Mary Lyons - Reform Of The Playboy

Which was why she’d discarded a short leather mini-skirt—obviously totally unsuitable when leading the way up a flight of stairs—and her favourite dress of floaty chiffon in autumn shades of brown and green—too frivolous. Hesitating over one of the sharp navy suits which she normally wore to the office—possibly too serious?—she’d eventually plumped for boring but safe: dark blue jeans, tight white T-shirt and a smart navy blue blazer.

But why she should care what she was wearing, when this man was stalking silently behind her as she led them in and out of the many upstairs bedrooms, she had no idea. Even when Harriet opened the large glass doors off the vast, first-floor drawing room, she found his total silence extremely off-putting.

She led the way out on to the balcony overlooking the garden, and expressed the hope that the men would enjoy the sight of such lush greenery as much as she did. But Mr Maclean merely glanced blandly at the view, before muttering noncommittally, ‘Very nice,’ before turning back into the house.

The man’s nothing but a philistine! she told herself grimly, closing the French doors angrily behind him.

Unfortunately, one of the security locks was rusty and stiff from disuse. As she struggled to turn the key, which stubbornly refused to budge, the tall stranger came over to give her a hand.

‘Here, let me help you,’ he murmured, suddenly materialising by her side and taking the key from her hand.

Thinking about the episode later, Harriet still didn’t understand why, as his hand brushed over hers, she should feel what seemed like a sudden electric shock, causing her to give a sudden yelp and a slight jump backwards, the key falling down with a clatter on to the hard wooden floor.

Highly embarrassed, and conscious of the deep flush rising up over her pale cheeks, Harriet was also bitterly aware of the man’s lips twitching with amusement as he bent to pick up the key.

So, he’s outrageously handsome—so what? Harriet told herself firmly, quickly putting as much distance between herself and Mr Maclean as possible before leading the way down into the lower ground floor kitchen area.

But she was still feeling distinctly unsettled, totally unable to explain the slightly sick feeling in her stomach as she moved over to the far side of the room. Turning around to lean against the sink beneath the large window, she listened as the estate agent began explaining the benefits of possessing such a large, semi-underground area in a house of this size.

‘…and, of course, if you’re still thinking of making this into a separate flat,’ he was saying, ‘it’s clearly ideal for what you have in mind. Lots of light and space, and—’

‘But you can’t do that!’ Harriet was astonished to find herself saying with some vehemence, suddenly upset to think of her aunt’s house being split up into apartments.

‘Oh, really…?’ Mr Maclean drawled sardonically, turning slowly around to face the girl standing on the far side of the room.

Almost as if he was clearly viewing her for the first time, he stared at the tall, slim figure, bathed in a warm glow from the light streaming in through the window, her long red hair, tied at the back of her neck by a dark blue ribbon, seeming to burst into fiery life beneath the strong rays of the late-afternoon sun.

Still astonished at her instinctive outburst, Harriet found herself feeling even more confused as the tall man began moving slowly and determinedly across the room towards her.

‘And exactly what makes you think that I can’t convert this basement—or any other floor of this house, for that matter?’ he asked in a cool, bland voice as he came to a halt in front of her nervous figure.

Having been virtually ignored during his tour of the house, Harriet felt distinctly flustered to find herself subjected to the full force of this man’s attention. The strong, intelligent gleam in his large blue eyes, which seemed to be boring into her skull, was not only highly disturbing but was also having a strange effect on her legs, which suddenly felt weak and wobbly.

Leaning for support back against the hard white porcelain sink, she struggled to pull herself together. Why on earth was she behaving in such a stupid, infantile way? She must have met hundreds of other guys, almost as good-looking as this one. So why let him get to her? It was still her house, wasn’t it? So, as far as she was concerned, he could take a running jump, she told herself firmly, before taking a deep breath and lifting her chin aggressively towards him.

‘I’m selling a house. Not a block of flats,’ she told him, dismayed to hear her normally firm, clear voice sounding unusually shrill and defensive. ‘I’m sure my aunt would hate to think of her old home being cut up into small apartments and sold off piecemeal—like you seem to be thinking of doing.’

There was a long silence as he stared at her intently for a moment, his expression giving no hint of what was going through his mind.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Miss Wentworth,’ he drawled sardonically, at last breaking the oppressive silence which seemed to have settled on the large room. ‘But I wasn’t aware that I’d discussed my plans with you…?’ he added with heavy sarcasm.

‘No, of course you haven’t,’ she retorted, deeply resenting being treated as though she was an impertinent child, daring to question her elders and betters. ‘But I’m not prepared to sell my aunt’s home to anyone who’s intending to cut it up and sell it off in bits,’ she added stubbornly.

‘Well, I don’t really see what you can do about it,’ he told her in a slightly amused, condescending tone of voice, which set her teeth on edge. ‘In fact—since this building was granted full planning permission for sub-division into apartments only three years ago—I fail to see how you can stop any purchaser from doing exactly as they want with the property.’

‘What…?’ Harriet stared past him at the estate agent, who’d been standing nervously across the room while this acrimonious exchange had been taking place. ‘I never knew my aunt had thought of splitting up this house. Why didn’t you tell me about the planning permission?’ she demanded angrily.

‘I didn’t know myself. Not until the other day, that is,’ Mr Evans told her with a slight shrug. ‘It was only when I was checking up on any possible boundary disputes that it came to light. Still, there’s no need to worry,’ he added, clearly in an attempt to pour oil on troubled waters. ‘It will, after all, make this house far more saleable.’

‘But…but it’s not just a house—it’s a home!’ Harriet wailed, not caring if she sounded childish. ‘I thought that there would be a family living here, enjoying the garden and…’ Her voice trailed away as she realised that she was succeeding in doing nothing but make an utter fool of herself.

‘Well, there you go.’ The estate agent shrugged, before brightly asking whether Mr Maclean would like to look over some of the rooms once again.

However, as Harriet trailed disconsolately behind the two men up to the raised ground floor, before leaving them to explore the rest of the house on their own, she only had one thought in her mind. She would never—under any circumstances—sell this house to that totally hateful man, Mr Maclean. She didn’t yet know how she could put a stop to his plans. But, come hell or high water, she was going to make damn sure that he never managed to get his hands on this house.

Unfortunately, despite cudgelling her brains, and coming up with a hundred and one highly impractical ideas over the next two weeks, Harriet had completely failed to find a solution to her problem.

Since her aunt—maybe because she’d been feeling lonely in her old age?—had gained permission to turn her home into apartments, there seemed no sensible explanation why Harriet should care what happened to the house, one way or another.