Bridegrooms Required: One Bridegroom Required / One Wedding Required / One Husband Required. Sharon Kendrick

be back,’ Luke said, realising to his surprise that he meant it.

      ‘So what can I do you for?’ quizzed Doug. ‘House okay?’

      ‘The house is fine. Beautiful, in fact.’ He paused. ‘I’m not ringing about the house.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Does the name Holly Lovelace ring a bell?’

      There was a low whistling noise down the phone.

      ‘Reddish hair and big green eyes? Legs that go on for ever? Breasts you could spend the rest of your life dreaming about? Just taken over the lease of the vacant shop?’ laughed Doug raucously. ‘Tell me about her!’

      Luke’s skin chilled and he was filled with an uncharacteristic urge to do violence. ‘Is it customary to speak about leaseholders in such an over-familiar manner?’ he asked coldly.

      Doug clearly did not have the most sensitive antennae in the world. ‘Well, no,’ he admitted breezily. ‘Not usually. But then they don’t usually look like Holly Lovelace.’ His voice deepened. ‘Mind you—not that I think she’s much of a goer—’

      ‘I’m sorry?’ Luke spoke with all the iced disapproval and disbelief he could muster.

      ‘Well, she’s got that kind of wild and free look—know what I mean? Wears those floaty kind of dresses—but oddly enough she was as prim as a nun the day I took her to lunch.’

      ‘You took her out to lunch?’ Luke demanded incredulously.

      ‘Sure. Can you blame me?’

      Luke ignored the question. ‘And do you do that with all prospective leaseholders?’

      ‘Well, no, actually.’ Doug gave a nervous laugh. ‘But, like I said, she’s not someone you’d forget in a hurry.’

      Luke forced himself to concentrate on the matter in hand, and not on how much he was going to enjoy firing his land agent once he had found a suitable replacement. ‘What do you think of the current condition of the property, Doug?’

      Another nervous laugh. ‘It’s been empty for ages.’

      ‘I’m not surprised, and that doesn’t really answer my question—what do you think of the condition?’

      ‘It’s basic,’ Doug admitted. ‘But that’s why she got it so cheap—’

      ‘Basic? The place is a slum! The roof in the upstairs flat is leaking,’ he said coldly. ‘Were you aware?’

      ‘I knew there—’

      ‘The window-frames are ill-fitting and the furniture looks like it’s been salvaged from the local dump,’ interrupted Luke savagely. ‘I want everything fixed that can be fixed, and replaced if it can’t. And I want it done yesterday!’

      ‘But that’s going to cost you money!’ objected Doug. ‘A lot of money.’

      ‘I’d managed to work that out for myself,’ drawled Luke.

      ‘And it’s going to eat into your profit margins, Luke.’

      Luke kept his voice low. ‘I don’t make profit on other people’s misery or discomfort,’ he said. ‘And I don’t want a woman staying in a flat that is cold and damp. If she gets cold or gets sick, then it isn’t going to be on my conscience. Got that?’

      ‘Er—got it,’ said Doug, and began to chew on a fingernail.

      ‘How soon can it be done?’

      Doug thought of local decorators who owed him; carpenters who would be pleased to work for the new owner of Apson House. Maybe it was time to call in a few favours. And he suspected that his job might be on the line if he didn’t come up with something sharpish. ‘I can have it fixed in under a month!’ he hazarded wildly.

      ‘Not good enough!’ Luke snapped.

      ‘But good craftsmen get booked up ages in advance,’ objected Doug.

      ‘Then pay them enough so that they’ll unbook!’

      ‘Er—right. Would a fortnight be okay?’

      ‘Is that a definite?’

      ‘I’ll make sure it is,’ promised Doug nervously.

      ‘Just do that!’ And Luke put the phone down roughly in its cradle.

      Holly washed out the two mugs she and Luke had used, put them on the drainer to dry, then set about trying to make the place halfway habitable before all the thin afternoon light faded from the sky.

      The ‘hot’ water was more tepid than hot, so she boiled up a kettle, added the water to plenty of disinfectant and cleaning solution in a bucket, and began to wipe down all the surfaces in the kitchen. Next she scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom, until her fingers were sore and aching and she thought she’d better stop. Her hands were her livelihood and she had to look after them.

      She sat back on her heels on the scruffy linoleum floor and wondered how many kettles of water it would take to fill the bath. Too many! she thought ruefully. She had better start boiling now, and make her bed up while she was waiting.

      She gathered together clean sheets and pillowcases and took them into the bedroom, and was just about to make a start when she noticed a dark patch on the mattress and bent over to examine it. Closer inspection revealed that it was nothing more sinister than water from a tiny leak in the ceiling, but she couldn’t possibly sleep on a damp mattress—which left the floor.

      She bit her lip, trying not to feel pathetic, but she was close to tears and it was no one’s fault but her own. Not only had she stupidly rented a flat which looked like a slum, but she had brought very little in the way of entertainment with her, and even the light was too poor to sew by. The only book in her possession was some depressing prize-winner she had been given as a present before she left, and a long Sunday evening yawned ahead of her. And now she couldn’t even crash out at the earliest opportunity because the bed was uainhabitable!

      So, did she start howling her eyes out and opt for sleeping on the floor? Or did she start acting like a modern, independent woman, and take Luke Goodwin up on his offer of a bed?

      Without giving herself time to change her mind, she pulled on a sweater, bundled on a waterproof jacket, and set off to find him.

      Luke was sitting at the desk in the first-floor study, working on some of his late uncle’s papers, when a movement caught his attention, and he started with guilty pleasure, his eyes focussing in the gloomy light as he saw Holly walk through the leafy arch towards his house.

      He watched her closely. With her long legs striding out in blue denim, she looked the epitome of the modern, determined woman. And so at odds with the fragility of her features, the wild copper confusion of the hair which the winter wind had whipped up in a red storm around her face.

      He ran downstairs and pulled the front door open before she’d even had time to knock. He saw that she was white-faced with fatigue, and the dark smudges underneath the eyes matched the dusty marks which were painted on her cheeks like a clown. Again, that unwanted feeling of protectiveness kicked in like a mule. That and desire.

      For a split second he felt the strongest urge to just shut the door in her face, telling himself that he was perfectly within his rights to do so. That he owed her nothing. But then her dark lashes shuddered down over the slanting emerald eyes and he found himself stepping back like a footman

      ‘Changed your mind about staying?’ he asked softly, though he noticed that she carried no overnight bag.

      ‘I had it changed for me,’ she told him unsteadily. ‘And you’re right—it is a dump! There’s no hot water, there’s a big patch of damp on the mattress and springs sticking through it! And before you point anything else out, I admit I should have checked it out better—insisted it be cleaned out before my arrival, or something. And I came ill prepared. No radio,