and sat back with a sigh, closing her eyes.
One rock shifted, hopefully, but a massive boulder still to go.
Keeping her job might be one thing. But hanging on to Gracemead was quite another, especially when her grandfather’s deadline was coming nearer by the day.
She supposed she could always try another small ad on one of the dating pages, then recalled with a grimace just how long it had taken to extract Peter from among the welter of total unsuitables who’d responded. None of whom she’d wish to encounter a second time.
Also, she had to be careful. If, by some remote but fatal chance, anyone at work found out or even suspected what she was trying to do, her life would become completely unbearable. And outside work she never met any men. Apart, of course, from today …
She sat up with a jolt, as if several hundred volts of electricity had suddenly passed through her, her mind going into overdrive.
Then stopped, as she remembered contemptuous dark eyes. A voice that dripped scorn. And took a deep breath. No, she thought, that’s nonsensical. That’s carrying the whole thing to the limits of absurdity. Don’t even consider it.
But the idea refused to go away. It nagged at her for the remainder of the evening, and even followed her to bed, where she lay, staring sleeplessly into the darkness as she continued to argue with herself.
On the face of it, she and this Roan had nothing in common, except their mutual antipathy. But he needed a boost to his career as an artist, which she might—just—be able to supply. And he was a good painter. He had a real gift. Whatever her personal opinion of him as a man, she was certain of that at least.
And if she was prepared to help him, she was surely entitled to ask for his assistance in return, even though she could guess his probable reaction when he learned the details, she thought, wincing.
But she’d simply have to stress that their dislike of each other was a positive advantage under the circumstances. And that any acceptance of her terms would be strictly business.
After all, she told herself grimly, she didn’t want that appalling male arrogance, which seemed as natural to him as breathing, to persuade him for one second that she found him even remotely attractive.
His pretty blonde might be a snag, of course, but she could hardly raise any real objections to the scheme, as she was married herself.
And as she turned over, punching the pillow into submission, a name came floating into her mind, reminding her of someone in the art world she might approach. ‘Desmond Slevin,’ she murmured with drowsy satisfaction, and closed her eyes, smiling.
The following morning brought a few misgivings, but no real second thoughts.
If he chose to co-operate, this Roan could secure Gracemead for her after all. Therefore she had to pursue the idea that had come to her last night.
At the office, having meekly handed her report to Tony, and attended to any urgent business, she did a quick computer check on her designated prey.
Desmond Slevin, an art dealer and collector, who owned the Parsifal Gallery in the West End, was a former tenant now living in Surrey.
Harriet had read a piece about him quite recently in one of the broadsheets, describing him as one of the treasure seekers of the art world, always on the look-out for new and gifted painters. If it was true, he might be just the man she needed.
Accordingly, she took an early lunch, and grabbed a passing taxi to whisk her to the gallery. And a few minutes later she was sitting in Desmond Slevin’s private office, drinking coffee.
‘So, what can I do for you, Miss Flint?’ He was a handsome middle-aged man on the verge of being elderly, with grey hair, and piercing blue eyes. ‘Are you here to persuade me to give up the commute and rent another London pad?’
Harriet returned his smile. ‘I doubt that I could. No, I read a recent article about you, and it—got me thinking.’
‘Oh.’ He pulled a face. ‘Frankly, I came to regret that interview.’ He gave her a narrow-eyed glance. ‘I trust you haven’t taken up painting as a hobby, because you were once very kind and helpful, and I’d hate to disappoint you.’
She laughed. ‘You’re quite safe, I promise.’ And paused. ‘But if I ever saw work that seemed to have real talent, might you be interested in—perhaps—taking a look?’
He said dryly, ‘And I’m wondering, in turn, if that question is quite as hypothetical as it sounds.’ He refilled her cup. ‘So, who is this undiscovered genius, Miss Flint? A boyfriend?’
‘God, no.’ Harriet sat bolt upright, nearly spilling her coffee down her skirt. Bright spots of colour burned in her face. ‘The exact opposite, in fact. Someone I barely know. I—I don’t even have his full name.’
‘Dear me,’ he said placidly. ‘All the same he seems to have made quite an impression.’ He watched her reflectively for a moment. ‘Is there a body of work involved?’
‘Yes, I suppose—I think so. He—he has a studio.’
He laughed. ‘Which doesn’t always mean much. Does he know that you’ve come to see me on his behalf?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘It was just an impulse, really.’
‘So you don’t know whether he’d be interested in selling his work?’
‘Well, of course he would. Why ever not?’
Desmond Slevin’s sigh held a touch of cynicism. ‘My dear, I’ve met many in my time who feel their work is unique, and of far too lofty significance to be handled commercially. Therefore I find it’s always best to check in advance.’
‘I don’t think that would apply in this case.’ Harriet drew a deep breath. ‘So, if I talk to him first, would you be willing to see his paintings? Give an opinion?’
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Why not?’ He raised a minatory finger. ‘Just as long as you both understand that it doesn’t necessarily mean a deal.’
‘Oh, I’ll make that very clear.’
‘Then I’ll wait to hear from you,’ he said, and rose.
‘You know,’ he said as he accompanied her through the gallery to the street door. ‘It occurs to me you’re going to a lot of trouble for a complete stranger.’ He paused, and patted her on the shoulder. ‘But I’m sure you know your own business best.’
I wouldn’t count on it, Harriet thought grimly as she pinned on a beaming smile and walked away. In fact, I might well be making one of life’s more serious mistakes.
If, in fact, she went through with it. Because, as she kept reminding herself, she didn’t have to do this. She could still pull out, and no harm done. Tell Desmond Slevin that, after all, the paintings hadn’t repaid a second, closer inspection, and she was sorry for wasting his time. A smile and a shrug, and it would be all over.
But so would Gracemead, as a telephone conversation with her grandfather that same evening swiftly confirmed. Because if she’d hoped that his attitude might be softening at this
