35

AT FIVE minutes to siX that evening, Alex barrelled into the foyer of Goodwin House with her hair and scarf flying and a variety of shopping bags hanging from her arms.

She looked around breathlessly for the penthouse buzzer and was intercepted by the commissionaire. She gave him her name and told him who she needed to see. He looked doubtful for a moment but led her to the penthouse lift—he had the grace to look apologetic when her name was received in the affirmative and the lift doors opened on cue.

‘Thirty-fifth floor is what you need, ma’am. Have a good evening!’

Alex pressed thirty-five and prepared to part company with her stomach—she didn’t like lifts, but this one turned out to be painless. And on the thirty-fifth floor it opened directly into Max Goodwin’s penthouse.

It wasn’t Max who greeted her, however, it was a man of about forty who said pleasantly, ‘Miss Hill, I believe? I’m Max’s domestic co- ordinator, Jake Frost. I’m afraid he’s running a few minutes late. Would