Free Honeycote by Veronica Henry Page B

ostentatiously gold crown. He was tall but with stick-thin legs and narrow shoulders that no amount of expensive tailoring could make imposing. Yet what he lacked in looks and stature he made up for in force of personality. Lawrence was driven and driving, motivated and motivating, energetic and energizing. One meeting with him and even the strong-minded Kay found herself wanting to sell the world on his behalf, despite knowing her cut would be minimal, for he had the knack of making people want to do things for him. It wasn’t charm, for he was singularly lacking in that. But he could paint a picture of an irresistible future that one instinctively wanted to be a part of.
    When Kay sold the very last house, he took her out to dinner. Until now, she’d kept him very much at arm’s length. She knew he was impressed by her businesslike demeanour, her cool professionalism, but she’d performed as something of an automaton, never giving him a glimpse of the woman underneath the designer suits she could now afford to wear. But after three months of intensive research, Kay was entirely satisfied that he was the man for her. It was time for the armour to come off.
    She chose her outfit carefully, for he was to witness a theatrical unveiling, and her costume would be instrumental to the effect. Over the softest, satin underwear and sheer stockings, she drew a black silk-jersey dress. From the front, it looked perfectly demure: straight-sleeved, slash-necked, it clung softly to just above the knee. But the back was breathtaking, plunging in a spectacular V to the base of her spine, from where a row of tiny covered buttons marched in a straight line down to the hem. It was a dress few people could wear, as only the smallest, tautest, pertest buttocks could do it justice, but Kay knew, from rigorous dieting, that there was not an ounce of spare flesh on her. Over it, to divert suspicion and just in case she bottled out, she wore a black velvet jacket. Her only concession to colour was a shocking pink chiffon scarf wound carelessly round her neck
    Lawrence had chosen a popular waterside restaurant on the Thames, and though it was only early May it was warm enough for them to drink champagne on the terrace. Kay kept her jacket on, suddenly and uncharacteristically nervous, while Lawrence ordered dinner from the waiter without referring to her once. That didn’t bother her; she was hardly a feminist, and besides, she trusted Lawrence’s choice. His money would have taught him what were the finer things in life. She didn’t mind that either. After all, she’d had to learn herself.
    The meal was perfect. They had fresh, young spears of asparagus, the first of the season, which Lawrence wolfed, eating all the accompanying brown bread, and Kay savoured appreciatively. Then pretty pink noisettes of lamb with tiny new potatoes, after which Lawrence pushed aside his plate, filled up both their glasses and professed he wanted to talk business. The waiter whisked away their plates and anxiously proffered a dessert menu beautifully handwritten on cream parchment. Lawrence waved it away.
    ‘Raspberries and cream for the lady. And two glasses of Beaumes de Venise. And we’ll have coffee by the fire.’ He turned to look at Kay. ‘I’ve got a proposition for you.’
    Kay raised an eyebrow playfully and smiled, raising her glass to her lips. It was a tauntingly suggestive move, and she could see it had taken Lawrence slightly by surprise. He outlined his proposal nevertheless.
    ‘I’ve got five other projects on the go. Two holiday complexes, a school I’ve converted into flats, a small shopping arcade and an estate of luxury starter homes. They’re all due for completion over the next year. I’ve got sales negotiators lined up for each of them, of course. But they’re scattered all over the country and, frankly, I want to spend my time moving on to future projects, not messing about dotting i’s and crossing t’s. I need someone to