Greek Affairs: The Virgin's Seduction: The Virgin's Wedding Night / Kyriakis's Innocent Mistress / The Ruthless Greek's Virgin Princess

And the dress was freshly laundered, she thought, regarding herself critically in the mirror. It looked clean and crisp enough.

Yet it occurred to her, uneasily, that maybe she should have stretched a point and bought something to be married in. Not a wedding dress, as such. Nothing white or—or virginal. That was going too far. But something simple and pretty that would also do service on summer evenings, and during weekends down at Gracemead.

And perhaps she should have tied her hair back for once with something more elegant than an elastic band.

But why am I beating myself up about this? she asked herself with impatience. It’s not as if it’s a real wedding, or I’m a real bride. And Roan will probably turn up in jeans anyway.

Nevertheless, she felt a vague dissatisfaction as she took a final look at herself, and left the bedroom.

She’d ordered a cab to take her to the register office, but it wasn’t due for another five minutes, so she filled the time writing Roan’s cheque, and putting it in an envelope with one of her office compliment slips. After a moment’s thought, she took the slip out again, and wrote on it, ‘With every good wish for the future.’

The personal touch, she thought, her mouth twisting.

Then she sat on the edge of the sofa feeling oddly lost, her calm, pared-down environment for once failing to soothe her.

Not that there was anything to worry about. It was all going according to plan. And Roan had gone to her lawyer’s office and signed the pre-nuptial agreement without a murmur.

‘Although I feared the worst,’ Isobel had told her. ‘He turned up with his own legal eagle—a guy called Jack Maxwell who’s pretty high-powered—and they spent quite some time going through it, line by line. I hope we haven’t forgotten anything.’

She’d paused. ‘I also hope you know what you’re doing, Harry. What do you really know about this man, except that he’s broke and gorgeous?’

‘I know he’s a brilliant artist,’ Harriet returned a touch defensively. ‘That his mother was a well-known painter too, who met his father while she was on holiday in Greece. Apparently he’s involved in the Greek tourist industry, or so Roan told Gramps over their chess game. Which means that the old boy probably owns a taverna, and the son didn’t fancy a life waiting on tables. And he can hardly be blamed for that.’

‘No,’ Isobel agreed. ‘He didn’t seem too thrilled, by the way, with the clause barring him from Gracemead and any further contact with your grandfather.’

‘Pure safety measure.’ Harriet paused. ‘But he needs the money too much to make a fuss.’

‘Really?’ Isobel asked sceptically. ‘I reckon he could earn more by renting himself out in the afternoons.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re taking too much on trust here, Harry. Why not put the thing on hold while I make some proper enquiries about him?’

‘You wouldn’t require background checks if I was—hiring a decorator,’ Harriet argued. ‘Well, the same principle applies. He does the job he’s paid for, then walks. It’s that simple.’

Only, now the day had come, the situation seemed marginally more complex.

God knew, she’d never intended to be married, but on the rare occasions when the thought had crossed her mind, she’d not visualised a wedding like this. Or imagined that after the ceremony she’d be going back to work as if nothing had happened.

But then no bridegroom in her imagination had ever resembled Roan Zandros either, she reminded herself wryly, as the buzzer sounded, signalling the arrival of her taxi.

As she walked into the building that housed the register office, she found herself half hoping that Roan wouldn’t be there. That his married blonde lady had raised some insuperable objection to the plan.

But that was defeatist thinking, she told herself, just when she was on the brink of achieving exactly what she wanted.

And of course he was there, in the waiting room, wearing, she noticed instantly, another elegant dark suit, with a white rose in his buttonhole.

He must have a friend with an extensive wardrobe, Harriet thought, drawing a deep breath as she made herself walk forward. But neither of the men waiting with him was tall enough. Although the pair of them were equally smartly garbed, and also wearing white roses.

Very festive, she thought, biting her lip. Whereas she didn’t have as much as a daisy to carry—a point that clearly wasn’t lost on anyone present. Making her feel as if she was having one of those ghastly dreams where you found yourself attending a Buckingham Palace garden party in your underwear.

Making her wish suddenly—ridiculously—that she had tried harder, instead of dressing down in her usual anonymous manner. Taken the trouble to have her hair done, and fitted in a professional make-up and manicure.

That just for once she’d turned herself into a girl a man might genuinely want to marry, so that they’d be looking at her now with admiration rather than blank astonishment. Because, however little it might feel like it, she was a bride, and this was her wedding day.

One of Roan’s companions came over to her. He was stockily built, with sandy hair, and a square-chinned good-looking face currently marred by a faintly inimical expression.

‘Good morning, Miss Flint.’ He spoke without particular warmth. ‘I’m Jack Maxwell, and this is my colleague Carl Winston. We’re here as witnesses.’

He looked more like a rugby player than a tough lawyer, Harriet thought with surprise.

He went on, ‘Perhaps you might like to fulfil the financial part of your agreement with my client now? He’s authorised me to accept the money on his behalf.’

Surprised, she glanced at Roan, who nodded unsmilingly, then handed over the envelope, wishing she hadn’t included that stupid message. Wishing all kinds of confused things but principally that she was anywhere but here.

Or in this other room, across the corridor, facing a grey-haired woman in a smart blue suit, repeating the words she was being asked to say, and holding out her hand so that Roan could place a gold ring on her third finger.

And then, so quickly, it was all over, and they were outside in the sunlight, but no one was throwing confetti or rose petals, nor was there a car to drive away in with her new husband, or any well-wishers waving and pointing cameras.

Nor, thankfully, had anyone suggested that they should kiss the bride, least of all the groom.

There was a difficult silence, then Jack Maxwell said, ‘Well, friends, I move that we find a bar, and some lunch.’

Harriet’s lips were parting to tell him she had to go to the office when she realised, just in time, that the invitation was not intended for her.

But if they imagined she was just going to slink away, as if she was ashamed of what she’d done, they could think again, she decided, lifting her chin.

She approached Roan, smiling brightly. ‘Goodbye, Mr Zandros.’ Her voice was crystal-clear. ‘It’s been a pleasure to do business with you.’ She tugged off her wedding ring and handed it to him. ‘A small souvenir of the transaction,’ she added, and walked away without looking back.

It was not one of Harriet’s better afternoons. It seemed to consist of numerous small, irritating tasks that needed lengthy phone calls to resolve them, and by the end of the day she still wasn’t convinced she’d achieved very much. Nor had she been given a chance to look at the Midlands project.

Worst of all, as she was leaving, Tony asked her to call at Hayford House on her way home, to listen to complaints about the housekeeping and maintenance service from some of the tenants.

And there were plenty of them. She listened patiently, making notes about communal areas left uncleaned and untidy, the unmended tumble dryer in the basement laundry, the replacement door chains not yet fitted, the unsatisfactory garbage collection, plus assorted dripping taps and faulty ballcocks.

‘We’re sorry to make a fuss, but we have raised these points before.’ Mrs Guthrie, an elderly widow, smiled apologetically. ‘Mr Audley was charming, but obviously a very busy young man, so our little domestic concerns may have slipped his mind.’

Well, thank you, Tony, Harriet thought furiously. You might have warned me I was clearing up one of Jon Audley’s messes. And in the morning I shall send that—charmer—an e-mail that will make his nose bleed.

As she went home, still seething, it occurred to her that she’d been sidelined a fair bit over the past couple of weeks—assigned to cope with details rather than the big picture. Or was she just being paranoid?

Whatever, she needed to regain some of the ground she appeared to have lost, or at this rate she might find herself being sent out at lunchtimes to pick up the sandwiches.

Thinking of food reminded her of how little she’d had to eat that day, and that even less awaited her in the fridge at home.

Perhaps it was just hunger that was prompting this uneasy, restless feeling, and a good meal would have her firing on all cylinders again. Maybe even celebrating her victory over Gracemead, which had somehow become relegated to the back of her mind.

She stopped off at her local branch of a popular restaurant chain, where she ordered herself a fillet steak with fries and all the trimmings, including a glass of red wine, and followed this up with a slice of lemon meringue pie served with thick cream, and two cups of strong coffee.

She felt more contented when she arrived back at the flat. And she’d be better still once she’d taken a relaxing bath. She might even feel like tackling her report on the tenants’ grievances, to present to Tony in the morning. Make him see she was a force to be reckoned with.

The sunset glow was already fading from the sky, so she closed the blinds in the living room and lit a couple of lamps before making for her bathroom with a sigh of anticipation, discarding her clothing as she went.