CHAPTER ONE

      THE March day had begun with showers and cool weather, but as Patrick Ogilvie walked across the bridge into the centre of York the sun came out and the air suddenly smelt of spring. He was about to walk into Laura’s office when he realised that the sweet scent came from the buckets of flowers standing on the pavement outside a florist’s shop across the street. On impulse he ran across and bought an armful: fragile white narcissi, great yellow daffodils and spears of deep blue hyacinth, their fragrance so strong that when he walked into the office block the receptionist in the lobby stared and sighed.

      ‘Oh...aren’t they lovely? Now I know it’s spring!’

      He pulled a few of the flowers out of the armful and offered them to her, smiling.

      ‘I wasn’t hinting...’ she said, looking pink and startled, which secretly amused Patrick, who hadn’t expected to get such a reaction from her. Julia Wood wasn’t a girl, after all; she was a woman in her early thirties, dark and serious, with a warmly rounded figure. Julia had had to come back to work after years out of the workforce, because her husband had died young of a heart attack, leaving her with two children aged twelve and ten. At first she had been very shy and nervous, but she had been working here for six months now and Patrick had been fascinated to watch her self-confidence grow.

      ‘I know you weren’t hinting, Julia,’ he half teased. ‘I’ve got masses of them here, take them! And don’t forget to put them into water before they wilt, will you?’

      She took the flowers, looking down at them with a dreamy little smile, but said anxiously, ‘I hope Miss Grainger won’t be cross when she hears you gave me some of her flowers, though! Is it her birthday?’

      He shook his head. ‘No, that’s in July. I bought these because they meant spring had really started, and it’s been such a long winter. She won’t mind at all. In fact, I should have thought of it before—you ought to have flowers on your desk, it would make a good impression.’

      Julia beamed. ‘Oh, that would be lovely. I think it would look good! Thanks, Patrick, you’ve made my day.’

      He nodded. ‘Not at all. I won’t forget to mention it to her. It will be just the touch to make the clients feel welcome.’

      He walked away, towards the lift, and Julia watched him a little wistfully. Just now he had reminded her of her husband: the quick smile, the kind gesture, the warmth. John had had all those; they were what she missed most—the little gestures which had made their life together such a happy one. Of course, he hadn’t been as good-looking as Patrick Ogilvie, not that that had mattered to her. She had loved the way he looked: his direct blue eyes and happy grin, his floppy brown hair, broad shoulders and the way he...

      She broke off, eyes brimming, got up and fumbled to pick up the flowers Patrick had given her, her head bent to hide her face.

      ‘Fred, will you watch my desk? I’ve just got to put these in water,’ she said huskily as she ran to the cloakroom, just in time before the tears came.

      Laura’s secretary, Anne, was working intently when Patrick walked into her office, but she broke off, looking up, her face lighting up at the sight of him. Women always smiled at Patrick like that; he was not merely accustomed to it, he expected it and would have missed it if he didn’t get those bright-eyed glances.

      ‘Good morning, Anne, how are you?’ Patrick asked as if he really cared, which he did. He liked people and it made him happy to know that all was well with them. If Patrick had a flaw it was that he preferred life on the sunny side and tended to avoid anyone who might depress him.

      Anne never did. She told him gaily that she was fine, how was he?

      ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Is anyone with her?’ he added, looking at the door on the left which led into Laura’s office.

      Anne shook her head. ‘No, but don’t go in yet—she’s talking on the phone and said she wasn’t to be disturbed.’

      Patrick shrugged amiably, and took a seat on the edge of Anne’s desk. ‘You look very pretty today—new dress?’ he asked, running his blue gaze over her. ‘That colour is perfect for you; you should wear it more often.’

      Anne’s flush deepened; she looked down, smoothing a hand over the pink wool dress, suddenly aware, under his gaze, that the way it clung to her breasts and hips made her thin body look far more feminine and that the colour warmed her sallow skin.

      ‘Thank you, Patrick.’ It was typical of him to notice and to comment; she secretly glanced at him through her lashes, sighing. If only he weren’t in love with Laura Grainger! Or if only she worked for him and could see him every day. That would be heaven.

      She had been half in love with Patrick Ogilvie from the first time he walked into the office, but with Laura Grainger around Anne knew he would never look at anyone else. No man would. Laura Grainger was a knock-out: the sort of blonde men dreamt about. Popular myth had it that blondes were dumb. Not Laura. She was not only clever, she was street-smart, too. A devastating combination. No wonder she had been so successful at her job. Anne knew she would never get as far in the public relations field as Laura Grainger had—she was neither street-smart nor brainy—but she didn’t envy her boss’s success in work half as much as she coveted her boyfriend.

      Anne had always loved tall men, and Patrick was a good six feet, not a spare ounce of flesh on him, with smooth dark brown hair and a charm that surely only a stone-hearted woman could resist. Anne couldn’t, anyway, especially when his face had that little-boy look it sometimes wore.

      Every woman in the office block was crazy about Patrick Ogilvie, in fact. With all the attention and fuss he got, it wouldn’t have been surprising if he had been totally spoilt and selfish, but that was the most amazing thing about him. Patrick was warm-hearted, caring, kind and endlessly thoughtful. When Laura was busy, he did her shopping for her. Sometimes he even tidied up her flat and often cooked her meals. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

      Anne liked her boss, but sometimes she wished Laura Grainger didn’t exist. Maybe then Patrick might look her way?

      A buzz made Anne jump. Hurriedly, she flicked down a switch on the console of her desk. ‘Yes, Laura?’

      ‘I’ve finished my phone call, Anne,’ Laura Grainger’s clear, cool voice said. ‘Any messages?’

      ‘No, but—’

      Laura didn’t give her a chance to finish that sentence.