The Billionaire Boss's Innocent Bride. Lindsay Armstrong

she warned herself not to get fanciful.

      She’d redecorated the house herself gradually, using white for the walls to show off the interesting artefacts and pictures gathered from all over the world in her earlier life.

      There was a lovely kelim rug hanging on one wall of the lounge and she’d made the covers of her scatter cushions for her ruby settee from songket, hand-woven Malay fabric threaded with silver and gold, that she’d bought in a market in Kuantan.

      It had been a wonderful life, her earlier life. Not only had her father achieved consul status in the diplomatic service, but she’d grown up sharing both her parents’ interest in scholarly pursuits. She’d also inherited their talent for languages.

      Then it had all come crashing down.

      Her parents had been killed in a train crash a long way from home. She probably would have been on the train herself if it hadn’t been decided she should complete her last couple of years of schooling in Australia. It had been a life-saving decision, although it had been hard to handle at the time; it had also been a wise one. She’d made some long-term friends close to home who had been denied to her in her globe-trotting childhood.

      So she hadn’t been entirely alone and, of course, there’d been her father’s cousin, the Mother Superior of her convent.

      But as the only child of only-child parents, whose own parents had all passed away, it had been a crushing blow. And although out of the tragedy a habit of fortitude and independence had grown, she still, in her innermost moments, suffered from it. She told herself it was foolish to fear getting too close to anyone in case they too were wrenched from her, but that cold little fear persisted.

      And she knew it was why she was fancy-free at twenty-one, and wondered if she’d always be the same.

      But she had been fortunate to inherit that fairly substantial nest egg and to be able to put herself through university and, later, acquire her house and finally put her convent days behind her. Not that she’d found them a trial.

      When she’d finished school and gone straight on to university, she’d been taken on as a lay member of the staff and in return had helped out with the younger boarders. She was handy with kids, especially tearful, a-long-way-from-home ones, probably because she’d been through a lot of school changes and scene changes herself.

      And it had been quite a change, moving into her flat after convent life even as a lay member of the community where one could never be lonely or idle. But after the first sense of disorientation, she’d grown to value her very own space and the things she could do with it.

      She was also fortunate to have a congenial neighbour. Patti Smith was an energetic widow in her late fifties and she was fun to be with. They looked after each other’s gardens, mail and so on when either of them were away. Patti, a former nurse, was now retired.

      Alex put her keys down on the dining-room table, her bags on the settee and moved around, switching on a couple of lamps.

      In the warm soft light the room looked peaceful and inviting, and it brought her a special pleasure to know that she’d bought some of the furniture second-hand and restored it herself.

      She slipped her boots and several layers of clothing off, although she’d reduced some of what she’d been wearing while shopping, and took a shower. Then she padded through to the kitchen, which was possibly her greatest triumph.

      She’d transformed it from a dark and dingy nightmare to light and white with open-fronted shelves to show off her colourful crockery and basket containers.

      She made herself a cup of tea and a sandwich, and carried it all through to the bedroom where she emptied her carrier bags onto her bed.

      She looked down at the pile and thought with a tinge of irony that she might have been a restraining influence but the clothes were lovely all the same. Margaret Winston might have accepted her suggestion that she shouldn’t outshine the guests, that perhaps dark colours and simple lines would be the most suitable, but she’d insisted on the best quality available.

      Alex had quailed inwardly at the prices, but Margaret had confided that they’d be but a drop in the ocean for Max Goodwin.

      The result was beautiful materials, linen, silks, fine wools and crêpes. There were three pairs of new shoes and sets of exquisite underwear.

      But a frown grew in her eyes as she stared down at it all. Very lovely, but quite different from her normal attire. Would the flair to wear them come from them? she wondered.

      Then a strange little thought struck her. How would Max Goodwin view her in these elegant clothes?

      To her amazement she felt her pulse beat a little heavily at the thought, and she had to take several deep breaths. She had also to remind herself that she needed to be very, very professional in her dealings with him…

      The next day seemed to fly past.

      The cocktail party was to be held in the penthouse, starting at six p.m. but Margaret Winston had asked her to be there by five-thirty. In the meantime, she did have a bevy of appointments and there’d been a message from Simon on her answering machine requesting her to pop in and see him.

      But before she went anywhere, her neighbour Patti popped in for a few minutes.

      ‘Knock, knock! I peeked, I cannot deny it, although I wasn’t going to admit it,’ she said dramatically, ‘but I’m dying of curiosity! Who was the gorgeous man who brought you home in a Bentley, no less, last night?’

      Alex had to laugh. ‘My new boss,’ she explained. ‘My very temporary boss, so don’t get your hopes up.

      Patti sighed regretfully, then she brightened. ‘You never know!’

      At midday, Alex stared at herself in something like disbelief.

      The foils had come out of her hair, it had been trimmed, washed and blow-dried and the result was rather incredible. Not only that, her eyebrows had been neatened, her lashes had been tinted and her nails manicured.

      But most of all it was her hair that amazed her. No longer mousey and unmanageable, wheat-fair highlights had lifted the colour, it now had body, bounce and shape as its slight tendency to curl had been taken advantage of.

      ‘Like it?’ Mr Roger, the hairdresser, enquired.

      Alex swung her head and watched her hair sway elegantly. ‘It’s—I can’t believe it. But—’ she turned to him urgently ‘—I won’t be able to keep it looking like this!’

      ‘Of course you will!’ he replied, looking a little hurt. ‘It’s all in the cut and what I cut stays cut until the next cut, believe me. And you can still tie it back, put it in bunches, whatever! Mary,’ he called to the make-up girl over his shoulder, ‘let’s do her face. Really go for the eyes, talk about amazing, they are!’ He turned back to Alex. ‘And please don’t tell me you’re going to wear those glasses, lovey, because I couldn’t bear it!’

      ‘I won’t,’ Alex promised with a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t dare—I’ve brought my contacts.’

      He patted her shoulder. ‘Anyway, come in and get it combed before any of your big “do’s” if you’d like to.’

      ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Simon Wellford said and dropped his pen as Alex slid into a chair across his desk. ‘I mean—’

      ‘It’s OK!’ Alex smiled at him sympathetically and explained rather humorously about the makeover she’d undergone. ‘I got a bit of a shock myself,’ she added. ‘To think, I’ve been battling with my hair for as long as I can remember and all it needed was one man to cut it, style it, and colour it. Mind you,’ she confided, ‘it cost an arm and a leg.’

      ‘It’s not only your hair.’ Simon’s gaze took in her carefully made-up face. ‘It’s your face and—no glasses now. It’s amazing. Although—’ his gaze dropped lower ‘—same kind of clothes.’

      ‘Ah.