Reform Of The Playboy. Mary Lyons

      Sophie gave a snort of grim laughter. ‘Which is precisely why it’s time you had a new boyfriend. Someone with a bit of life in them; someone reasonably good-looking and with a sense of humour. In fact, all the qualities that George totally lacks!

      ‘Yes, I know,’ she continued quickly as Harriet opened her mouth to protest. ‘I know your parents think he’s great. And that you regard him as a nice, safe escort—who’s not going to give you any hassle. Believe me,’ Sophie added with a laugh, ‘I’ve absolutely nothing against rich bankers. The more the merrier, as far as I’m concerned! But George really is heavy. And a lovely girl like you could do a whole lot better.’

      Harriet glared down at her old schoolfriend. ‘Have you been drinking? I’m only asking,’ she drawled sarcastically, ‘because I’ve noticed that you always start having a go about poor old George when you’ve been lunching at one of those expensive local restaurants—supposedly chatting up your clients.’

      Sophie giggled. ‘Yes, as it happens, I did have a very good lunch at 192,’ she agreed cheerfully.

      But, while she probably had drunk far too much wine at lunch, she was still totally convinced that her oldest and dearest friend badly needed rescuing from George Harding. Unfortunately, despite explaining until she was blue in the face that if Harriet had decided she was frigid it was definitely George’s fault, not hers, she couldn’t seem to get her friend to listen to the message.

      I know that I’m right, Sophie told herself, gazing up at the girl who towered over her own diminutive figure. With that luminous, pale alabaster skin, surrounded by a thick mane of deep red hair, Harriet could have stepped straight out of one of those Pre-Raphaelite paintings by Burne-Jones or William Morris. It was a crying shame that such unusual, startling beauty should be thrown away on her current, extremely dull boyfriend.

      ‘Well, I don’t think either of us are likely to meet “Mr Wonderful” at this sort of party,’ Harriet muttered as they entered the large room.

      ‘You never know who’s going to turn up—especially at a function which is being hosted by a film company,’ Sophie told her impatiently. ‘I gather they’re throwing a post-production party for everyone who’s been helping them on the movie. So relax—OK?’

      It’s very far from being ‘OK,’ Harriet told herself, grimly eyeing the interior of the large space as Sophie began steering an unsteady course towards the bar.

      She had no problem with the restaurant’s avant-garde decor—which had clearly been designed on the theme of a modern chemist’s shop: its windows outside lined with rows of pharmaceutical products, and the white-topped tables and stools in the shape of aspirins. But, after having to deal with builders all day, Harriet had been looking forward to a quiet evening, chatting over a bottle of wine with her old friend. Not mixing with a crowd of highly fashionable and glamorous strangers, all dressed up to the nines—and shouting at one another at the top of their voices.

      Well over an hour later, Harriet had been given little cause to change her mind. Pinned in a corner of the room by a highly unattractive man, she found herself looking desperately around for an avenue of escape.

      There was, of course, no sign of Sophie, who was probably busy chatting up some exciting film star, Harriet told herself glumly, bitterly aware that both her own height and colouring placed her at a distinctive disadvantage.

      This bar and restaurant might be absolutely the ‘in’ thing at the moment—but so also, it seemed, were petite, stick-thin blondes. Which meant that no one was likely to be interested in a girl who stood six foot in her stockinged feet, possessed a reasonably slim figure but with curves in all the right places, and whose head was crowned by a mass of thick fiery-red hair.

      Ignoring the drink in her hand—an evil-looking blue cocktail, which was probably highly toxic—Harriet stared over the shoulder of the man, who was still droning on about ‘camera angles’ and ‘light meters,’ towards a group in the far corner.

      Well, at least they seemed to be having fun, she thought glumly, viewing the clutch of amazingly beautiful girls, all gaily laughing their heads off and flicking their long blonde hair—clearly trying to catch the notice of a man in their midst.

      The lighting was far too dim to make out his features, but if he was attracting that amount of attention there was a good chance that he was likely to be drop-dead gorgeous. Which was definitely not the case with the man who’d now got her pinned her in the corner—and who seemed determined to bore for Britain.

      ‘Ah, there you are!’ Sophie cried, suddenly materialising from the thick crowd around the bar. ‘Come along—there’s someone I want you to meet.’

      ‘That’s the best news I heard all evening,’ Harriet muttered, thankfully allowing herself to be dragged away from the corner where she’d been trapped. ‘I’d just about given up all hope of rescue, and was getting ready to go home.’

      ‘Oh, come on—loosen up! That man you were with didn’t look all that bad,’ Sophie said, charging up to the bar and ordering two glasses of champagne.

      ‘Are you kidding? He had all the attraction of a dead fish!’

      Sophie giggled. ‘Well, I’ve managed to chat up one or two quite handsome guys.’

      ‘Good for you,’ Harriet muttered, taking a sip of champagne. ‘As far as I can see, most of the men here seem to be either fat, rich and boring—or slim, gay and unavailable.’

      ‘I know what you mean, but I guess that’s show business,’ her friend agreed with a sigh. ‘Still, the man I want you to meet is definitely into women. In fact, not only is he absolutely gorgeous and as rich as Croesus—but he’s not married! How about that?’

      ‘Oh, yeah? So, what’s the catch?’

      ‘There isn’t one,’ Sophie assured her earnestly. ‘He’s just about perfect.’

      ‘Do me a favour!’ Harriet retorted with a grim laugh. ‘No one is that perfect! There must be something wrong with him. So what is it? Has he got the Mother from Hell? Is his current girlfriend the Fiend from Outer Space? Is he a transvestite, or…?’

      ‘Absolutely not!’

      ‘Well…?’

      ‘No, honestly—I’m not kidding,’ Sophie protested. ‘He’s really great.’

      ‘Oh, yeah?’ Harriet snorted with derision. ‘If this guy is so “great”—why haven’t you snapped him up? It’s not like you to be backward in coming forward, is it?’

      ‘Thanks!’

      Harriet laughed. ‘Come on—spill the beans.’

      ‘I am telling the truth,’ Sophie assured her earnestly. ‘And he really is currently available. Which is why I think I might be in with a chance. Well, I probably will be…just as soon as he moves into that second-floor flat of yours.’

      ‘What…?’ Harriet gazed at her in disbelief. ‘You must be joking.’

      ‘No, really—it’s a great idea.’

      ‘For heaven’s sake, Sophie—are you out of your mind? You know the builders only moved out today. I mean…’ She gave a helpless shrug. ‘Quite apart from anything else, the paint hasn’t even had time to dry.’

      ‘But I’ve worked it all out, and— Oh, my goodness! There’s Declan Malone, the famous TV reporter, and his new wife Olivia,’ Sophie exclaimed excitedly. ‘I must just try and have a quick word with him,’ she added, slipping off her high bar stool. ‘If I can maybe persuade them to sell their house, I’ve got at least two clients who’d be willing to snap it up straight away.’

      Harriet sighed and shook her head. She was having difficulty getting used to her old schoolfriend’s metamorphosis into ‘Little Miss Fix-It.’ In fact, when introducing Sophie to the estate agent who’d been handling the sale