LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘You mean I’m being allowed to pollute your sacred portals?’ She followed him into a wide hall. On the left, a flight of stairs carpeted in pale green led to the upper floors. On the right, an open door showed her a room fitted out as an office, with a fax machine, a photocopier and a state-of-the-art computer sitting on a workman-like desk. This was where the music was coming from, too.

      ‘Not for long,’ he tossed back over his shoulder, leading the way to the rear of the house. ‘And don’t consider going for squatters’ rights, either.’

      She’d been about to ask what computer system he used, attempt to establish that she had a life and a career, and wasn’t just some helpless hopeful. Now all she hoped was that the whole thing would crash spectacularly at some crucial moment.

      He stood back, allowing her to precede him. ‘You can wait in here. Please don’t make yourself too comfortable. I’m just going to make a phone call.’

      ‘And put some clothes on as well?’ Olivia gave the dressing gown an acid glance.

      ‘This,’ he said softly, ‘is my Saturday morning. I will dress—and do—as I like.’ He tightened the sash with ostentatious care. ‘Just remember, lady, you came knocking on my door, not the other way round.’

      Biting her lip, Olivia walked past him. She found herself in a long rectangular room with one wall that seemed to be made entirely of glass. The main item of furniture was a long refectory table supplied with high-backed oak chairs. On the table, beside a newspaper folded open at an inside page, was a used plate and knife, an empty mug, and a dish of dark red jam. A lingering fragrance of coffee and warm croissant still hung in the air from the adjoining kitchen.

      Despite her best efforts, Olivia felt her nose twitch longingly. It had been a long time since the blueberry muffin and carton of hot chocolate which she’d consumed at Bristol Temple Meads Station.

      But something warned her that it would be an even longer time before the Owner offered her a sip of his espresso.

      Swine, she thought. Greedy, selfish pig.

      To take her mind off her empty stomach, she wandered over to the French windows. Beyond them, she saw a mass of greenery. No walls or fences, she noted, puzzled. Just a riot of tall shrubs and huge trees, already heavy with approaching autumn. There were late-flowering roses, too, and great banks of fuchsias and hydrangeas. Behind the leafy barrier she caught a glimpse of the more strident green of a lawn. And a sunlit dazzle of water.

      She drew a swift breath of sheer appreciation. This garden seemed to stretch for ever, its only confine the wide gravelled path which circled it.

      It was the last thing she’d expected to find, here in the middle of the city—this wonderful secret wilderness.

      It was like the garden behind her parents’ home, she thought, although on a vastly larger scale, and for a moment she was assailed by a pang of homesickness so strong that she could have cried out.

      ‘Is something wrong?’ The Owner had joined her, tapping out numbers on a cordless phone. Clearly he didn’t miss much.

      ‘I—I was just looking at the garden.’ Olivia bit her lip. ‘It’s beautiful. Who—who does it belong to?’

      ‘Everyone whose house backs on to it,’ he returned laconically. ‘It’s a communal venture.’

      Then, into the phone, ‘Sasha—sorry to annoy you at the weekend, but do you have any place available in that doss-house of yours?’ The lines beside his mouth deepened in amusement as he studied Olivia’s sudden rigidity. ‘Yes, just one waif and stray—female—wandering in off the street.’

      He laughed. ‘No, not feline, although I’d say she had claws.’ He listened for a moment, grinning. ‘Not a chance, my love. She’s definitely not my type, and claims to be spoken for anyway. You can? You’re a saint. I’ll send her round.’

      He switched off the phone. ‘Well, that’s you fixed up.’

      She glared at him. ‘It never occurred to you that I’d like to make my own arrangements, I suppose?’

      ‘Frankly, no.’ His grin deepened. ‘So, what was your major plan? Camping on my doorstep, looking hopeless and helpless, until Jeremy comes back?’ He shook his head. ‘You’d lower the tone of the neighbourhood.

      ‘No, you’ll be all right with Sasha,’ he went on, ignoring her furious gasp. ‘Her lodgers seem to be a transient population, so she’s usually got a room free.’

      ‘Sasha.’ Olivia paused. ‘Is she Russian?’

      ‘No.’ His face softened momentarily, making him seem almost human. Even attractive. And increasing that vague sense of familiarity. ‘Just eccentric.’

      He gave her a level look with no amusement at all. ‘And she’s got a kind heart, so I would take it personally if she was made a fool of in any way. By someone doing a runner, for instance, without paying the rent.’

      ‘She’ll be paid.’ Olivia stopped trying to work out where she could possibly have seen him before, and reverted effortlessly to simply loathing him again. ‘Although I don’t expect to be staying there long.’

      ‘Of course not. You’ll be waiting for Jeremy to provide a suitable love-nest, no doubt. And maybe he will. Only it won’t be under my roof.’

      ‘And what the hell has it to do with you?’

      He shrugged, unruffled. ‘As I mentioned, he’s married. Maybe I have more scruples.’

      And, as if on cue, a girl’s voice called, ‘Declan—Declan, darling, where are you?’

      Olivia, glancing toward the hall, could see long bare legs descending the stairs. Up to that moment she’d thought no one could be wearing less than her reluctant host, but she was wrong.

      The redhead who now appeared and stood, posing coquettishly, in the doorway was using a peach-coloured towel as an inadequate sarong.

      ‘Darling,’ she said, pouting reproachfully. ‘I woke up and couldn’t find you. It was horrid.’ She glanced towards Olivia, her glance hardening fractionally. ‘But I didn’t realise you were—entertaining.’

      Her laugh was slightly metallic. ‘If this is your latest, then your taste must be slipping.’

      Indignant colour flared in Olivia’s face at this piece of gratuitous rudeness, but before she could speak Declan stepped forward.

      ‘Wrong on all counts, Melinda, my sweet. Ms Butler is just a passing acquaintance.’ He sent Olivia an edged look. ‘And, hopefully, passing out of my life for good very soon. Now go back to bed, and I’ll see you presently.’

      The girl sent him a radiant smile, the tip of her pink tongue caressing her lower lip. ‘Is that a promise?’ she asked huskily.

      ‘Trust me.’ His voice was low-pitched, intimate. The air in the room seemed suddenly alive—electric.

      For a shocked moment, Olivia was aware of a slight frisson—a tingle down her own spine.

      The Owner might be loathsome, but he was also undeniably sexy—if you liked that sort of thing. As the redhead falling out of the peach towel obviously did, for she was turning and trailing obediently back upstairs.

      Olivia felt oddly desolate, suddenly. But small wonder, she thought. After all, she’d arrived expecting a blissful reunion with Jeremy, leading to a passionate consummation, and instead here she was, an intruder, forced into the role of voyeur in someone else’s love-life.

      There was a strange silence in the room that she needed to break.

      She cleared her throat. ‘I gather you don’t have any moral scruples about your own conduct?’

      ‘Correct.’ His grin was unabashed. ‘But I’m not married, and never have been. That makes a difference.’

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