skirt today, he noted: an unexceptional navy linen dress instead. Not too long, not too short, not too tight, although it did make her blue eyes even bluer. In fact her outfit was very discreetly elegant and so were her shoes, polished navy leather with little heels. This caused a faint fleeting smile to twist his lips as it crossed his mind that this girl probably rarely, if ever, wore higher heels. And he wondered what it must be like for a girl to be as tall, if not taller, than many of the men she met. Not that she was taller than he was...
Then there was her hair. Shoulder-length, fair and with a tendency to curl, it no longer looked as if she’d been pulled through a bush backwards. It was neatly tied up instead with a black ribbon. Her make-up was minimal. In fact it was all so...what? he asked himself. Well-bred, classic, timeless, discreet—he had no difficulty imagining her in the hallowed halls of some revered antique and art auction company or a museum.
But, and this caused him to frown rather than smile, the main difference between this Harriet Livingstone and the girl who’d run into him was that she was no longer thin. Very slender, perhaps, but no, not exactly skinny.
Despite being slender rather than skinny and despite her more composed outward presentation, it was, however, plain to see that she was strung as taut as a piano wire.
It was also plain to see—and his eyes widened slightly as his gaze travelled down her figure—that her legs were little short of sensational...
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you were right, Arthur, but let’s get down to brass tacks. We’ve organised a few of my mother’s things in the dining room. Please come through and give me your opinion of them, Ms Livingstone.’
He moved forward and the dog rose and came with him but stopped to look at Harriet with almost human curiosity. And, as Harriet returned the dog’s gaze, just a little of her tension seemed to leave her.
Damien noticed this with a slight narrowing of his eyes. And he said, somewhat to his surprise, ‘I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce you—this is Tottie, Miss Livingstone. Her proper name is much more complicated. Something tells me you like dogs?’
Harriet put out a hand for Tottie to inspect. ‘Yes. It’s one of the reasons I ran into you,’ she murmured. ‘I thought I’d killed the dog and I—just froze.’
Arthur tut-tutted.
Damien Wyatt blinked, twice. ‘Much worse in your estimation than killing me, I gather?’
Harriet Livingstone allowed Tottie to lick her hand then said quietly, ‘Of course not. I didn’t—I’m sorry but I didn’t have time to think about you or anything else. It all happened so fast.’
‘I’m suitably damned,’ he replied. ‘All right, let’s get this show on the road.’
‘If you’re having second thoughts I’d quite understand,’ Harriet said politely, with a less than polite glint in her eye, however.
She really doesn’t like him, Arthur thought and rubbed his face distractedly. So why is she doing this?
But what Damien said took him even further by surprise. ‘On the contrary, after what Arthur has told me about you I’m positively agog to see you in action. Shall I lead on?’
He didn’t wait for her response but strode out with Tottie following regally.
* * *
Harriet put the exquisite little jade peach tree down on the table with a sigh of pleasure. And her gaze swept over the rest of the treasures spread out on the dining room table. ‘They’re all lovely—she had marvellous taste, your mother. And judgement.’ She took off her red-rimmed glasses.
Damien was leaning his broad shoulders against the mantelpiece with his arms crossed. He did not respond to her admiration of his mother’s collection but said, ‘Is that a new pair or did you get them fixed?’ He nodded towards her glasses resting on the table.
Harriet looked confused for a moment, then, ‘Oh, it was only a lens that got broken so I was able to get a new one.’
‘Red glasses.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Not quite in keeping with the restrained elegance of the rest of you—today, that is.’
A fleeting smile twisted Harriet’s lips. ‘Ah, but it makes them a lot easier to find.’ And, for a moment, she thought he was going to smile too but he continued to look unamused.
Harriet looked away.
‘How would you catalogue them?’ he asked after a moment. ‘This is not even one tenth of them, by the way.’
‘I’d photograph them in the sequence I came upon them and I’d write an initial summary of them. Then, when they were all itemised—’ Harriet laced her fingers ‘—I’d probably sort them into categories, mainly to make it easier to locate them and I’d write a much more comprehensive description of them, their condition, any research I’d done on them, any work required on them et cetera. I’d also, if your mother kept any receipts or paperwork on them, try to marry it all up.’
‘How long do you think that would take?’
Harriet shrugged. ‘Hard to say without seeing the full extent of the collection.’
‘Months,’ Arthur supplied with gloomy conviction.
‘Were you aware it was a live-in position, Miss Livingstone?’ Damien queried. ‘Because we’re out in the country here, whoever does the job will spend an awful lot of time travelling otherwise.’
‘Yes, Arthur did explain that. I believe there’s an old stable block that’s been converted to a studio and it has a flat above it. But—’ Harriet paused ‘—weekends would be free, wouldn’t they?’
Damien raised an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t Arthur tell you that?’
‘He did,’ Harriet agreed, ‘but I needed to double-check.’
‘A boyfriend you’re eager to get back to?’ Damien didn’t wait for her response. ‘If that’s going to be a problem and you’re forever wanting time off to be with him—’
‘Not at all,’ Harriet cut across him quite decisively.
‘Not at all, you wouldn’t be wanting time off all the time or not at all, there is no boyfriend?’ Damien enquired.
Arthur coughed. ‘Damien, I don’t think—’ he began but Harriet interrupted him this time.
‘It’s quite all right, Arthur.’ She turned back to Damien. ‘Allow me to set your mind at rest, Mr Wyatt. There is no fiancé, no husband, no lovers, in short, no one in my life to distract me in that direction.’
‘Well, well,’ Damien drawled, ‘not only a paragon in your profession but also your private life.’
Harriet Livingstone merely allowed her deep blue gaze to rest on him thoughtfully for a moment or two before she turned away with the tiniest shrug, as if to say he was some kind of rare organism she didn’t understand.
Bloody hell, Damien Wyatt found himself thinking as he straightened abruptly, who does she think she is? Not content with smashing my car and causing me considerable discomfort for weeks, she’s—
