The Virgin's Wedding Night. Sara Craven

      But Saturday arrived with no cancellation, so it seemed they were destined for another confrontation after all.

      Harriet went through the predominantly black contents of her wardrobe several times before deciding on a pair of taupe linen trousers, with a matching thigh-length jacket worn over a stone coloured tee shirt. Neutral but neat.

      Besides, one odious comparison with a bat was quite sufficient in anybody’s lifetime, she thought, her mouth tightening.

      For a moment, she contemplated leaving her hair loose, then decided it was probably wiser to wear it in her usual style, severely drawn back from her face. And definitely no cosmetics.

      She got to the appointment early, and took a seat in the hotel’s vast lounge, where she could keep a beady eye on the main entrance into the hotel foyer.

      It was an impressive place, she thought, glancing round her, and busy too. Afternoon teas were clearly doing a roaring trade, and the soft sounds of a pianist playing gentle jazz were only just audible above the hum of conversation. But a crowd she could blend into was exactly what she wanted.

      Although it was never her intention to become invisible, she thought with faint irritation, as she made another of several vain attempts to catch the eye of a scurrying waiter.

      And as she settled back into her chair with a sigh, she suddenly realised that Roan was there, walking towards her. Was aware too of an odd stillness at his approach, with people leaning towards each other at neighbouring tables, and murmuring.

      But maybe they were simply planning to have him thrown out for breaking some dress code, she thought with disfavour. The jeans he was wearing were elderly, but clean, fitting him like a second skin, and his white shirt had at least one too many buttons undone. The cuffs were casually turned back, revealing bronzed forearms, and his bare feet were thrust into espadrilles. He still needed a haircut, and a shave wouldn’t have gone amiss either. Yet for all that…

      Barring any such thought, she got hurriedly to her feet. ‘Hi.’ She tried to sound nonchalant. ‘So you came after all.’

      The dark eyes glinted at her. ‘Wasn’t that the idea?’

      ‘Yes, of course. Please sit down.’ She sounded as if she was conducting a job interview, but maybe that was the correct note to use, she thought as she resumed her own seat. ‘I’ve been trying to order tea, but—’

      She broke off as he lifted a languid hand, and two waiters came running, as if all they’d been waiting for was his signal.

      ‘The lady would like tea. Coffee for me, please.’

      Harriet, bewildered and pardonably annoyed, watched the deference with which his instructions were received.

      ‘How did you manage that?’ she asked.

      ‘It wasn’t difficult.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you wish to begin our discussion now, or shall we talk about the weather until we have been served?’

      ‘Now would be best, perhaps,’ she said stiffly. ‘You must be wondering why I asked for this meeting.’

      His brows lifted sardonically. ‘I am breathless with curiosity.’

      Harriet bit her lip—hard, then addressed herself to the prepared script. ‘First of all,’ she said, ‘I need to apologise for my behaviour at our last meeting. I can only say that I’ve been under a great deal of pressure lately, and your sketch of me was…’

      ‘The last straw?’ he supplied helpfully as she hesitated.

      ‘Well, yes,’ she agreed. Although unforgivable was what I really had in mind. ‘I want you to know that I don’t usually lose my temper in such a way.’

      ‘Reassuring,’ he said. ‘But did you bring me all the way across London just to tell me that?’

      ‘No, of course not.’ She swallowed. ‘I really want to talk about your work. You see, I wasn’t pretending when I said it was good, and I—I’ve mentioned it to an acquaintance of mine, who owns quite a well-known gallery—the Parsifal. You may have heard of it.’

      ‘Yes.’ The monosyllable gave nothing away.

      Harriet ploughed on. ‘Anyway there’s a chance—if he also thinks you’re good—that he might stage an exhibition for you. Get you launched.’

      At which point, the waiters returned. Plates of tiny finger sandwiches, scones, and cakes oozing cream were placed on the table, along with tea for Harriet, and a pot of coffee served black for her companion.

      When they were finally alone again, she said, ‘You do realise what could be on offer here. Haven’t you—anything to say?’