Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

get them out in as normal a fashion as possible. ‘Will your girlfriend be there?’ she asked baldly.

      There was a significant pause. Then, ‘No. No girlfriend,’ he murmured, and added hatefully, ‘Do you have a special reason for asking, Romy?’

      Romy counted to ten. ‘Your love-life is of no concern whatsoever to me, Dominic,’ she told him loftily. ‘It’s just that in the past I’ve discovered that women who are in a relationship with the host find it somewhat intimidating if a party planner comes in and effectively plays the part of hostess. They see it as a sort of usurpation of their role.’

      ‘Especially if the party planner has blonde hair and huge brown eyes and the kind of bones a sculptor would drool at the mouth to re-create?’ he questioned.

      Romy looked at the receiver she was holding in her hand and blinked, as though she couldn’t quite believe what she had just heard. ‘My looks have nothing to do with it!’

      He laughed. ‘A rather naive assumption, if I might say so. But don’t worry—there won’t be anyone there who will feel in the least bit threatened by you, Romy. Meanwhile, I’ll fax over everything you need first thing tomorrow.’

      ‘I presume you’ve already booked the caterers?’ queried Romy.

      ‘I have. They came very highly recommended by Triss Alexander—my next-door-neighbour.’

      The name rang a distinct bell. Romy racked her brains and remembered the statuesque redhead who had graced the covers of so many glossy magazines. Though not lately, she realised, wondering why. ‘Triss Alexander—the model?’ she queried.

      ‘The very same.’

      ‘What’s she like?’

      ‘She’s lovely.’ His voice had softened. ‘You’ll meet her. She’ll be joining us.’

      ‘Oh.’ Romy found her heart sinking with an odd kind of disappointment she didn’t even dare to analyse. Maybe when he’d said his girlfriend wouldn’t be coming what he’d meant was that she wasn’t actually his girlfriend yet. And Triss Alexander might be an international model, and one of the most beautiful women in the world, but Dominic was easily in her league.

      ‘In the meantime, I’ll be in Ireland until the Friday of the party,’ he was saying. ‘I’m flying out tomorrow morning. You can always reach me by phone or fax. Can I leave everything in your capable hands until then?’

      ‘Of course you can,’ answered Romy. ‘That’s what you’re paying me for!’

      There was an odd pause. ‘Until next Friday, then. I won’t be back until late afternoon.’ There was another pause, even lengthier this time. ‘Goodnight, Romy,’ he said at last.

      ‘Goodnight, Dominic.’

      It was odd how depressing she found it to hear him say goodbye.

      With a heavy heart, Romy put the phone down.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      BY THE Friday of the party, Romy felt far more in control of her emotions.

      OK, she reasoned as she drove through the massive gates of St Fiacre’s Hill, so she might witness Dominic ‘getting off’ with Triss Alexander. She might even stumble upon them kissing or—far worse—catch Dominic creeping stealthily out of her bedroom.

      But so what?

      It might hurt like hell—and Romy was determined to face the fact that it probably would—but at least she would be forced to confront it. And she would get over it

      People did.

      People had their hearts broken all the time and lived to face another day. People, moreover, who had shared far more than a passionate and illicit encounter in a broken-down lift!

      As well as having a set of his housekeys sent over by courier, Dominic had faxed the guest list to her, and she had found it difficult to understand. Or rather she had been unable to work out just who was partnering whom.

      Apart from the Baileys—both senior and junior—no one else seemed to be married. Or, if they were, then the women were all very liberated, since none of them had adopted their husband’s surnames.

      The party consisted of Dominic, the Baileys senior, the Baileys junior, Lola Hennessy, Geraint Howell-Williams, Cormack Casey and Triss Alexander. Cormack Casey—the scriptwriter—was the only person she had heard of, apart from Triss, and the last person on the list was Romy herself.

      So Dominic was including her in the guest list, was he? People often did. They seemed to find it socially more acceptable if the party planner was masquerading as a guest, rather than looking like the paid help! And Romy could more than hold her own in any company.

      Perhaps she had been expecting Dominic to have her slaving away in the background, wearing an apron and a frilly hat and tripping around with a little tray, serving drinks!

      Romy zoomed down the winding drive towards Dominic’s house, and when she finally drew up outside the warm, red-brick building she sat there quietly for a moment or two, just breathing in the delicious scents of his summer garden.

      Had he lived here long? she wondered.

      It was an awfully big house for a single man to own. Even a man who entertained lavishly—which Dominic clearly did not, judging by his conversation in the restaurant. Had he bought it as a prospective family home—and was that where Triss Alexander came in?

      Romy watched her knuckles whitening as she clutched the steering wheel like a lifeline, and realised that it was actually painful to think of Dominic with another woman. And it was that pain which made her mind up for her.

      Because perhaps she needed to see Dominic with another woman, if only to make her forget him once and for all.

      Romy jumped out of the car and then had to remind herself to move slowly, the way they did in naturally hot countries.

      The heatwave had shown no signs of abating, and it was a swelteringly hot day. She was wearing a white linen shift dress which came to halfway down her thighs, but even so she was still hot.

      She tugged a straw hat down over her head and had just started inspecting the flowerbeds with a view to filling the house with flowers when she heard someone throatily call, “Hello!”

      Romy looked up, her smile instinctively becoming fixed and forced.

      A young woman whose height was almost as exceptional as her bone-structure was walking towards her. She was dressed for tennis in a simple white skirt and T-shirt—worn with the casual air of one who was used to designer gowns but who nevertheless could wear a dress made of sackcloth and still look like a million dollars!

      Her short red-brown hair held the subtle brightness of autumn leaves, and she gave a wide smile as she sashayed elegantly across the lawn towards Romy, who suddenly felt like a rag-bag in spite of the white linen dress.

      The woman held her hand out. ‘Hi! You must be Romy Salisbury, who creates such wonderful parties that people talk about them for months afterwards!’ she said. ‘I’m Triss Alexander.’

      ‘Yes, I know. Hello,’ said Romy woodenly. She had met more supermodels than most people, so why did she suddenly feel completely out of her depth? ‘I recognised you straight away, of course, but Dominic also mentioned that you were joining his house party.’

      ‘Did he?’ Triss asked absently as she bent down to sniff at the centre of a huge yellow rose whose petals were tinged with pink. ‘Mmm! What a wonderful scent—I love it!’ She straightened up again and gave Romy a quizzical smile. ‘So have you got everything organised?’

      Was that a command? Romy wondered defensively.

      What if—despite her clearing it with Dominic—what if Triss started getting