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this man; he was good-looking certainly, was broad-shouldered, without fat, had dark eyes, and she could well imagine that sensational-looking females would come chasing after him rather than him having to exert himself. But she felt more niggled by him than anything else. No one had ever declined to shake hands with her before.

      Astra was aware that his dark glance was giving her a thorough going over, as if to note every detail—her figure, her thick red hair, worn as she usually wore it in a sophisticated chignon, her green eyes, her pale skin. She felt herself dissected—and put back together again—and that too annoyed her.

      Which left her, since she instantly did not care at all for this man with whom she was here to do business, to draw on every scrap of her professionalism. She went calmly over to the chair he had indicated—it was opposite to the one he took—his large, uncluttered desk in between them.

      ‘I am unsure which kind of personal package you may be interested in, Mr Baxendale,’ she remarked pleasantly, placing her briefcase on his desk. ‘If you’d care to give me a few details of what you have in mind,’ she went on, her long, slender fingers already at the fasteners on her briefcase, ‘I’ll…’

      ‘I’m not remotely interested in any personal package you have to offer.’ He cut her off before she could finish, and Astra, her fingers falling away from her briefcase, just sat and stared at him, stunned.

      He’d somehow made that sound as if she wanted him to be personally interested in her! Fat chance! She started to recover from her incredulity, and almost told him that it sounded to her as if his sensational females should be less forthcoming than they were if he thought she was remotely interested in him either—personally. But she was here on business, or thought she was, and to have him, Sayre Baxendale, as one of her clients would be a prize indeed.

      So she remained calm, remained even a hint friendly, as she enquired, ‘You are Sayre Baxendale? I am speaking with the same man who contacted Yarroll Finance yesterday and suggested I come to see you today?’

      ‘I asked you to come and see me today,’ he replied bluntly, no suggestion about it.

      Somehow Astra managed to keep a pleasant look on her face. ‘I must have got it wrong,’ she murmured apologetically. ‘You’re more interested in some commercial…’ She broke off; she saw he was looking at her sceptically. And anyhow she didn’t ‘do’ commercial. Her intelligence going into overdrive, she had a positive notion that if his Finance section couldn’t come up with everything he wanted on the commercial side, then heads in that section would roll thick and fast. ‘You’re neither interested in a personal package nor anything commercial, are you, Mr Baxendale?’ she enquired as calmly as she could.

      He studied her, his dark eyes fixing at last on her cool green ones. ‘No,’ he answered shortly.

      Instinctively, Astra wanted to get up and walk out of there. But she was here representing her firm and, anyhow, she was more professional than that. ‘May I ask, then, why you have asked to see me today?’ she enquired—and very nearly dropped when he told her.

      However, he did not tell her straight away, but first, to her surprise, referred her to someone she had completed a deal with several months before. ‘Does the name Ronald Cummings mean anything to you?’ he asked.

      It was a name she was unlikely to forget! She’d had a client named Ronald Cummings. That was to say she had dealt with—long and tediously—Ronald Cummings, a fifty-year-old who’d changed his mind constantly in the months prior to him finally settling on the investment she had arranged for him.

      ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss anyone who may or may not be a client,’ she kept her professional hat firmly in place to reply.

      Sayre Baxendale was unimpressed. ‘Ronald Cummings has no such ethics when it comes to discussing you!’ he informed her shortly.

      ‘You know Mr Cummings?’ Astra enquired, more to give herself a moment to sort out in her head what the dickens was going on here than anything else.

      ‘His daughter happens to be my PA,’ Sayre Baxendale answered crisply.

      ‘His daughter?’ The woman she had caught a glimpse of just now? Astra speedily thought back to three or four months ago, grateful that she had an excellent memory. No wonder the woman looked familiar—she had met her. ‘Mrs Edwards,’ she pulled out of nowhere, and didn’t think that was too bad considering she had met the woman only once. But this was no time for self-congratulation; Sayre Baxendale was looking every bit as tough as she’d heard he could be. ‘Mrs Edwards, Mr Cummings’s daughter, is your PA?’ she questioned.

      He didn’t deign to answer. Straight-to-the-point-Baxendale, Astra dubbed him. ‘We were speaking of Ronald Cummings and the extremely bad advice you gave him.’

      ‘Bad advice!’ she echoed, staring at him disbelievingly.

      ‘Not to say bordering on the criminal,’ Sayre Baxendale didn’t flinch from accusing.

      ‘Criminal!’ Astra exclaimed, and as anger stormed through her at such a heinous accusation she flared hotly, ‘I very much hope you can substantiate such a remark.’ My stars! This man was the end! ‘Neither my company nor I will put up with such defamation…’

      ‘I’m sure Yarroll Finance will be delighted to know that their representative is far more interested in earning a fat commission than in…’

      ‘That’s outrageous!’ Astra flew, rising furiously to her feet and glaring at the objectionable man who stared back at her, imperturbable, when she felt angry enough to hit him.

      ‘It would be, if it were untrue,’ he replied, rising to his feet and staring down at her. ‘However, I’ve seen for myself the Porsche you drive—which takes quite a chunk out of your income in monthly repayments, I suspect…’ What impertinence! The car was paid for! ‘…and that suit you’re wearing would put most women back three months’ salary.’

      There was so much Astra could have said in her defence to such a charge. For one, that she had bought her car with only a part of an inheritance from her paternal grandfather. For another, she could have told Sayre Baxendale that her father insisted on paying considerable sums into her bank account from time to time. In fact, she could have told Baxendale that, if the truth be known, she had not the smallest need to work at all. As for the commission she’d earned on the Ronald Cummings package—and, recalling the way the man had dithered and constantly changed his mind, oh, my, how she’d earned it—commission had been the last thing on her mind throughout the whole transaction.

      But she said none of those things, and indeed did not so much as attempt to defend herself. Very much to her own surprise, she had to admit, she heard herself actually bluntly enquire, ‘You’ve seen my car?’

      If he too was surprised that she chose to enquire rather than defend, he didn’t show it, but told her equally bluntly, ‘Veronica Edwards drew my attention to you getting out of your car the other day when we were in Great Portland Street on business.’ That was a week ago! Astra recalled she had been in Great Portland Street a week ago. ‘Where I saw you and your car is incidental,’ Sayre Baxendale stated, clearly not prepared to waste any more of his precious time. ‘I’ve seen all the papers relative to the deal you put together for Ronald Cummings; the near criminal investment you calculated for him—forgetting completely to mention that he stood to lose his home, his property if he…’

      ‘I would have told him that!’ Astra exclaimed hotly—it would have been second nature to do so. ‘I…’

      ‘Where?’ Baxendale demanded. ‘It’s not written anywhere!’

      Wasn’t it? She couldn’t remember. ‘You have the advantage over me, you’ve seen the paperwork recently. I’ll have to check…’

      ‘And when you do check also that there wasn’t a better deal you could have sold him.’

      How dared he? Putting financial deals together was her job! What did he know about it? ‘You’re

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