Читать книгу The Virgin's Wedding Night - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 6

‘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.