today, but I’m still waiting for the fridge and cooker to be delivered—and they won’t arrive until next week. So this crazy idea of yours that—’

‘Hey—relax! There’s no need to get your knickers in a twist,’ Sophie assured her quickly. ‘Believe me—this guy is really desperate to find somewhere to live. But only for the next six months. So there’d be no problem about getting rid of him. Right?’

‘Why does he want to rent somewhere for only such a short time?’

‘Because he’s already bought himself a large apartment in Holland Park. Unfortunately, he can’t live there at the moment. Not until he’s got rid of the builders who are currently tearing the place apart.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Come on, Harriet! You know what it’s like trying to convert a flat…dust and mess everywhere. So it’s not surprising the poor guy needs to rent another flat while all that work is going on.’

Harriet gave a reluctant nod of agreement.

‘Of course, once it’s finished, his apartment will be absolutely fabulous!’ Sophie told her enthusiastically, waving her glass airily in the air, quite oblivious of the fact that she was spilling champagne over the expensive smart Armani suit of the man standing next to her. ‘A huge penthouse…enormous-sized rooms…terrific view…security like you wouldn’t believe, et cetera, et cetera. And—since I’d have been so helpful in finding him temporary accommodation—if he ever decided to sell it, he’d be bound to ask me to deal with the sale, wouldn’t he?’

‘Has your boss put you up to this?’ Harriet asked her sternly.

Sophie shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. He’s gone away on holiday for a few days, and has left me in charge.’

‘More fool him!’ Harriet muttered under her breath. Sophie was her oldest and dearest friend. But anyone willing to risk his business by leaving her in charge of anything—even a photocopier—clearly needed his head examined.

‘OK, I’ve got the picture,’ she told her friend. ‘But why pick on me?’

‘Because the arrangement’s going to suit the three of us down to the ground,’ Sophie told her bluntly. ‘He needs a place to rent. You have just finished doing up that second-floor apartment, of yours. And as for me…well, living down in your basement, I get to see the man of my dreams every day.’

‘I’ll admit it all sounds fine—as far as you and this man are concerned,’ Harriet agreed grimly. ‘I just can’t see why I should have to go along with this crazy scenario.’

‘Because he’s willing to pay a really huge amount of lovely money to rent your apartment. And there’d be absolutely no problem about getting rid of him in six months’ time,’ the other girl told her with an encouraging smile. ‘Quite honestly—it really is the perfect arrangement for all three of us!’

‘Hmm…’ Harriet murmured sceptically. She very much doubted whether Sophie—who changed her boyfriends almost as fast as she changed her clothes—would be likely to stay interested in this guy, however sexy he might be, for as long as six months.

On the other hand, her old friend was quite right. It would suit her down to the ground to have a tenant straight away. Especially since, having budgeted as best she could, the bills for doing up her house in Lansdowne Gardens were becoming astronomical. Not to mention the enormous amount of hassle from her parents, who’d both thoroughly disapproved of her plans of converting the large, derelict house which had so unexpectedly been left to her by her great-aunt Jane.

‘Think of a number—and then double it,’ had been her father’s grim warning. And, while she’d have died rather than admit the truth, he’d unfortunately been quite right. So, maybe immediately finding a tenant for her newly designed second-floor apartment might not be such a bad idea, after all?

Besides, if this man was really as rich and as desperate for a roof over his head as Sophie seemed to think he was, she might be able to charge a high rent for the next six months. All of which would help her depleted finances more than somewhat.

‘Well…I might be prepared to consider this man,’ Harriet told her friend. ‘But I’m going to need some very good references—and an iron-clad contract.’

‘No problem,’ Sophie assured her quickly. ‘I can guarantee to arrange a good contract for you. And, as far as I can see, references won’t be a problem, since this guy seems to know practically everyone.’

‘So do most con men!’ Harriet murmured dryly. ‘By the way—what’s his name? And what does he do for a living?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘I did take his card—but I seem to have left it at home. To be truthful—’ she grinned ‘—I was so gobsmacked when he strolled into the office today that it took me some time to come down to earth! But I know he’s something to do with this film company.’ She waved her hand around the room. ‘So I guess that he’s probably some sort of producer.’

Harriet shrugged. ‘OK, I’m willing to meet him. But I’m not promising anything,’ she added warningly as Sophie gave her a wide, beaming smile. ‘And if he turns out to be a scriptwriter—you can forget the whole idea. Because absolutely the last thing I need is someone who works from home, cluttering up the house all day.’

‘I’m sure there won’t be a problem. And besides,’ Sophie laughed, ‘you won’t see too much of him—I’ll see to that!’

‘I just bet you will!’ Harriet grinned, gazing down at her friend. Small, dark and bubbly, Sophie never had any problem in attracting men. Even now, despite looking slightly hungover and not too steady on her pins, there was no doubt that Sophie had bags of sex appeal.

Harriet gave a sigh of pure envy, before resolutely pulling herself together. ‘OK. I’m willing to talk to this man. But until I’ve met him that’s as far as I’m prepared to go.’

‘Just wait till you see this guy. You won’t be able to believe your eyes!’ her friend told her, before leading the way through the tightly packed throng of people towards a group on the other side of the room.

Sophie was quite right.

Harriet simply could not believe her eyes—or her bad luck—as she watched the other girl breaking into a circle of women surrounding the tall, dark man in the corner, whom she’d viewed across the room earlier in the evening.

‘Here we are!’ Sophie trilled, deftly elbowing a small blonde out of the way as she grabbed hold of the man’s arm, dragging him out of the crowd towards Harriet, who was standing rooted to the spot, almost paralysed with shock and dismay.

‘I just know that you two lovely people are going to get on like a house on fire!’ her friend continued, blissfully unaware of a highly embarrassed flush spreading over Harriet’s cheeks, or the sudden stiffening of the man’s tall figure.

‘Let me introduce you. This is my friend Harriet Wentworth, and—’

‘I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Miss Wentworth,’ he drawled sardonically. A tight-lipped, grim smile of amusement flickered over his handsome features as he viewed the dawning consternation in the tall, red-headed girl’s green eyes.

‘Oh, that’s good!’ Sophie burbled happily.

No, it isn’t—it’s a bloody disaster! Harriet wanted to scream out loud. Although, considering the horrendous amount of noisy laughter and shouting going on around them, no one would have taken any notice if she had suddenly started yelling her head off.

Life was just so damned unfair! Of all the men in London—why did it have to be this particular man who was now wanting to rent a flat in her house? she asked herself incredulously. But—as much as she wanted to tell him to get lost—she simply didn’t have enough nerve to cause a scene.

‘Well, actually…’ she began, desperately trying to pull herself together. ‘I’m sure that Mr…um…’ What was the guy’s name? ‘That Mr—’

‘My name is Finn Maclean,’ he interrupted curtly.

‘Oh, yes…er…sorry…’ she mumbled, suddenly hating both Sophie and this awful man for putting her in such a difficult position, and desperately wishing that she’d never—absolutely never—agreed to come to this awful party. ‘The fact is…’

‘The fact is, you apparently have a flat to let. And I need to rent one, almost immediately,’ he told her in a firm let’s-have-no-nonsense tone of voice, which immediately raised her hackles.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that Sophie has jumped the gun,’ she told him quickly. ‘I’ve only just got rid of the builders, and—’

Busily intent on explaining just why it was not possible for him to rent her new apartment, Harriet was startled to find herself abruptly cut off in mid-sentence, the man quickly grasping her arm and towing her determinedly towards the back of the room, before opening a door and issuing her into a dimly lit small office.

‘Now, just a minute!’ she protested, rubbing the top of her arm where he’d gripped her so fiercely.

‘I’m sorry. But we were hardly able to hear ourselves think—let alone hold a reasonable conversation,’ he said, perching himself down on the edge of a large partners desk and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

‘I’ve bought this new flat, in Holland Park,’ he continued, before explaining the problem he was likely to have with so many workmen, and his need for alternative accommodation for anything up to six months. ‘And so, when your friend told me that you’d completed the conversion of the second floor in your house, it seemed the perfect solution to my problem,’ he added with a warm, engaging smile.

While Harriet would normally admire a guy who was prepared to take decisive action in pursuit of his goal, she’d already had dealings with Finn Maclean—and it had not been a pleasant experience.

So, it was no good him trying to turn on the charm—which he clearly possessed in abundance. Or trying to smooth-talk her into allowing him to rent her flat, she told herself grimly. Because he was definitely not the sort of tenant she’d had in mind.

‘I’d be at work in the City all day—and I’m out quite a lot in the evenings,’ he was saying as she stared mulishly back at him, determined to stick to her guns. ‘So, most of the time you’d hardly know I was there.’

‘What do you do? I mean,’ she added quickly as he looked at her in surprise, ‘Sophie seems to think that you are some kind of film producer.’

He gave a deep chuckle of laughter. ‘No, I’m afraid not. I work in the City as a lawyer,’ he explained. ‘In fact, my only contact with the film company giving this party concerned drawing up a contract for some work they were doing recently, on location.’

‘Oh, right,’ Harriet murmured, feeling somewhat relieved to know that if she was going to let her flat to this man—which, of course, she wasn’t—he would be unlikely to be throwing wild parties full of weird people, and disturbing her neighbours in the early hours of the morning.

However, Finn Maclean was obviously a very successful lawyer, if that wafer-thin Cartier gold watch on his wrist was anything to go by. So there seemed no point in mentioning that she, too, was a lawyer—albeit having worked as a very junior solicitor in a large, multinational firm.

‘Come on, you gorgeous girl—give me a break!’ He grinned engagingly at her. ‘I really am desperate to find somewhere to live.’

Easily able to discard his outrageous flattery—‘gorgeous girl’ indeed!—and frantically searching her mind for a good excuse to avoid renting him her apartment, Harriet was nevertheless finding it very difficult to concentrate on the problem.

Even though she was still relatively sober—mostly because she hadn’t liked the look of those peculiar-coloured cocktails—she was finding it extraordinarily difficult to ignore the amazing good looks, heady attraction and all-persuasive allure of this man.

Despite being perched on the desk, a few feet away from her, the magnetic force of his personality—not to mention the staggering effect of so much sheer naked sex appeal—was causing her to feel confused and breathless. The warm sparkling glints in those large blue eyes of his seemed to contain an almost seductive enticement; the atmosphere between them now was so thick that she could practically cut it with a knife.

‘Well…?’

‘I don’t know…’ she muttered weakly, realising that it would be no good saying that, since he hadn’t even seen the house, it was far too soon to take any sort of decision. Because not only did he know her house very well—but he’d also been extremely angry when she’d refused to sell it to him, all those months ago.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Finn Maclean—alongside all the other gifts with which nature had clearly endowed him—was also quite capable of reading her mind.

‘You may not want to rent me that flat of yours, Harriet. But I reckon you owe me a favour,’ he told her bluntly, the icy-cold, forceful determination in his voice sharply at variance with the warm, soothing tones he’d been using only a few seconds ago.

‘You were responsible for the fact that I wasted a great deal of time and money,’ he continued grimly. ‘Which is why I feel it’s not asking too much for you to now help solve my current difficulty.’

‘Yes, well…maybe I did…but…’

‘So, we’ve got a deal—OK?’

‘That’s great!’ Sophie cried, bursting into the room just in time to catch his last words. ‘And there’s no need to worry, Harriet. I’ll get my boss to draw up a really iron-clad contract. No problem!’

‘Oh…all right,’ Harriet sighed helplessly, well aware that she was being somehow railroaded—by these two highly persistent and determined people—into agreeing to have this awful man in her house for six months.

But, of course, it was very far from being ‘all right.’ In fact, she barely needed to glimpse the icy-cold gleam of triumph in those startling blue eyes, to know that Finn Maclean was Bad News.

Not to mention a feeling of total certainty, now settling like a hard stone in her stomach, that this was one decision she was going to bitterly regret.

CHAPTER TWO

DESPITE the fresh, early-summer breeze rustling the thin gauzy curtains of her bedroom, Harriet felt hot and sticky as she tossed and turned in the darkness, desperately trying to seek oblivion in sleep.

Eventually giving up the unequal fight, she threw back the bedclothes. Slipping on a light dressing gown and padding barefoot through into the large sitting room, she made her way towards the large French windows on the far side of the room.

Was she stupid—or what? How could she have been such an idiot? Why had she allowed herself to be thrown so completely off base by that totally unexpected encounter this evening with Finn Maclean?

Right from the moment they’d first met, all those months ago, she’d taken an instant dislike to the man. Although when she tried to work out exactly why she’d felt so instinctively aggressive and antagonistic towards someone whom she had never met—Harriet had absolutely no idea.

It was all Great-Aunt Jane’s fault, she told herself glumly, before giving a rueful shake of her head at her own foolishness. How could she even think such a thing? Talk about being ungrateful! Although it was true that if her aunt hadn’t died, and left her both this wonderful house and access to its adjacent and utterly enchanted garden, she would never have met Finn Maclean.

So what’s new? Nasty bugs could always find a way of invading even the most glamorous, expensive apartments, Harriet reminded herself grimly, unlocking the glass doors and stepping out on to the small balcony.

Taking a deep breath of the soft night air, fragrant with the scent of jasmine, lilac and early-flowering roses, she could immediately feel herself beginning to relax and unwind. Sitting down on one of a pair of small white, iron garden chairs, Harriet gave a contented sigh as she leaned back and stared up at the stars, twinkling in the dark sky high above her head.

It was a private fantasy of hers that she was somehow the sole possessor of this half-acre of lawn, trees, secluded walks and flowerbeds, vibrant with colour all the year round. And she knew, from talking to many of the other occupants of the houses surrounding this ‘secret’ garden, that they felt exactly the same way.

Little known outside the immediate area, the Ladbroke Estate, covering much of Notting Hill and Holland Park, contained sixteen of these very rare, very private and totally secluded gardens.

What made them so special was the fact that they were totally inaccessible to anyone other than those living in the houses which completely encircled the private gardens. And they were, indeed, a hidden secret known only to a few. Even she hadn’t realised, despite regularly visiting this house over the past few years, that such a luxurious green oasis lay at the back of her aunt’s home.

In fact, it hadn’t been until after her great-aunt’s death last year, when, as one of her cousins had so accurately put it, ‘Harriet’s numbers came up on the lottery,’ that she’d realised just how very lucky and fortunate she was.

‘The lottery’ wasn’t, in truth, any form of gambling. Her cousin’s remark had merely referred to the fact that her great-aunt Jane—a highly eccentric, imperious old lady—had made a habit of regularly changing her will in favour of one or another of her many great-nephews and nieces. And thus it had been that, following the unexpected death of her aunt, late last year, Harriet—to her utter surprise and total amazement—had suddenly found herself the proud possessor of the enormous house in Lansdowne Gardens, together with some money, currently locked away in stocks and shares.

‘Lucky old you!’ her cousin Martin had exclaimed on hearing the news. ‘I was at the top of the list last year. So I guess I must have done something to blot my copybook. Maybe deciding to throw up work and go on the stage might just have had something to do with it?’ he added with a rueful laugh, before giving Harriet a hug and wishing her the very best of luck with her inheritance.

‘It’s a dreadful old house, full of cats and dusty furniture. What are you planning to do? Sell it?’

Harriet shrugged and agreed that the house had always appeared to be in a dreadful state. So, probably the best thing would be to clear it out, and then put it up for sale. A course of action which received enthusiastic support from her parents. Especially her mother.

‘It’s absolutely the only thing to do, darling,’ her mother announced firmly. ‘What on earth do you want with a huge old house in an extremely unfashionable part of London? You must try and sell it as best you can, and then buy a nice little mews house. Somewhere fashionable, like Knightsbridge or Sloane Square, would be just about perfect.’

Although she seldom saw eye to eye with her mother, Harriet had to agree that the older woman had, for once, given her some good and practical advice. However, neither Harriet, at that time renting a small flat in Islington, nor her mother—living deep in the country, in Gloucestershire—could have guessed that the Holland Park and Notting Hill Gate area of London would suddenly become so extraordinarily fashionable.

Harriet had no way of knowing whether it was the many ‘private’ gardens which had proved to be the main attraction—particularly when contrasted with the hot dusty streets and high-rise buildings of central London—or if it was just some inexplicable movement of people from one area to another. However, it seemed that as soon as some wealthy pop stars and highly paid executives in the advertising and entertainment business ‘discovered’ Holland Park and Notting Hill Gate, everyone else suddenly appeared to want to live there, too.

All of which went some way to explaining why, on her approach to a local estate agent, he was visibly pleased at the thought of selling her aunt’s house. When he explained that she could expect to gain close to a million pounds for the property, Harriet’s legs suddenly felt as though they’d turned to jelly. Collapsing down into the chair before his desk, she gazed at the man in utter disbelief.

‘I had no idea…I mean…you must be kidding?’ she gasped, feeling quite faint and dizzy for a moment.

‘Oh, no,’ Mr Evans told her confidently, impatiently clicking his fingers at his assistant as he called for a glass of water, since the girl looked as though she was about to pass out any minute.

‘After you gave me the keys, I had a good look around the property,’ he continued. ‘It’s an absolute shambles, of course, but there’s no reason why—when you’ve cleared out all the mess—you shouldn’t get something very close to that sum.’

‘I…I just can’t believe it!’ Harriet mumbled helplessly, shaking her head in bemusement. ‘Are you absolutely sure…? I mean…I don’t want to be rude—but that really is such a huge amount of money!’

‘That’s nothing!’ He waved his hand dismissively in the air. ‘Why, only the other day I was approached by a young couple—looking for a house just like yours—who were quite happy to pay two or three million for a property in good condition. You would be able to get a much higher price if your aunt’s home had been looked after,’ he confided. ‘But, all the same, I think we ought to be able to get you at least a million—no problem.’

A million pounds! Such a sum was absolutely ridiculous, Harriet told herself as she drove slowly back to her small rented apartment in Islington, which she’d chosen originally because of its proximity and ease of access to the law courts in The Strand.

Having studied law at university, she was now working as a very junior member of a large firm of solicitors. Unfortunately, it hadn’t proved to be the job of her dreams. In fact, she’d come to see that the dry, dusty world of lawyers was definitely not for her. It was only the problem of trying to decide exactly what she did want to do with her life—plus the need to earn a decent living, of course—which had, so far, prevented her from resigning her job and looking for work elsewhere.

However, despite repeating the words ‘a million pounds’ to herself over the following weeks, she still couldn’t somehow make it seem any more real.

Although, in a moment of total euphoria, she thought about giving up work and living on the proceeds of the sale of her aunt’s house, it didn’t take Harriet very long to see that wasn’t the answer to her problems. Lying around doing nothing all day might seem an attractive idea. But she was fairly certain that she’d soon get bored with such an idle, lazy existence.

Her parents were, of course, delighted at her sudden change of fortune. And as for her boyfriend, George—for once in his life he actually looked visibly excited.

‘I say, Harriet, that sounds a pretty useful sum!’ he exclaimed, giving her a much warmer smile than usual. ‘And there’ll be no need to worry your pretty little head about investing the money. Because I know several clever men in the City who’d definitely be interested in dealing with a nice little nest egg like that.’

In fact, Harriet told herself, it was amazing how everyone was busy spending the money she had yet to get. Her mother seemed determined that she should buy a small, bijou house in a highly fashionable area: ‘So handy, darling, when I want to do some shopping.’ Several of her friends thought she ought to blow the lot on travelling around the world until the money ran out, while someone else suggested that she open a trendy restaurant.

Even an old friend, Trish Palmer, had come up with the idea of Harriet buying the empty property next to her own antiques shop in Ledbury Road.

‘Hang on, Trish!’ she muttered sleepily, at six-thirty one morning, as she helped to lay out small pieces of antique jewellery on the stall her friend operated on Saturdays in the nearby Portobello Road Market.

‘While I enjoy lending you a hand with the stall every now and then,’ Harriet continued, warming her cold hands on a mug of steaming hot coffee. ‘I know absolutely nothing about old furniture and objets d’art. Quite honestly, the idea of me buying a shop and suddenly becoming a successful antiques dealer is absolutely daft!’

‘It doesn’t have to be that sort of shop,’ Trish pointed out. ‘You could sell anything you liked—clothes, flowers, or jewellery. I mean, just look at the terrific success of that girl who has an amazing shop at the other end of the road, selling nothing but gorgeous purses and handbags.’

‘She’s so talented,’ Harriet agreed with an envious sigh. ‘Unfortunately, I have a horrid feeling that I don’t have a creative bone in my body!’

However, it was Trish who eventually provided the answer to all Harriet’s problems.

Offering to lend their friend a hand one weekend, cleaning the house ready for viewing by prospective buyers, Trish and Sophie were both amazed at the sheer size of the place.

‘It’s looking great, now that all that broken-down, dusty old furniture has been carted away,’ Sophie said, leaning on a broom and gazing up at the ornate cornice of the large, high-ceilinged first-floor sitting room.

‘You wouldn’t know the place,’ Trish agreed, lifting a grimy hand to brush the damp hair from her brow. ‘It’s a pity you have to sell the house after all this effort. If it had been left to me, I’d try and find a way to hang on to it.’

‘Even if I did—I could never afford to live here,’ Harriet pointed out, before throwing down her mop and declaring that they’d all earned a tea-break.

Making her way down to the antiquated old kitchen on the lower ground floor, Trish continued to lament the fact that her friend was having to sell such a lovely old house.

‘Come off it!’ Sophie laughed, waving a chocolate biscuit around the high-ceilinged kitchen, which surprisingly seemed full of light, ‘What on earth would Harriet do with herself, living all alone in a place like this?’

‘Who says she has to live on her own?’ Trish retorted. ‘She could easily split a house of this size into flats—one to each floor. Or she could always let out rooms to her friends, or…’

‘What? Run a boarding house?’ the other girl scoffed. ‘Do me a favour! Can you honestly see Harriet cooking breakfast for everyone in the house before rushing off to work? Get real!’

‘I’ve definitely got better things to do with my time!’ Harriet agreed with a laugh, before reminding her friends that there was still a lot of work to do, and not much time left in which to do it.

However, as she walked slowly around the clean and empty building a week later, while waiting for the estate agent to call with a client who wished to view the house, Harriet had to agree that Trish had been quite right.

In fact, if there was some way in which she could manage to retain ownership of the house—and also to live here herself—she’d willingly do so. If only for the sheer pleasure of opening the tall, curved glass French windows in the large ground-floor room and being able to stroll out into the extremely peaceful and beautiful garden.

A moment later her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, and she hurried through into the hall. Opening the door, she found the estate agent on the doorstep, introducing the tall man standing beside him as a Mr Maclean, who was very keen to see over the house before it was formally put up for sale.

She stood back to allow the men to enter the house, gaining only a brief impression in the dimly lit hall of a tall and slim dark-haired man.

However, as she led the two men through the large empty rooms, Harriet found herself beginning to think that ‘Mr Maclean’ didn’t seem at all keen on the house—or anything else, for that matter.

There was no doubt that he was tall, dark and handsome. In fact, as Harriet led the two men into the brightly lit, large main room on the ground floor, she found herself temporarily stunned into silence as she realised that the stranger wasn’t just a good-looking guy—but clearly quite extraordinarily handsome.

Viewing the man dressed in casual, but immaculate weekend attire, as he appeared to be gazing with complete disinterest around the room, Harriet was suddenly conscious of the fact that she, herself, must appear boringly conventional.

Never having done this sort of thing before, she’d spent some time earlier in the day trying to work out the right sort of ‘uniform’ for showing people around the house. Not that it was desperately important, of course. However, the estate agent had stressed the fact that first impressions were very important—which was why he’d also warned her to make sure the rooms were as clean as possible.

‘Ideally, of course, you should have bowls of flowers in every room,’ he’d told her. ‘In fact, I always tell my ladies that it doesn’t hurt to have the smell of fresh roasting coffee, or newly baked bread, issuing from the kitchen,’ he’d added with a conspiratorial wink, as he’d revealed some of the tricks of his trade.

However, since she obviously had no way of providing any of those items, Harriet had been forced to concentrate on making sure that all the rooms were sparkling clean—arranging for a window cleaner to call had worked wonders—and trying to dress as if she was the sort of person who normally lived in a house this size.

Which was why she’d discarded a short leather mini-skirt—obviously totally unsuitable when leading the way up a flight of stairs—and her favourite dress of floaty chiffon in autumn shades of brown and green—too frivolous. Hesitating over one of the sharp navy suits which she normally wore to the office—possibly too serious?—she’d eventually plumped for boring but safe: dark blue jeans, tight white T-shirt and a smart navy blue blazer.

But why she should care what she was wearing, when this man was stalking silently behind her as she led them in and out of the many upstairs bedrooms, she had no idea. Even when Harriet opened the large glass doors off the vast, first-floor drawing room, she found his total silence extremely off-putting.

She led the way out on to the balcony overlooking the garden, and expressed the hope that the men would enjoy the sight of such lush greenery as much as she did. But Mr Maclean merely glanced blandly at the view, before muttering noncommittally, ‘Very nice,’ before turning back into the house.

The man’s nothing but a philistine! she told herself grimly, closing the French doors angrily behind him.

Unfortunately, one of the security locks was rusty and stiff from disuse. As she struggled to turn the key, which stubbornly refused to budge, the tall stranger came over to give her a hand.

‘Here, let me help you,’ he murmured, suddenly materialising by her side and taking the key from her hand.

Thinking about the episode later, Harriet still didn’t understand why, as his hand brushed over hers, she should feel what seemed like a sudden electric shock, causing her to give a sudden yelp and a slight jump backwards, the key falling down with a clatter on to the hard wooden floor.

Highly embarrassed, and conscious of the deep flush rising up over her pale cheeks, Harriet was also bitterly aware of the man’s lips twitching with amusement as he bent to pick up the key.

So, he’s outrageously handsome—so what? Harriet told herself firmly, quickly putting as much distance between herself and Mr Maclean as possible before leading the way down into the lower ground floor kitchen area.

But she was still feeling distinctly unsettled, totally unable to explain the slightly sick feeling in her stomach as she moved over to the far side of the room. Turning around to lean against the sink beneath the large window, she listened as the estate agent began explaining the benefits of possessing such a large, semi-underground area in a house of this size.

‘…and, of course, if you’re still thinking of making this into a separate flat,’ he was saying, ‘it’s clearly ideal for what you have in mind. Lots of light and space, and—’

‘But you can’t do that!’ Harriet was astonished to find herself saying with some vehemence, suddenly upset to think of her aunt’s house being split up into apartments.

‘Oh, really…?’ Mr Maclean drawled sardonically, turning slowly around to face the girl standing on the far side of the room.

Almost as if he was clearly viewing her for the first time, he stared at the tall, slim figure, bathed in a warm glow from the light streaming in through the window, her long red hair, tied at the back of her neck by a dark blue ribbon, seeming to burst into fiery life beneath the strong rays of the late-afternoon sun.

Still astonished at her instinctive outburst, Harriet found herself feeling even more confused as the tall man began moving slowly and determinedly across the room towards her.

‘And exactly what makes you think that I can’t convert this basement—or any other floor of this house, for that matter?’ he asked in a cool, bland voice as he came to a halt in front of her nervous figure.

Having been virtually ignored during his tour of the house, Harriet felt distinctly flustered to find herself subjected to the full force of this man’s attention. The strong, intelligent gleam in his large blue eyes, which seemed to be boring into her skull, was not only highly disturbing but was also having a strange effect on her legs, which suddenly felt weak and wobbly.

Leaning for support back against the hard white porcelain sink, she struggled to pull herself together. Why on earth was she behaving in such a stupid, infantile way? She must have met hundreds of other guys, almost as good-looking as this one. So why let him get to her? It was still her house, wasn’t it? So, as far as she was concerned, he could take a running jump, she told herself firmly, before taking a deep breath and lifting her chin aggressively towards him.

‘I’m selling a house. Not a block of flats,’ she told him, dismayed to hear her normally firm, clear voice sounding unusually shrill and defensive. ‘I’m sure my aunt would hate to think of her old home being cut up into small apartments and sold off piecemeal—like you seem to be thinking of doing.’

There was a long silence as he stared at her intently for a moment, his expression giving no hint of what was going through his mind.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Miss Wentworth,’ he drawled sardonically, at last breaking the oppressive silence which seemed to have settled on the large room. ‘But I wasn’t aware that I’d discussed my plans with you…?’ he added with heavy sarcasm.

‘No, of course you haven’t,’ she retorted, deeply resenting being treated as though she was an impertinent child, daring to question her elders and betters. ‘But I’m not prepared to sell my aunt’s home to anyone who’s intending to cut it up and sell it off in bits,’ she added stubbornly.

‘Well, I don’t really see what you can do about it,’ he told her in a slightly amused, condescending tone of voice, which set her teeth on edge. ‘In fact—since this building was granted full planning permission for sub-division into apartments only three years ago—I fail to see how you can stop any purchaser from doing exactly as they want with the property.’

‘What…?’ Harriet stared past him at the estate agent, who’d been standing nervously across the room while this acrimonious exchange had been taking place. ‘I never knew my aunt had thought of splitting up this house. Why didn’t you tell me about the planning permission?’ she demanded angrily.

‘I didn’t know myself. Not until the other day, that is,’ Mr Evans told her with a slight shrug. ‘It was only when I was checking up on any possible boundary disputes that it came to light. Still, there’s no need to worry,’ he added, clearly in an attempt to pour oil on troubled waters. ‘It will, after all, make this house far more saleable.’

‘But…but it’s not just a house—it’s a home!’ Harriet wailed, not caring if she sounded childish. ‘I thought that there would be a family living here, enjoying the garden and…’ Her voice trailed away as she realised that she was succeeding in doing nothing but make an utter fool of herself.

‘Well, there you go.’ The estate agent shrugged, before brightly asking whether Mr Maclean would like to look over some of the rooms once again.

However, as Harriet trailed disconsolately behind the two men up to the raised ground floor, before leaving them to explore the rest of the house on their own, she only had one thought in her mind. She would never—under any circumstances—sell this house to that totally hateful man, Mr Maclean. She didn’t yet know how she could put a stop to his plans. But, come hell or high water, she was going to make damn sure that he never managed to get his hands on this house.

Unfortunately, despite cudgelling her brains, and coming up with a hundred and one highly impractical ideas over the next two weeks, Harriet had completely failed to find a solution to her problem.

Since her aunt—maybe because she’d been feeling lonely in her old age?—had gained permission to turn her home into apartments, there seemed no sensible explanation why Harriet should care what happened to the house, one way or another.

However, the fact was that she did feel very strongly about the subject—and also about that loathsome man, as well. Who in the hell did he think he was? Probably just some rotten property developer, who clearly took pleasure in destroying beautiful buildings merely for profit, she told herself, a heavy weight of depression filling her mind one night, as she slowly slipped off to sleep.

She had no idea what caused her to wake up some hours later, in the middle of the night. But, as she found herself sitting bolt upright in bed, it seemed as though her brain had been working overtime. Because, entirely without any effort on her part, Harriet suddenly realised that she’d found the answer to all her problems. She wasn’t going to sell the house. She was going to live in it herself!

Scrambling out of bed, she ran barefoot through into the small adjoining sitting room, which could have easily fitted four times into the large drawing room of her aunt’s house. Grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil, she immediately sat down and started working on some figures.

If she converted the ground and first floor into a maisonette for herself, it would enable her to live in the house and—just as important—give her direct access into that wonderful garden. However, she could only afford to do that if she converted the basement, second, third and fourth floors into four separate flats.

So…OK…she would being doing almost the same as that horrid man Mr Maclean had planned to do. But the difference was that in her case she was going to be personally living in the house, and looking after it. So, providing she could find enough money to convert and rent her first apartment, it should be possible for her to afford to do the other remaining floors in the same way.

After scribbling furiously for some minutes, she stared down at the figures. Yes! If she was very careful, and watched every penny of her expenditure, she could just about do it. And, of course, the scheme did have one quite outstanding bonus: it would enable her to give up her job, which she’d come to thoroughly dislike, while she took a year off from work to see to the conversion. By that time she was bound to have decided what she really wanted to do with her life. And, with any luck, her home would prove to be at least self-supporting, if not bringing in some useful funds.

Excited by her new idea, she talked the idea over with her old schoolfriend, Sophie. The other girl not only agreed that it looked as if it might be the solution to all her problems—but she also astonished Harriet by asking if she could rent the lower-ground-floor flat.

‘I’m sick and tired of the dump I’m living in at the moment,’ she explained. ‘And when we were down in the basement, having a break while clearing up the house, it did just occur to me that it would make a great pad. I mean, there seemed bags of room, and it was very light. Besides, those ceilings have to be about eleven feet high—right? And with its own front door out into the street, I reckon it will make a perfect flat!’

Encouraged by Sophie’s enthusiasm for the project, Harriet immediately telephoned the estate agent. To her surprise, Mr Evans was remarkably understanding.

‘I can see you love that house,’ he said with a heavy sigh. ‘However, if you can live there and make it pay for itself—the best of luck to you.’

Which, since he’d just lost a hefty amount of commission on the sale, was really very generous of him, she told herself. Although she subsequently found herself taking a rather more jaundiced view of the estate agent, when she discovered that he’d been guilty of foolishly—or, perhaps, merely carelessly—giving her phone number to a very angry Mr Maclean.

‘You damned girl!’ he rasped down the phone. ‘Not only have you put me to a great deal of time and expense, checking the planning permission and laying on surveyors, but I never had any intention of turning that house of yours into a block of flats.’

‘Oh, yes, you did!’ she snapped. ‘I quite distinctly heard you discussing with the estate agent your proposal to make the lower ground floor into a separate apartment.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! That was simply to provide a home for my younger brother, Jack, who works abroad most of the year. I wanted him to have somewhere—a piece of his own space, if you like—when he returns to this country on vacation,’ he told her, his voice tight with exasperation. ‘I fully intended to retain the rest of the house for myself.’

‘Well, I’m sorry if you’re disappointed—’

‘You don’t sound at all sorry!’ he ground out angrily, clearly able to sense the wide grin on her face, even if he couldn’t see it in person. ‘In fact, if I didn’t believe in non-violence, I’d cheerfully wring your damned neck!’ he added grimly. ‘I really wanted that house.’

‘Well, that’s just your tough luck, isn’t it?’ she retorted, before quickly putting down the phone and putting an end to the acrimonious conversation.

And that, if there was any justice in this world, should have been the end of any contact between them, Harriet now told herself with a heavy sigh, gazing out over the lawn and trees of the moonlit garden. Trust Sophie—who always had been accident prone—to introduce a snake like Finn Maclean into her Garden of Eden!

As she rose to her feet and walked slowly back through the large sitting room into her bedroom, Harriet realised that she now had no choice. She was just going to have to tough it out. After all, Finn was only going to be renting the upstairs apartment for six months. So, with any luck—and a firm contract—she should be able to make sure that she saw as little of him as possible.

CHAPTER THREE

IF SHE had hoped to see virtually nothing of Finn, once he’d moved into her second-floor apartment, Harriet very soon realised that she’d been badly mistaken.

It could just be that men, on the whole, were far more demanding than women. Certainly she’d never had any problems with Sophie, whose occupancy of the lower-ground-floor flat now seemed angelic, when compared to the almost daily hassle and problems she experienced with Finn Maclean.

In fact, having taken a great deal of time and trouble over converting the second floor into a bright and cheerful one-bedroom flat—containing just about every modern convenience—she was now totally fed up with the constant stream of queries and complaints from the damned man.

No sooner had he moved in—and that alone had been a four-act play!—than he’d been down banging on her door and complaining that the washing machine and dishwasher weren’t working.

‘What do you mean “not working”?’ She’d frowned. ‘They’re brand-new, for heaven’s sake!’

Finn had merely given a cool shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘Whether the machines are new or old isn’t the point,’ he’d informed her flatly, before insisting that she do something—right away.

After ringing a plumber, who’d charged an arm and a leg just to call at the house, the problem had been very quickly sorted out.

‘The next time you want to use one of these machines in the kitchen—try putting in a plug and switching on the electricity,’ she’d stormed, refusing to see the funny side of the situation as she’d glared at Finn and the plumber, both doubled up with laughter.

‘Reading the instructions might not be a bad idea, either,’ she’d added, throwing the booklet on to the kitchen counter, before stumping furiously out of the flat behind the plumber, who had still been chuckling with amusement as he’d made his way down the stairs and out into the night.

But that had only been the beginning of what seemed like one long nightmare of continuous hassle, all emanating from the second floor.

There had been the case of the blocked sink—another visit from the plumber; the blown fuse—the electrician; an accidentally broken pane of glass in one of the windows—ditto the glazier. Not to mention the bath overflowing which, as Finn had confessed with a grin, had occurred while he’d been talking on the phone to a girlfriend.

‘I couldn’t care less about your private life!’ she’d ground out furiously. ‘Except that—thanks to you—this house seems to be paying for the plumber’s next Caribbean holiday.’

‘No problem,’ he’d assured her with a careless, dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Just have the bills sent to me.’

The fact that he’d cheerfully paid all the huge invoices presented by the tradesmen, didn’t seem to make up for the sheer inconvenience of having to arrange for them to call and sort out the various problems. Nor had she been amused by a huge consignment of champagne, arriving with no notice in the middle of the day and totally blocking the hallway. With the delivery man claiming to have a bad back, no prizes for guessing exactly who had found herself hauling the cases up the stairs, to the second-floor flat.

But those minor annoyances were as nothing to the constant noise and disturbance caused by a stream of beautiful female visitors, all laughing and chatting at the top of their voices as they made their way up and down the stairs to the second floor.

If Sophie fancies her chances with this man, I reckon she’s way out of luck, Harriet had told herself grimly, while letting in yet another young, slim, highly glamorous blonde, who’d pressed Harriet’s doorbell by mistake.

However, it had been Finn’s birthday party, last week, which had been just about the last straw.

‘You’ve got a lot to answer for!’ Harriet told Sophie accusingly, as she and Trish joined her for breakfast at Cullens, in Holland Park Avenue, the following Sunday morning.

‘Oh, Lord—what have I done now?’ Sophie grinned, ordering a cappuccino and a pain au chocolat before sinking down on to the red leather seat beside her.

‘It’s not you.’ Harriet gave a deep sigh. ‘It’s that damned boyfriend of yours. He’s driving me absolutely up the wall!’

‘Hmm…?’ Sophie muttered, her attention distracted for a moment as the waitress placed a cup of coffee in front of her. ‘That’s funny. I didn’t know that you’d met Rodney?’

‘Rodney?’ Harriet frowned in puzzlement for a moment, before giving a slight shrug. ‘I’m talking about Finn Maclean. Not only is he turning into one long headache—but after that birthday party of his, the night before last, I could cheerfully murder the awful man!’

Sophie laughed. ‘Oh, I’m not interested in Finn any more.’

‘What…?’

‘I went off him ages ago,’ Sophie told her airily, before taking a large bite of her chocolate croissant.

‘Do you mean to say…?’

‘I’ve got this new boyfriend now, called Rodney Granger. Not only does he own a travel agency, but he’s promised to take me off to the south of France in two weeks’ time. How about that?’

Harriet could only glare at her, almost speechless with fury.

‘I simply don’t believe it!’ she eventually managed to grind out through clenched teeth. ‘Are you seriously telling me that, after twisting my arm—and virtually forcing me to let my newly done up flat to that foul man, Finn Maclean—you’ve already chucked him and got yourself a new boyfriend?’

‘Now, Harriet—calm down!’ Sophie muttered hurriedly. ‘I did fancy him, for a while. Which is not surprising, since you have to admit that he’s a real case of “sex on legs”—right? But I soon realised there was no point in having to compete with all those other women, who seem to surround him like a swarm of flies.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Finn may be diabolically attractive,’ Sophie admitted. ‘But I like a man to run after me—not the other way round. And besides,’ she added with a giggle, ‘who wouldn’t prefer to spend two weeks sailing around the Mediterranean in a huge yacht—with a guy who’s crazy about you—rather than queuing up for a chance to go out on the town with Finn? What do you reckon, Trish?’

Trish, who’d been buried in the Sunday papers, gave a quick nod of her head. ‘I’d take the yacht, every time,’ she agreed, before becoming absorbed in reading her horoscope for the coming week.

‘Well, thanks a bunch!’ Harriet grated angrily, before quickly grabbing a cigarette from the packet on the table in front of Trish. ‘You’ve really messed up my life—big time!’

‘Hey!’ Sophie frowned. ‘I thought you gave up smoking last year?’

‘Yes, you’re right—I did. But I really need one now. All right?’

‘OK…OK,’ the other girl murmured soothingly as Harriet glared angrily at her. ‘Look—I’m sorry if it hasn’t worked out with Finn. But you must admit that it really did seem a good idea at the time,’ she added with a shrug. ‘Besides, you couldn’t expect me to stay home every evening, just waiting for him to call.’

Harriet gave a heavy sigh. Stubbing out the cigarette, which had tasted foul, she realised that she had no one to blame but herself.

Sophie might be her oldest and dearest friend—but she ought to have known that the other girl had all the attention span of a newt. Which had to mean that the chances of her remaining interested in one man for any length of time were just about zero.

‘So, what happened at Finn’s birthday party?’

‘Don’t ask!’ Harriet groaned, burying her face in her hands for a moment, before giving another deep, heavy sigh.

‘Come on—tell all!’ Trish grinned. ‘It can’t have been that bad, surely?’

‘Oh, yes, it was,’ Harriet told her friends gloomily, before explaining that she’d had no warning of the proposed bash. ‘Although I suppose I ought to have guessed something was in the air—especially when he had all that champagne delivered,’ she admitted glumly.

‘Well, it all sounds fairly harmless, so far.’ Sophie shrugged. ‘What went wrong?’

‘The brand-new door entry system. Although I didn’t know anything about it at the time, of course.’

Harriet sighed heavily, before relating how she’d been to the Gate Cinema, to see a French film with some friends. After a late supper at Kensington Place, she’d returned home at about half past eleven—to find all the lights in the house on and the front door wide open.

‘I nearly had hysterics! I mean…it was nothing more or less than an open invitation to any passing burglars. What’s more, it clearly wasn’t an accident, since the front door had been deliberately propped open by a heavy case of champagne.’

‘So, what did you do?’

‘Exactly what any other sensible person would have done,’ Harriet retorted. ‘I stormed upstairs and told Finn Maclean precisely what I thought of stupid men like him. Especially those who were not only aiding and abetting the local criminals but also, if we had been burgled, would have been responsible for invalidating my household insurance policy.’

‘That’s a good point, you know,’ Trish told Sophie. ‘Insurance companies are getting very tough nowadays. A friend of mine forgot to lock all her windows when she went out shopping one day. She returned to find her place had been vandalised by some teenage hoodlums, and the insurance people refused to pay for the damage.’

‘That’s really bad,’ Sophie agreed, before adding impatiently, ‘So—what happened next?’

‘Well, as you can imagine, we had an almighty row,’ Harriet muttered, her cheeks flushing as she realised there was no way she could possibly explain what had happened in Finn’s apartment that night. Especially when she didn’t even understand it, herself.

‘Anyway,’ she continued hurriedly, ‘the long and the short of it was that, completely unknown to me, the doorbell entry system had given up the ghost. And, although Finn swore blind that he’d stationed a guest downstairs, to let everyone in, all I can say is that they sure as hell weren’t there by the time I came home.’

‘So…?’

‘So, I was over a barrel, wasn’t I?’ Harriet sighed, explaining that, with guests coming and going well into the small hours of the night, someone had to open the door. Because, as that rotten man had so graphically pointed out, it hadn’t been his fault that his doorbell and the front door release system weren’t working properly.

‘Oh, dear!’ Sophie exclaimed with a grin, before she and Trish collapsed with laughter.

‘It wasn’t funny!’ Harriet moaned. ‘I had to sit down there in the hall—practically propping my eyelids open with matchsticks—until God knows what hour. You’d think people would arrive at a party at the stated hour, wouldn’t you?’ she added indignantly. ‘But not Finn Maclean’s guests. Oh, no! As far as I could see, at least half of them had already been at other parties, and were decidedly the worse for drink by the time they arrived at the house.’

‘Poor Harriet!’ Trish murmured, clearly trying to keep a straight face.

‘Well, “poor Harriet” is just about right,’ she agreed grimly. ‘You should try letting tipsy people into the house all night, and see how much you like it,’ she added grumpily. ‘Just about the last straw was when a strange man actually patted me on the head, called me a “good girl”—and tried to give me a tip. Honestly, it was a complete nightmare!’

‘Have you managed to get the door entry system mended?’ Sophie asked, thankful that she had her own private entrance down in the basement.

Harriet nodded. ‘I called the engineers out first thing yesterday morning. Apparently, it was something to do with the wiring. But I told them that I’d be suing the socks off them if it ever happened again.’

‘That’s interesting,’ Trish murmured. ‘Since his birthday is in June, it looks as if Finn Maclean must be a Gemini.’

‘Believe me, there’s nothing “interesting” about Finn Maclean,’ Harriet told her with feeling. ‘A few adjectives like “difficult,” “maddening” or even “bloody-minded” would be much nearer the mark.’

‘That’s a Gemini man for you,’ Trish agreed with a grin. ‘Still, you’re Aquarius, which means you shouldn’t have any problem in coping with him. In fact,’ she added with a slight laugh, ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you two didn’t end up together!’

Harriet gave a shrill, incredulous laugh. ‘You must be joking! I wouldn’t fancy him—not if he were the last man on earth.’

‘Hmm…’ Trish murmured, smiling to herself as she noted the deep flush rising up over her friend’s face. ‘Maybe I ought to lend you a few of my crystals. They’re a great help in bringing harmony to a relationship.’

‘I don’t want to be rude, because I know you’re into all that New Age stuff, but it’s definitely not my scene,’ Harriet told her firmly. ‘What I really need is a lawyer who’s clever enough to break that damned contract we signed. Unfortunately, it seems forged in chains of iron—so I’m well and truly stuck with the awful man.’

Sophie gave a helpless shrug. ‘I really am sorry that it’s all turned out so badly. But as far as the contract is concerned, you did say that you wanted it to be unbreakable, and so…’

‘I know I did. It’s all my own fault,’ Harriet admitted with a heavy sigh. ‘So, it looks as if I’ll just have to find enough patience to survive the next five months without slaughtering the rotten man!’

The contract wasn’t Sophie’s fault—and Trish meant well, of course, Harriet told herself as she waved goodbye to her friends, who’d arranged to play a game of tennis in Ladbroke Square. But no amount of crystal beads, lighting joss sticks or chanting Buddhist mantras would be likely to do anything towards bringing ‘harmony,’ or any other calming influence, into the difficult relationship between herself and Finn Maclean.

Slowly making her own way home, and out into the blessed peace of Lansdowne Gardens, Harriet sank down on to a bench beneath a lilac tree, heavy with fragrant white blossom, as she tried to clear her mind of what Trish would undoubtedly call ‘negative thoughts.’

Unfortunately, try as she might, it was proving almost impossible not to recall, in hideous Technicolor, the disturbing scene which had taken place two nights ago.

After bursting into Finn’s apartment, accosting him in the hallway and telling him, in no uncertain terms, exactly what she thought of anyone stupid enough to leave the front door of a house open to all and sundry, she’d found herself being roughly dragged into the small kitchen.

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