SEVEN o’clock found Harriet peering out of her shop window into a storm. She’d been home, dressed for an evening out and returned in a hurry, not wishing to keep him waiting.

But it seemed he had no such qualms about her. Five past seven came and went, then ten, and there was no sign of him. At seven-fifteen she muttered something unladylike and prepared to leave in a huff.

She’d just locked the door and was staring crossly at the downpour when a cab came to a sharp halt at the kerb, a door opened and a hand reached out from the gloom within. She took it, and was seized in a powerful grip, then drawn swiftly inside.

‘My apologies for being late,’ Marco said. ‘I took a cab because of the rain and found myself trapped. Luckily the show doesn’t start until eight, so even at this crawl we should make it in time.’

‘You don’t mean to say that you managed it?’ Harriet asked incredulously.

‘Certainly I managed it. Why should you doubt me?’

‘Who did you blackmail?’

Marco grinned. ‘It was a little more subtle than that. Not much, but a little.’

‘I’m impressed.’

She grew even more impressed when she discovered that he’d secured the best box in the house. No doubt about it. This was a man with good contacts.

Marco offered her the chair nearer the stage so that he was a little to the rear and could glance at her as well as the show. She wasn’t beautiful, he decided. Her slenderness went, perhaps, a little too far: not thin he assured himself hastily, but as lean as a model. Elegant. Or, at least, she would be if she worked on her appearance, which she clearly didn’t.

Her chiffon evening gown was all right, no more. It descended almost to her shapely ankles, and clung slightly, revealing the grace of her movements. The deep red was a magnificent shade, but it was exactly wrong with her auburn hair, which she wore loose and flowing. She should have put it up, he thought, revealing her face and emphasising her long neck. Was there nobody to tell her these things?