Free Honeycote by Veronica Henry Page A

nearly a year, assuring her divorce was imminent, until she laid down an ultimatum, upon which he promptly disappeared. Another time she came dangerously close, having even been for a wedding dress fitting in Beauchamp Place, when she discovered her intended was verging on bankruptcy and was marrying her in the misguided hope she’d get him out of it. Kay emerged unscathed, unmarried and secretly delighted that her disguise as a well-bred young county gel with a rich daddy was so convincing. Yet another turned out to be nastily violent when drunk and, skilled as Kay was with her make-up, the risk of a fractured jaw or a broken nose eventually outweighed the lure of the drunkard’s bank balance.
    At thirty, horror of horrors, Kay had found herself a senior negotiator with her own secretary. She had a naturally shrewd and businesslike mind which made her drive a ruthless bargain, resulting in a sheaf of successful sales as the property market began to recover once again. Thus she found herself in the very position she had always eschewed: successful career girl – no, woman – whose working life threatened to take over, with no hint of a husband in sight.
    Then one day a curt male voice on the telephone demanded to be shown round a particular Thameside property immediately. Intrigued by his assertiveness – Kay admired people who knew how to get their own way – she agreed to meet him in ten minutes. The house was one she coveted herself: newly built on an old site, it was equipped with every modern luxury but retained the charms of a mature garden, an old boathouse and magnificent terraces leading down to the river, where she could fondly imagine herself entertaining.
    As she drove in through the electronically operated gates, and saw Lawrence Oakley standing proprietorially by the balustrades of the patio, looking across the gardens to the Thames glinting in the distance, she knew instinctively that this was her man, that he was neither married, bankrupt, drunken or violent, and that he would be unable to resist her charms. Once she’d decided to unleash them. His premier impression was to be that of a successful businesswoman. If she was to marry and be kept by him, it was important that he should always know what she was capable of; that she was perfectly able to look after herself; that she wasn’t some brainless Home Counties totty.
    She shook him coolly by the hand, then led him round the property in a matter-of-fact manner, no gushing hyperbole, no unctuous grovelling, as she knew this was a man who could make up his own mind. When, at the end of the tour, Lawrence offered fifty grand less than the asking price, cash, yes or no by this time tomorrow, Kay gulped inwardly, knowing the vendors would jump at the offer, then smiled and said asking price or nothing and he could contact her at the office if he wanted to up his offer.
    Later that afternoon, against his better judgement but intrigued, Lawrence went in and upped his offer by thirty thousand. Split the difference, said Kay, and you can have the keys next week.
    Lawrence took her out for a drink to celebrate the deal and offered her a job on the spot. She took it.
    He was a builder, or property developer, as he preferred to be called, and she was to negotiate the sales of twenty-five executive homes in a labyrinth of cul-de-sacs. In six weeks, she’d sold eighteen of them and had a pretty good idea of the sort of profit that was sitting in Lawrence’s pocket. A lot. She’d also ascertained, via snippets of gossip from his secretary, that he had a selection of pretty, interchangeable girlfriends whom he took to social functions and otherwise ignored. Things were boding well.
    Lawrence wasn’t altogether attractive. Kay guessed he was thirty-five, but he looked forty. He had tight reddish-blond curls that were starting to thin, a pale, freckled complexion that flushed suddenly red when he was exerted, exalted or angry, and yellowing teeth with one