Reform Of The Playboy

So, he’s outrageously handsome—so what? Harriet told herself firmly, quickly putting as much distance between herself and Mr Maclean as possible before leading the way down into the lower ground floor kitchen area.

But she was still feeling distinctly unsettled, totally unable to explain the slightly sick feeling in her stomach as she moved over to the far side of the room. Turning around to lean against the sink beneath the large window, she listened as the estate agent began explaining the benefits of possessing such a large, semi-underground area in a house of this size.

‘…and, of course, if you’re still thinking of making this into a separate flat,’ he was saying, ‘it’s clearly ideal for what you have in mind. Lots of light and space, and—’

‘But you can’t do that!’ Harriet was astonished to find herself saying with some vehemence, suddenly upset to think of her aunt’s house being split up into apartments.

‘Oh, really…?’ Mr Maclean drawled sardonically, turning slowly around to face the girl standing on the far side of the room.

Almost as if he was clearly viewing her for the first time, he stared at the tall, slim figure, bathed in a warm glow from the light streaming in through the window, her long red hair, tied at the back of her neck by a dark blue ribbon, seeming to burst into fiery life beneath the strong rays of the late-afternoon sun.

Still astonished at her instinctive outburst, Harriet found herself feeling even more confused as the tall man began moving slowly and determinedly across the room towards her.

‘And exactly what makes you think that I can’t convert this basement—or any other floor of this house, for that matter?’ he asked in a cool, bland voice as he came to a halt in front of her nervous figure.

Having been virtually ignored during his tour of the house, Harriet felt distinctly flustered to find herself subjected to the full force of this man’s attention. The strong, intelligent gleam in his large blue eyes, which seemed to be boring into her skull, was not only highly disturbing but was also having a strange effect on her legs, which suddenly felt weak and wobbly.

Leaning for support back against the hard white porcelain sink, she struggled to pull herself together. Why on earth was she behaving in such a stupid, infantile way? She must have met hundreds of other guys, almost as good-looking as this one. So why let him get to her? It was still her house, wasn’t it? So, as far as she was concerned, he could take a running jump, she told herself firmly, before taking a deep breath and lifting her chin aggressively towards him.

‘I’m selling a house. Not a block of flats,’ she told him, dismayed to hear her normally firm, clear voice sounding unusually shrill and defensive. ‘I’m sure my aunt would hate to think of her old home being cut up into small apartments and sold off piecemeal—like you seem to be thinking of doing.’

There was a long silence as he stared at her intently for a moment, his expression giving no hint of what was going through his mind.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Miss Wentworth,’ he drawled sardonically, at last breaking the oppressive silence which seemed to have settled on the large room. ‘But I wasn’t aware that I’d discussed my plans with you…?’ he added with heavy sarcasm.

‘No, of course you haven’t,’ she retorted, deeply resenting being treated as though she was an impertinent child, daring to question her elders and betters. ‘But I’m not prepared to sell my aunt’s home to anyone who’s intending to cut it up and sell it off in bits,’ she added stubbornly.

‘Well, I don’t really see what you can do about it,’ he told her in a slightly amused, condescending tone of voice, which set her teeth on edge. ‘In fact—since this building was granted full planning permission for sub-division into apartments only three years ago—I fail to see how you can stop any purchaser from doing exactly as they want with the property.’

‘What…?’ Harriet stared past him at the estate agent, who’d been standing nervously across the room while this acrimonious exchange had been taking place. ‘I never knew my aunt had thought of splitting up this house. Why didn’t you tell me about the planning permission?’ she demanded angrily.

‘I didn’t know myself. Not until the other day, that is,’ Mr Evans told her with a slight shrug. ‘It was only when I was checking up on any possible boundary disputes that it came to light. Still, there’s no need to worry,’ he added, clearly in an attempt to pour oil on troubled waters. ‘It will, after all, make this house far more saleable.’

‘But…but it’s not just a house—it’s a home!’ Harriet wailed, not caring if she sounded childish. ‘I thought that there would be a family living here, enjoying the garden and…’ Her voice trailed away as she realised that she was succeeding in doing nothing but make an utter fool of herself.

‘Well, there you go.’ The estate agent shrugged, before brightly asking whether Mr Maclean would like to look over some of the rooms once again.

However, as Harriet trailed disconsolately behind the two men up to the raised ground floor, before leaving them to explore the rest of the house on their own, she only had one thought in her mind. She would never—under any circumstances—sell this house to that totally hateful man, Mr Maclean. She didn’t yet know how she could put a stop to his plans. But, come hell or high water, she was going to make damn sure that he never managed to get his hands on this house.

Unfortunately, despite cudgelling her brains, and coming up with a hundred and one highly impractical ideas over the next two weeks, Harriet had completely failed to find a solution to her problem.

Since her aunt—maybe because she’d been feeling lonely in her old age?—had gained permission to turn her home into apartments, there seemed no sensible explanation why Harriet should care what happened to the house, one way or another.

However, the fact was that she did feel very strongly about the subject—and also about that loathsome man, as well. Who in the hell did he think he was? Probably just some rotten property developer, who clearly took pleasure in destroying beautiful buildings merely for profit, she told herself, a heavy weight of depression filling her mind one night, as she slowly slipped off to sleep.

She had no idea what caused her to wake up some hours later, in the middle of the night. But, as she found herself sitting bolt upright in bed, it seemed as though her brain had been working overtime. Because, entirely without any effort on her part, Harriet suddenly realised that she’d found the answer to all her problems. She wasn’t going to sell the house. She was going to live in it herself!

Scrambling out of bed, she ran barefoot through into the small adjoining sitting room, which could have easily fitted four times into the large drawing room of her aunt’s house. Grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil, she immediately sat down and started working on some figures.

If she converted the ground and first floor into a maisonette for herself, it would enable her to live in the house and—just as important—give her direct access into that wonderful garden. However, she could only afford to do that if she converted the basement, second, third and fourth floors into four separate flats.

So…OK…she would being doing almost the same as that horrid man Mr Maclean had planned to do. But the difference was that in her case she was going to be personally living in the house, and looking after it. So, providing she could find enough money to convert and rent her first apartment, it should be possible for her to afford to do the other remaining floors in the same way.

After scribbling furiously for some minutes, she stared down at the figures. Yes! If she was very careful, and watched every penny of her expenditure, she could just about do it. And, of course, the scheme did have one quite outstanding bonus: it would enable her to give up her job, which she’d come to thoroughly dislike, while she took a year off from work to see to the conversion. By that time she was bound to have decided what she really wanted to do with her life. And, with any luck, her home would prove to be at least self-supporting, if not bringing in some useful funds.

Excited by her new idea, she talked the idea over with her old schoolfriend, Sophie. The other girl not only agreed that it looked as if it might be the solution to all her problems—but she also astonished Harriet by asking if she could rent the lower-ground-floor flat.

‘I’m sick and tired of the dump I’m living in at the moment,’ she explained. ‘And when we were down in the basement, having a break while clearing up the house, it did just occur to me that it would make a great pad. I mean, there seemed bags of room, and it was very light. Besides, those ceilings have to be about eleven feet high—right? And with its own front door out into the street, I reckon it will make a perfect flat!’

Encouraged by Sophie’s enthusiasm for the project, Harriet immediately telephoned the estate agent. To her surprise, Mr Evans was remarkably understanding.

‘I can see you love that house,’ he said with a heavy sigh. ‘However, if you can live there and make it pay for itself—the best of luck to you.’

Which, since he’d just lost a hefty amount of commission on the sale, was really very generous of him, she told herself. Although she subsequently found herself taking a rather more jaundiced view of the estate agent, when she discovered that he’d been guilty of foolishly—or, perhaps, merely carelessly—giving her phone number to a very angry Mr Maclean.

‘You damned girl!’ he rasped down the phone. ‘Not only have you put me to a great deal of time and expense, checking the planning permission and laying on surveyors, but I never had any intention of turning that house of yours into a block of flats.’

‘Oh, yes, you did!’ she snapped. ‘I quite distinctly heard you discussing with the estate agent your proposal to make the lower ground floor into a separate apartment.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! That was simply to provide a home for my younger brother, Jack, who works abroad most of the year. I wanted him to have somewhere—a piece of his own space, if you like—when he returns to this country on vacation,’ he told her, his voice tight with exasperation. ‘I fully intended to retain the rest of the house for myself.’

‘Well, I’m sorry if you’re disappointed—’

‘You don’t sound at all sorry!’ he ground out angrily, clearly able to sense the wide grin on her face, even if he couldn’t see it in person. ‘In fact, if I didn’t believe in non-violence, I’d cheerfully wring your damned neck!’ he added grimly. ‘I really wanted that house.’

‘Well, that’s just your tough luck, isn’t it?’ she retorted, before quickly putting down the phone and putting an end to the acrimonious conversation.

And that, if there was any justice in this world, should have been the end of any contact between them, Harriet now told herself with a heavy sigh, gazing out over the lawn and trees of the moonlit garden. Trust Sophie—who always had been accident prone—to introduce a snake like Finn Maclean into her Garden of Eden!

As she rose to her feet and walked slowly back through the large sitting room into her bedroom, Harriet realised that she now had no choice. She was just going to have to tough it out. After all, Finn was only going to be renting the upstairs apartment for six months. So, with any luck—and a firm contract—she should be able to make sure that she saw as little of him as possible.

CHAPTER THREE

IF SHE had hoped to see virtually nothing of Finn, once he’d moved into her second-floor apartment, Harriet very soon realised that she’d been badly mistaken.

It could just be that men, on the whole, were far more demanding than women. Certainly she’d never had any problems with Sophie, whose occupancy of the lower-ground-floor flat now seemed angelic, when compared to the almost daily hassle and problems she experienced with Finn Maclean.

In fact, having taken a great deal of time and trouble over converting the second floor into a bright and cheerful one-bedroom flat—containing just about every modern convenience—she was now totally fed up with the constant stream of queries and complaints from the damned man.

No sooner had he moved in—and that alone had been a four-act play!—than he’d been down banging on her door and complaining that the washing machine and dishwasher weren’t working.

‘What do you mean “not working”?’ She’d frowned. ‘They’re brand-new, for heaven’s sake!’

Finn had merely given a cool shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘Whether the machines are new or old isn’t the point,’ he’d informed her flatly, before insisting that she do something—right away.

After ringing a plumber, who’d charged an arm and a leg just to call at the house, the problem had been very quickly sorted out.

‘The next time you want to use one of these machines in the kitchen—try putting in a plug and switching on the electricity,’ she’d stormed, refusing to see the funny side of the situation as she’d glared at Finn and the plumber, both doubled up with laughter.

‘Reading the instructions might not be a bad idea, either,’ she’d added, throwing the booklet on to the kitchen counter, before stumping furiously out of the flat behind the plumber, who had still been chuckling with amusement as he’d made his way down the stairs and out into the night.

But that had only been the beginning of what seemed like one long nightmare of continuous hassle, all emanating from the second floor.

There had been the case of the blocked sink—another visit from the plumber; the blown fuse—the electrician; an accidentally broken pane of glass in one of the windows—ditto the glazier. Not to mention the bath overflowing which, as Finn had confessed with a grin, had occurred while he’d been talking on the phone to a girlfriend.

‘I couldn’t care less about your private life!’ she’d ground out furiously. ‘Except that—thanks to you—this house seems to be paying for the plumber’s next Caribbean holiday.’

‘No problem,’ he’d assured her with a careless, dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Just have the bills sent to me.’

The fact that he’d cheerfully paid all the huge invoices presented by the tradesmen, didn’t seem to make up for the sheer inconvenience of having to arrange for them to call and sort out the various problems. Nor had she been amused by a huge consignment of champagne, arriving with no notice in the middle of the day and totally blocking the hallway. With the delivery man claiming to have a bad back, no prizes for guessing exactly who had found herself hauling the cases up the stairs, to the second-floor flat.

But those minor annoyances were as nothing to the constant noise and disturbance caused by a stream of beautiful female visitors, all laughing and chatting at the top of their voices as they made their way up and down the stairs to the second floor.

If Sophie fancies her chances with this man, I reckon she’s way out of luck, Harriet had told herself grimly, while letting in yet another young, slim, highly glamorous blonde, who’d pressed Harriet’s doorbell by mistake.

However, it had been Finn’s birthday party, last week, which had been just about the last straw.

‘You’ve got a lot to answer for!’ Harriet told Sophie accusingly, as she and Trish joined her for breakfast at Cullens, in Holland Park Avenue, the following Sunday morning.

‘Oh, Lord—what have I done now?’ Sophie grinned, ordering a cappuccino and a pain au chocolat before sinking down on to the red leather seat beside her.

‘It’s not you.’ Harriet gave a deep sigh. ‘It’s that damned boyfriend of yours. He’s driving me absolutely up the wall!’

‘Hmm…?’ Sophie muttered, her attention distracted for a moment as the waitress placed a cup of coffee in front of her. ‘That’s funny. I didn’t know that you’d met Rodney?’

‘Rodney?’ Harriet frowned in puzzlement for a moment, before giving a slight shrug. ‘I’m talking about Finn Maclean. Not only is he turning into one long headache—but after that birthday party of his, the night before last, I could cheerfully murder the awful man!’

Sophie laughed. ‘Oh, I’m not interested in Finn any more.’

‘What…?’

‘I went off him ages ago,’ Sophie told her airily, before taking a large bite of her chocolate croissant.

‘Do you mean to say…?’

‘I’ve got this new boyfriend now, called Rodney Granger. Not only does he own a travel agency, but he’s promised to take me off to the south of France in two weeks’ time. How about that?’

Harriet could only glare at her, almost speechless with fury.

‘I simply don’t believe it!’ she eventually managed to grind out through clenched teeth. ‘Are you seriously telling me that, after twisting my arm—and virtually forcing me to let my newly done up flat to that foul man, Finn Maclean—you’ve already chucked him and got yourself a new boyfriend?’

‘Now, Harriet—calm down!’ Sophie muttered hurriedly. ‘I did fancy him, for a while. Which is not surprising, since you have to admit that he’s a real case of “sex on legs”—right? But I soon realised there was no point in having to compete with all those other women, who seem to surround him like a swarm of flies.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Finn may be diabolically attractive,’ Sophie admitted. ‘But I like a man to run after me—not the other way round. And besides,’ she added with a giggle, ‘who wouldn’t prefer to spend two weeks sailing around the Mediterranean in a huge yacht—with a guy who’s crazy about you—rather than queuing up for a chance to go out on the town with Finn? What do you reckon, Trish?’

Trish, who’d been buried in the Sunday papers, gave a quick nod of her head. ‘I’d take the yacht, every time,’ she agreed, before becoming absorbed in reading her horoscope for the coming week.

‘Well, thanks a bunch!’ Harriet grated angrily, before quickly grabbing a cigarette from the packet on the table in front of Trish. ‘You’ve really messed up my life—big time!’

‘Hey!’ Sophie frowned. ‘I thought you gave up smoking last year?’

‘Yes, you’re right—I did. But I really need one now. All right?’

‘OK…OK,’ the other girl murmured soothingly as Harriet glared angrily at her. ‘Look—I’m sorry if it hasn’t worked out with Finn. But you must admit that it really did seem a good idea at the time,’ she added with a shrug. ‘Besides, you couldn’t expect me to stay home every evening, just waiting for him to call.’

Harriet gave a heavy sigh. Stubbing out the cigarette, which had tasted foul, she realised that she had no one to blame but herself.

Sophie might be her oldest and dearest friend—but she ought to have known that the other girl had all the attention span of a newt. Which had to mean that the chances of her remaining interested in one man for any length of time were just about zero.

‘So, what happened at Finn’s birthday party?’

‘Don’t ask!’ Harriet groaned, burying her face in her hands for a moment, before giving another deep, heavy sigh.

‘Come on—tell all!’ Trish grinned. ‘It can’t have been that bad, surely?’

‘Oh, yes, it was,’ Harriet told her friends gloomily, before explaining that she’d had no warning of the proposed bash. ‘Although I suppose I ought to have guessed something was in the air—especially when he had all that champagne delivered,’ she admitted glumly.

‘Well, it all sounds fairly harmless, so far.’ Sophie shrugged. ‘What went wrong?’

‘The brand-new door entry system. Although I didn’t know anything about it at the time, of course.’

Harriet sighed heavily, before relating how she’d been to the Gate Cinema, to see a French film with some friends. After a late supper at Kensington Place, she’d returned home at about half past eleven—to find all the lights in the house on and the front door wide open.

‘I nearly had hysterics! I mean…it was nothing more or less than an open invitation to any passing burglars. What’s more, it clearly wasn’t an accident, since the front door had been deliberately propped open by a heavy case of champagne.’

‘So, what did you do?’

‘Exactly what any other sensible person would have done,’ Harriet retorted. ‘I stormed upstairs and told Finn Maclean precisely what I thought of stupid men like him. Especially those who were not only aiding and abetting the local criminals but also, if we had been burgled, would have been responsible for invalidating my household insurance policy.’

‘That’s a good point, you know,’ Trish told Sophie. ‘Insurance companies are getting very tough nowadays. A friend of mine forgot to lock all her windows when she went out shopping one day. She returned to find her place had been vandalised by some teenage hoodlums, and the insurance people refused to pay for the damage.’

‘That’s really bad,’ Sophie agreed, before adding impatiently, ‘So—what happened next?’

‘Well, as you can imagine, we had an almighty row,’ Harriet muttered, her cheeks flushing as she realised there was no way she could possibly explain what had happened in Finn’s apartment that night. Especially when she didn’t even understand it, herself.

‘Anyway,’ she continued hurriedly, ‘the long and the short of it was that, completely unknown to me, the doorbell entry system had given up the ghost. And, although Finn swore blind that he’d stationed a guest downstairs, to let everyone in, all I can say is that they sure as hell weren’t there by the time I came home.’

‘So…?’

‘So, I was over a barrel, wasn’t I?’ Harriet sighed, explaining that, with guests coming and going well into the small hours of the night, someone had to open the door. Because, as that rotten man had so graphically pointed out, it hadn’t been his fault that his doorbell and the front door release system weren’t working properly.

‘Oh, dear!’ Sophie exclaimed with a grin, before she and Trish collapsed with laughter.

‘It wasn’t funny!’ Harriet moaned. ‘I had to sit down there in the hall—practically propping my eyelids open with matchsticks—until God knows what hour. You’d think people would arrive at a party at the stated hour, wouldn’t you?’ she added indignantly. ‘But not Finn Maclean’s guests. Oh, no! As far as I could see, at least half of them had already been at other parties, and were decidedly the worse for drink by the time they arrived at the house.’

‘Poor Harriet!’ Trish murmured, clearly trying to keep a straight face.

‘Well, “poor Harriet” is just about right,’ she agreed grimly. ‘You should try letting tipsy people into the house all night, and see how much you like it,’ she added grumpily. ‘Just about the last straw was when a strange man actually patted me on the head, called me a “good girl”—and tried to give me a tip. Honestly, it was a complete nightmare!’

‘Have you managed to get the door entry system mended?’ Sophie asked, thankful that she had her own private entrance down in the basement.

Harriet nodded. ‘I called the engineers out first thing yesterday morning. Apparently, it was something to do with the wiring. But I told them that I’d be suing the socks off them if it ever happened again.’

‘That’s interesting,’ Trish murmured. ‘Since his birthday is in June, it looks as if Finn Maclean must be a Gemini.’

‘Believe me, there’s nothing “interesting” about Finn Maclean,’ Harriet told her with feeling. ‘A few adjectives like “difficult,” “maddening” or even “bloody-minded” would be much nearer the mark.’

‘That’s a Gemini man for you,’ Trish agreed with a grin. ‘Still, you’re Aquarius, which means you shouldn’t have any problem in coping with him. In fact,’ she added with a slight laugh, ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you two didn’t end up together!’

Harriet gave a shrill, incredulous laugh. ‘You must be joking! I wouldn’t fancy him—not if he were the last man on earth.’

‘Hmm…’ Trish murmured, smiling to herself as she noted the deep flush rising up over her friend’s face. ‘Maybe I ought to lend you a few of my crystals. They’re a great help in bringing harmony to a relationship.’