Valentine's Day. Nicola Marsh

‘I’m going to have to go. World War Three is erupting. Let me know what you decide.’

      Moments later, Georgia thumbed the disconnect button on her mobile and dropped it onto her plump sofa.

      No surprises there, really. Of course Kelly would take the money. And the opportunity. She’d come so close to being robbed of life—and her boys of a mother—she was fully in marrow-sucking mode. And she was right—there really was nothing else going on in Georgia’s life that a bunch of new activities would interrupt.

      Her objections lay, not with the time commitment, but with the implication that she was broken. Deficient.

      About as much fun as Dan. Did Kelly know what an indictment that really was? Mr Serious?

      So that was three for three in favour. Kelly and her gran both thought it would be good for her and her mother...well, what else would a woman incapable of managing her money or her impulses say?

      Which was part of the problem. Truth be told, Georgia had nothing against the idea of a bit of self-development of the social kind. She wanted to be a well-rounded person and maybe she had gone a bit too hard down the other path these past years. But the pitch of her mother’s excited squeal was directly and strikingly proportional to her level of discomfort at the idea of frittering away fifty thousand perfectly good pounds—no matter how free—on meaningless, fluffy activity.

      Her mother would have spent it in a week. Just as she spent every penny they ever had. They’d bounced through seven public houses before her gran called a halt and took a thirteen-year-old Georgia in with her.

      And then it would be gone, with nothing to show for it but a fuller wardrobe, a liver in need of detox and a sleep debt the size of Wales.

      She stretched out and pulled the well-thumbed EROS contract into her lap. It had her lawyer’s recommendation paper-clipped to the front.

      Sign, he said. And attached his invoice.

      So that was four for four. Five if you counted the handsome and persuasive Zander Rush.

      And only one against.

       THREE

      March

      Zander’s assistant made an appointment right at the end of his day for her to sign the contract and so walking back into EROS was only half as intimidating as it might have been if it were full of staff.

      An oblivious night-guard had just sat down at Reception instead of the two gossipy girls she’d met there the first time she visited, and most of the workstations in the communal area were closed down for the evening. Georgia clutched a printout of Zander’s new contract in her hand and quietly trailed his assistant past the handful of people still beavering away at their desks. Most of them didn’t raise their heads.

      Maybe she was yesterday’s news already.

      Or maybe public interest had just swung around to Dan, instead, now that the calendar had flipped over to March. Drop Dead Dan. Apparently, he was fielding a heap of interest from the women’s magazines and the tabloids, all determined to find him a match more acceptable than she. More worthy. London now thought he was too good for her. Not that he’d put it like that—or ever would have—but she could read between the lines. She didn’t dare read the actual lines.

      She shifted in her seat outside Zander’s office.

      Behind the frosted-glass doors, an elevated voice protested strenuously. There was a low murmur where the shouted response should have been and then a final, higher-pitch burst. Moments later one of the two doors flung open and a man emerged—flushed, rushed—and stormed past her. He glanced her way.

      ‘A lamb to the bloody slaughter,’ he murmured, a bit too loud to have been accidental, before storming down the corridor and into one of the studios off to one side. She followed his entire progress.

      ‘Georgia.’ A smooth voice dragged her focus back to the doors.

      She straightened, stood. Reached out her hand. The tiniest of frowns crossed Zander’s face before he enclosed her hand in his and shook it. His fingers were as warm and lingering as last time. And still pleasingly firm. ‘I was beginning to think we’d never see you again.’

      ‘I had to think it over.’ And over. Looking for any reasonable way out. And avoiding the whole thing, really.

      ‘And?’

      She sighed. ‘And here I am.’

      He stood back and signalled at his assistant, who was politely keeping her eyes averted, but not so much that she didn’t immediately decode and acknowledge his signal. Did that little finger-twiddle mean, Hold my calls? Bring us coffee? Or maybe, If she’s not out in five minutes interrupt me with something fake but important.

      Perhaps the latter if the furrows above his brow were any indication. He didn’t look all that pleased to see her. So maybe she really had taken too long with the contract.

      ‘I needed to be sure I understood what you were asking.’ Ugh, way too defensive.

      His eyes finally found hers and they didn’t carry a hint of judgement. ‘And do you?’

      She waved the sheaf of papers. ‘All signed.’

      A disproportional amount of relief washed across his face. He sat back in his expensive chair.

      She tipped her head. ‘You weren’t expecting that?’ She hated the thought that maybe there’d been more room for negotiation after all. She hated being played.

      ‘I’ve learned never to try and anticipate the actions of people.’ His eyes drifted to the door where the man had just stormed out.

      ‘I had one question...’

      The relief vanished and was replaced by speculation. ‘Sure.’

      ‘It’s about the interviews. Is that really necessary? It seems very formal.’

      ‘We just need an idea of who you are, so we know what we’re starting with.’

      ‘By filling out a questionnaire? I thought maybe if I had coffee with your assistant, told her a bit about myself—’

      ‘Not Casey. She’s not subjective enough.’

      ‘Because she’s a woman?’

      ‘Because she’s a card-carrying member of Team Georgia.’

      Oh. How nice to have at least one person in her corner.

      ‘Unless you were angling for a free lunch?’

      She glared at him. ‘Yes. Because all of this would be totally worth it if only I could get a free bowl of soup out of you.’

      His scowl moderated into a half-smile.

      ‘What about one of your other minions,’ she tried.

      His eyebrows shot up. ‘Minions?’

      ‘You have an assistant to do your bidding. And that man leaving just now didn’t look like a man who enjoyed fair and equal status in his workplace.’

      His frown deepened. ‘I don’t have minions. I do have staff.’

      ‘Then any one of your staff.’

      He studied her across the desk. ‘No. Not one of my staff.’

      She sighed. ‘I’d really rather not do a questionnaire, Zander. It’s too impersonal.’ And a little bit insulting. As though a computer could tell her what was missing in her life when she was still struggling to work that out.

      ‘Not one of my staff and not a form.’

      ‘Then what?’

      ‘Me.’

      ‘You what?’

      ‘I’ll