38

IT WAS Margaret Winston who saw Alex freeze with a trapped look in her eyes like a deer caught in headlights.

It was Margaret who protested, ‘But, Mr Goodwin, she looks wonderful!’

‘Wonderful?’ Max Goodwin grated. ‘She looks—’

He didn’t get to finish because Alex came alive and whirled on her heel and ran for the lift.

He caught her with her finger on the button and took hold of her elbow. ‘If you’ll allow me to finish, Alex,’ he said tersely, ‘I was about to say you look drop-dead gorgeous.’

Alex’s head came up and she looked at him incredulously. ‘You’ve just made that up,’ she accused huskily. ‘Please let me go.’

‘No. Come with me.’ The pressure on her elbow increased and he steered her out of the foyer into a side room, a smaller, more informal sitting room with comfortable armchairs done in restful shades of green. He closed the door behind them. ‘I meant it,’ he said.

‘But that doesn’t make sense.’ Alex clasped her hands in front of her and prayed she wouldn’t burst into