circus—’
‘Now you mention it, I do remember reading about it. At the time I felt rather sorry for him.’
‘I gather from what Mr Levens told me that between his ex-wife, who continued to oppose the divorce, and the attentions of the gutter press, his life was made almost intolerable.
‘His refusal to give interviews or be photographed just made the paparazzi keener, and in the end he was forced to move flats and go to ground.’
‘It must have been tough for the poor devil.’
‘I’m sure it was.’
‘Do you know, in spite of all that press coverage I’ve no idea how old he is or what he looks like, have you?’
‘Not the faintest,’ Jenny admitted.
‘My guess is that he’ll be middle-aged, handsome in a lean and hungry way, with a domed forehead, a beaky nose and a pair of piercing blue eyes.’
‘What about his ears?’
‘Oh, a pair of those too. Unless he’s a tortured genius like Vincent Van Gogh.’
‘Fool! I meant flat or sticky out?’
‘Definitely sticky out, large, and a bit pointed.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because that’s what a brilliant writer ought to look like.’
Jenny laughed. ‘Well, if you say so.’
‘By the way, if you get back to find the flat empty, don’t be surprised. It’s Tom’s parents’ wedding anniversary, and later we’re off to Kent to spend the day with them.’
‘Well, I hope everything goes really well. Do give Mr and Mrs Harmen my best wishes.’
Her coffee finished, Jenny dressed in a taupe suit and toning blouse, swept her hair into a smooth coil, added neat gold studs to her ears and the merest touch of make-up.
With just a mental picture of Michael Denver, and no real idea of his age or what he might want in a PA, she could only hope he would approve of her businesslike appearance.
The car, a chauffeur-driven Mercedes, drew up outside dead on time.
Laura, who was stationed by the window, exclaimed excitedly, ‘It’s here! Well, off you go, and the best of luck.’
Trying to quell the butterflies that danced in her stomach, Jenny picked up her shoulder bag, and said, ‘Thanks. Enjoy your day.’
Outside, the air was cold, and Jack Frost had sprinkled the pavement with diamond dust and scrawled his glittering autograph over natural and man-made objects alike.
By the kerb, the elderly chauffeur was standing smartly to attention, waiting to open the car door for her.
As she reached him he bid a polite, ‘Good morning, miss.’
Jenny returned the greeting and, feeling rather like some usurper masquerading as royalty, climbed in and settled herself into the warmth and comfort of the limousine.
By the time they reached Mayfair and drew up outside the sumptuous block of flats, she had managed to conquer the nervous excitement, and at least appear her usual cool, collected self.
Having crossed the marble-floored lobby, she identified herself to Security before taking the private lift up to the second floor, as instructed.
As the doors slid open and she emerged into a luxurious lobby she was met by a tall, thin butler with a long, lugubrious face. ‘Miss Mansell? Mr Denver is expecting you. If you would like to follow me?’
She obeyed, and was ushered into a large, very well-equipped office.
‘Miss Mansell, sir.’
As the door closed quietly behind her a tall, dark, broad-shouldered man dressed in smart casuals rose from his seat behind the desk.
A sudden shock ran through her, and though somehow her legs kept moving she felt as if she had walked slap bang into an invisible plate-glass window.
While she was convinced they had never met, she felt certain that she knew him. Some part of her recognized him, remembered him, responded to him…
But even as she tried to tell herself that she must, at one time, have seen his photograph in the papers, she felt quite certain that that wasn’t the answer. Though there had to be some logical explanation for such a strong feeling.
Michael, for his part, was struggling to hide his relief. For a man who was normally so confident, so sure of himself and the plans he was putting into action, he had been unsettled and on edge. Half convinced that she wouldn’t come, after all, and angry with himself that it mattered.
Now here she was, and though for some reason her steps had faltered and she had appeared to be momentarily disconcerted, she had quickly regained her composure.
Holding out his hand, he said without smiling, ‘Miss Mansell… How do you do?’
His voice was low-pitched and attractive, his features clear-cut, but tough and masculine rather than handsome.
‘How do you do?’ Putting her hand into his, and meeting those thickly lashed, forest-green eyes, sent tingles down her spine.
She had expected him to be middle-aged, but he was considerably younger, somewhere in his late twenties, she judged, and nothing at all like the picture Laura had painted of him.
At close quarters, Michael found, she was not merely beautiful, but intriguing. Her face held both character and charm, and a haunting poignancy that made him want to keep on looking at her.
Annoyed by his own reaction, he said a shade brusquely, ‘Won’t you sit down?’
Despite the instant impact he had had on her, she found his curt manner more than a little off-putting, and she took the black leather chair he’d indicated, a shade reluctantly.
Resuming his own seat, he placed his elbows on the desk, rested his chin on his folded hands, and studied her intently.
Her small, heart-shaped face was calm and composed, her back straight, her long legs crossed neatly, her skirt drawn down demurely over her knees.
There was no sign of the femme fatale, not the faintest suggestion that she might try to employ any sexual wiles, which seemed to confirm that she was different from the women who had, in the wake of his divorce, seemed to think he was fair game.
Appreciating the natural look, after all the artificial glamour of the modelling world, he was pleased to note she wore very little make-up. But with a flawless skin and dark brows and lashes, she didn’t need to.
Up close, the impact of those big brown eyes and the wide, passionate mouth was stunning. But though she was one of the loveliest and most fascinating women he had ever seen, it wasn’t in a showy way.
Her hands were long and slender, strong hands in spite of their apparent delicacy, and he was pleased to see that her pale oval nails were buffed but mercifully unvarnished.
On her right hand he glimpsed the gold ring she had worn the previous night, but her left hand was bare.
Becoming aware that she was starting to look slightly uncomfortable under his silent scrutiny, and wanting to know more about her, he instructed briskly, ‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘What exactly would you like to know?’
She had a nice voice, he noted—always acutely sensitive to voices—soft and slightly husky.
‘To start with, where you were born.’
‘I was born in London.’
‘And you’ve lived here all your life?’
‘No. When I was quite small, we moved to the little town of Kelsay. It’s