Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction. Trish Morey

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      All the same, her goodbye was faintly uncertain as she took her departure. And as she emerged into the street, she found she was strangely breathless.

      But why? she wondered. Because I should be cheering, now that I’ve solved my problem at last.

      Except, she reminded herself as she signalled to a passing taxi, that I still have to tell Grandfather.

      The week that followed was a busy one. Harriet spent the latter part of it in the Midlands, revisiting the sites she’d targeted on earlier trips, and taking extensive photographs to accompany her redrafted report, when it was prepared, and support its recommendations. Nothing this time would be left to chance, she thought with grim determination. Whatever the questions, she would have all the answers.

      However, in spite of this resolution, she seemed to be finding concentration difficult, particularly as she wasn’t sleeping too well at nights.

      Clearly the forthcoming confrontation with her grandfather must be preying on her mind rather more than she’d expected, she told herself wryly.

      When she got back to London on Friday afternoon, the atmosphere at Flint Audley was festive. Gina, who worked in Accounting, was having a birthday, and a cake, complete with candles, had been cut up and passed around the office at teatime. And after work, everyone was going out for a celebratory drink. Or all except one …

      ‘We didn’t think you’d be back,’ Gina informed Harriet offhandedly. ‘But you’re welcome to join us—if you want,’ she added, eying Harriet’s serviceable black pants and tunic top with ill-concealed disfavour.

      ‘Thank you,’ Harriet returned with equal insincerity. ‘But I’m going down to the country this evening.’

      ‘Off to the stately pile?’ Jon Audley joined them, his smile malicious. ‘Dad always thought it would divide up into great flats, and I’m sure he was right. There’s even enough land to construct a nine-hole golf course as a total bonus. Something to bear in mind when it finally falls into your waiting hands, Harriet dear.’

      She looked back at him evenly. ‘Except that Gracemead is not for sale,’ she said. ‘Not now. Not ever.’

      ‘Always supposing you have the choice,’ he murmured, and walked away, leaving her staring after him, more shaken than she cared to admit. Had rumours of her grandfather’s intentions somehow reached Flint Audley?

      If so, it would give her intense pleasure to prove them unfounded.

      Because, whether Gregory Flint liked it or not, he would have to accept her unlikely bridegroom.

      Her own attitude to him, however, seemed less easy to define.

      While she’d been away, she’d found Roan Zandros in her thoughts far more than she wished. She wasn’t altogether sure she hadn’t dreamed about him, but, if so, her memories were thankfully hazy.

      She could only be certain that he wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she originally devised her plan.

      And in some ways she wished he’d turned her down, and walked away.

      Oh, come on, she adjured herself impatiently. That’s defeatist thinking. He’s a means to an end, that’s all. A business deal. And you’ll have a firewall to protect you anyway, with your pre-nuptial agreement.

      Back at the flat, she showered quickly and shampooed her hair. She’d intended to wear it up, or braid it, but she was running late, so she decided for once simply to brush it and leave it loose.

      There was a beige linen shift dress in her wardrobe, and she changed into it with reluctance, her grandfather’s preferences and prejudices at the forefront of her mind. He preferred her to wear skirts, and there was no point in getting off on the wrong foot, and upsetting him over something as trivial as her choice of clothing.

      However, he’d sounded genuinely pleased when she phoned to say she was coming down. Their recent meetings had been less frequent than usual, and overshadowed by the inevitable tensions arising from his ultimatum.

      Maybe he hoped that some kind of reconciliation was on the cards, and, if so, she would listen. But only if he relented sufficiently to let her off the hook.

      She bit her lip. It was far more likely that she’d have to proceed with her bargain, and go through a wedding ceremony with Roan Zandros.

      After which, her life would just—continue as usual.

      While she packed her weekend case, she listened to the messages on her answering machine. An investment group was offering her a financial health check. Her oldest friend Tessa wanted her to come to dinner. ‘Bill says it’s been far too long, and he’s right, Harry, love. Where does the time go, I ask myself? So call us.’

      And her lawyer, Isobel Crane, had also phoned, to tell her that the pre-nuptial agreement had been prepared according to her instructions, and was ready for signature, but might need further discussion.

      In other words, she wants to talk me out of the whole thing, Harriet thought, her lips twisting wryly. Well, nothing new there.

      She was a little disappointed that there was no message from Desmond Slevin, who’d been planning to visit Roan’s studio two days earlier. But he was a busy man, she told herself, and maybe there’d been no opportunity as yet. It was certainly too soon to give up hope.

      Besides, whatever Desmond’s decision, Roan Zandros would get his exhibition. That was the deal, and whatever it cost, it would be worth it.

      At least, that’s what I have to believe, she thought, and realised with shock that it was the first time she’d even been remotely doubtful about what she was doing.

      And her doubts multiplied on the way down, so that when she drove into the village a couple of hours later, she felt almost sick with nerves. Any sense of triumph had long since dissipated. Now she was simply doing what she must to safeguard her inheritance.

      When she reached Gracemead, she parked at the rear of the house, near the old stable block, and went in through the kitchen to be met by the enticing aroma of roast duck, unless she missed her guess.

      Mrs Wade, a little stouter and greyer, was whipping thick cream to accompany the chocolate mousse which was one of her masterpieces. She greeted Harriet with affection, and told her that Mr Flint was in the drawing room.

      ‘With his visitor, Miss Harriet,’ she added.

      Harriet grimaced inwardly. She’d hoped to have her grandfather all to herself, so she could break the news about her wedding before she lost her nerve. But maybe his company wouldn’t stay long.

      She dropped her case in the hall, and went into the drawing room, only to find it empty. But the French windows were standing open to the evening sun, and she could hear the faint rumble of her grandfather’s voice coming from the terrace outside.

      Taking a deep breath, she went out to join him.

      Gregory Flint was standing at the balustrade, gesturing expansively as he indicated points of interest in the gardens spread out before them to the man at his side, too wrapped up in one of his favourite topics to notice her arrival.

      Although she СКАЧАТЬ