An Exception to His Rule. Lindsay Armstrong
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‘Ah,’ Damien Wyatt said, ‘we meet again, Miss Livingstone. I’d almost convinced myself you wouldn’t be the same person, or if you were that you wouldn’t come.’
Harriet cleared her throat. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wyatt,’ she said, almost inaudibly.
He moved forward and the dog rose and came with him, but stopped to look at Harriet with almost human curiosity.
‘You know, a dog is the reason I ran into you,’ she murmured. ? thought I’d killed it and I—just froze.’
Damien blinked—twice. ‘Much worse in your estimation than killing me, I gather?’
‘Of course not. I didn’t—I’m sorry, but I didn’t have time to think about you or anything else. It all happened so fast. If you’re having second thoughts about interviewing me I’d quite understand,’ Harriet said politely. But there was a less than polite glint in her eye, however.
‘On the contrary, after what my assistant has told me about you I’m positively agog to see you in action. Shall I lead on?’
He didn’t wait for her response but strode out, with the dog following regally.
LINDSAY ARMSTRONG was born in South Africa, but now lives in Australia with her New Zealand-born husband and their five children. They have lived in nearly every state of Australia, and have tried their hand at some unusual—for them—occupations, such as farming and horse-training: all grist to the mill for a writer! Lindsay started writing romances when their youngest child began school and she was left feeling at a loose end. She is still doing it and loving it.
Recent titles by the same author:
THE RETURN OF HER PAST
WHEN ONLY DIAMONDS WILL DO
THE GIRL HE NEVER NOTICED
THE SOCIALITE AND THE CATTLE KING
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
An Exception to His Rule
Lindsay Armstrong
MILLS & BOON
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For my family, Dave, Susie, Matt, Sally, Anabel and David for all their patience.
And my editor, Megan Haslam, for all her patience!
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
DAMIEN WYATT WAS lounging in an upstairs study.
He wore jeans, a khaki bush shirt and desert boots, all visible since his feet were up on the desk. His dark hair was ruffled and there were blue shadows on his jaw.
The windows were open and the roses in the garden below were in bloom. So was the star jasmine creeper clinging to the house. Beyond the garden wall a beach curved around a blue, inviting bay. You could hear the sound of the waves on the beach and there was a tang of salt in the air.
‘Hang on,’ he said with a sudden frown. ‘Is it remotely possible that this Ms Livingstone we’re talking about is actually Harriet Livingstone? Because, if so, forget it, Arthur.’
Arthur Tindall, art connoisseur and colourful dresser—he wore jeans and a yellow waistcoat patterned with black elephants over a maroon shirt—looked confused. ‘You’ve met her?’ he asked from the other side of the desk.
‘I don’t know. Unless there are two Harriet Livingstones, I may have,’ Damien said dryly.
‘There could well be. Two, I mean,’ Arthur replied. ‘After all, it’s not the wilds of Africa where it was highly unlikely there’d be more than one Doctor Livingstone popping up out of nowhere.’
Damien grinned fleetingly. ‘I take your point.’ He sobered. ‘What’s your Harriet like? Tall, thin girl with wild hair and an unusual taste in clothing?’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow.
Arthur looked blank for a moment. ‘Tall, yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Otherwise, well, certainly not fat and her clothes are—I don’t seem to remember much about her clothes.’
‘Have you actually met her?’ Damien enquired with some irony.
‘Of course.’ Arthur looked offended then brightened. ‘I can tell you one thing: she has very long legs!’
‘So does a stork,’ Damien observed. ‘I couldn’t tell with my Ms Livingstone,’ he added. ‘I mean for someone that tall she obviously had long legs but whether they were—shapely—I couldn’t say because they were all covered up in some kind of wraparound batik skirt.’
Arthur stared narrowly into the distance as if trying to conjure up a batik wraparound skirt then he blinked again and said triumphantly, ‘Glasses! Large, round, red-rimmed glasses. Also...’ he frowned and concentrated ‘...a rather vague air, although that may be due to being short-sighted, but as if her mind is on higher things.’ He grimaced.
Damien Wyatt smiled unpleasantly. ‘If it is the same girl, she ran into me about two months ago. At the same time she was wearing large, round, red-rimmed glasses,’ he added significantly.
‘Oh, dear! Not the Aston? Oh, dear,’ Arthur repeated.
Damien looked at him ironically. ‘That’s putting it mildly. She had no insurance other than compulsory third party and the...tank she was driving survived virtually unscathed.’
‘Tank?’
Damien shrugged. ‘It might as well have been: a solid old four-wheel drive with bull bars.’