a tank and breaking his collarbone.
So what was behind it, this willingness even to meet Damien Wyatt again? Did she have designs on him? Did she, he swallowed at the mere thought, plan to, if she got the job, fleece him of some of his mother’s treasures?
‘Hello!’
Arthur came back to the present with a start to see that Damien had finished his call and was looking at him enquiringly.
‘Sorry,’ he said hastily, and sat down again.
‘How’s Penny?’
Arthur hesitated. Despite the fact that Damien was always unfailingly polite to Penny, it was hard to escape the feeling that he didn’t really approve of her.
Or, if not that, Arthur mused further, did Damien view his belated tumble into matrimony after years of bachelorhood with some cynicism? He was now approaching fifty and was twenty years older than Penny.
Probably, he conceded to himself. Not that Damien Wyatt had anything to be superior about on that score. He might not have been twenty years older than his wife but he did have a failed marriage behind him—a very failed marriage.
‘Arthur, what’s on your mind?’
Once again Arthur came back to the present with a start. ‘Nothing!’ he asserted.
‘You seem to be miles away,’ Damien commented. ‘Is Penny all right or not?’
‘She’s fine. She’s fine,’ Arthur repeated, and came to another sudden decision, although with an inward grimace. ‘Look, Damien, I’ve changed my mind about Harriet Livingstone. I don’t think she’s the right one after all. So give me a few days and I’ll find someone else.’
It was a penetratingly narrowed dark gaze Damien bestowed on Arthur Tindall. ‘That’s a rather sudden change of heart,’ he drawled.
‘Yes, well, a blind man could see you two are unlikely to get along so...’ Arthur left his sentence up in the air.
Damien settled more comfortably in his chair. ‘Where are you going to find a paragon to equal Ms Livingstone? Or was that a slight exaggeration on your part?’ he asked casually enough, although with a load of implied satire.
‘No it was not!’ Arthur denied. ‘And I have no idea where I’m going to find one—be that as it may, I will.’
Damien Wyatt rubbed his jaw. ‘I’ll have a look at her.’
Arthur sat up indignantly. ‘Now look here; you can’t change your mind just like that!’
‘Not many minutes ago you were hoping to goad me into doing just that.’
‘When?’
‘When you told me I’d be the last person on earth she’d work for. You were hoping that would annoy me or simply arouse my contrary streak to the extent I’d change my mind.’ Damien’s lips twisted. ‘Well, I have.’
‘Which streak prompted that, do you think? A rather large ego?’ Arthur enquired heavily after a moment’s thought.
Damien grinned. ‘No idea. Bring her here for an interview tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Damien—’ Arthur rose ‘—I have to say I can’t guarantee the girl.’
‘You mean everything you told me about her provenance et cetera—’ Damien raised his eyebrows sardonically ‘—was a lot of bull dust?’
‘No,’ Arthur denied. ‘I followed up every reference she gave me and they all checked out, I’ve talked to her and sounded her out on a range of art work, as I mentioned, but—’
‘Just bring her, Arthur,’ Damien interrupted wearily. ‘Just bring her.’
* * *
Despite this repeated command, Damien Wyatt stayed where he was for a few minutes after Arthur had gone, as he asked himself why he’d done what he’d just done.
No sensible answer presented itself other than that he had somehow felt goaded into it, although not because of anything Arthur had said.
So—curiosity, perhaps? Why would Harriet Livingstone want to have anything to do with him after, he had to admit, he’d been pretty unpleasant to her? Some quirky form of revenge?
More likely a quirky form of attaching herself to him, he thought cynically. All the more reason to have stuck to his guns and refused to see the girl.
What else could have been at work behind the scenes of his mental processes then? he asked himself rather dryly. Boredom?
Surely not. He had enough on his plate at the moment to keep six men busy. He had an overseas trip coming up in a couple of days, and yet...
He stared into the distance with a frown. Of course the possibility remained that it wasn’t the same girl...
* * *
At three o’clock the next afternoon, Harriet Livingstone and Arthur Tindall were shown into the lounge at Heathcote by a tall angular woman with iron-grey hair cut in a short cap. Arthur addressed the woman as Isabel and kissed her on the cheek but didn’t introduce her. Arthur was looking worried and distracted.
Damien Wyatt came in from outside through another door, accompanied by a large dog.
He threw his sunglasses onto a side table and said something to the dog, a young, highly bred and powerful Scottish wolfhound, that sat down obligingly although looking keenly alert.
‘Ah,’ Damien Wyatt said to Arthur after a brief but comprehensive study of Harriet, ‘same girl.’ He turned back to Harriet. ‘We meet again, Miss Livingstone. I’d almost convinced myself you wouldn’t be the same person or, if you were, that you wouldn’t come.’
Harriet cleared her throat. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wyatt,’ she said almost inaudibly.
Damien narrowed his eyes and cast Arthur an interrogative glance but Arthur only looked blank.
Damien returned his attention to Harriet Livingstone.
No batik wraparound 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
