It was a house where two people could grow their lives, their family, and there was no use kidding herself. The only reason she’d wanted Darius to come with her was so that he would see it and fall in love with it too.
The mews cottage was great, but there was no room for an office for her, no room for anything except the two of them indulging in a lot of that high-octane sex. She swallowed. He was the one who’d said he wanted more—commitment, a family.
She didn’t need to tour the house to take photographs. She’d done that, leaving them where Darius could see them, hoping... She’d taken a few of the garden but, with a sigh, she set off to take more.
The low sun was gleaming through grasses, scarlet dahlias that were making the most of a lingering autumn. The leaves in the hidden woodland dell that housed a grotto created in the bole of what had once been a huge tree.
She’d seen photographs but hadn’t been down there. Today, though, she followed a narrow rill that fell in steps before dropping into a natural stream that trickled into a pool within the grotto. Light was filtering from above and more than just water gleamed in the darkness.
None of this had been in the agent’s photographs and, curious, she stepped down. For a moment she couldn’t believe what she was seeing and then, as she did, she caught her breath.
It was a bronze of the figure Darius had made, that he’d said he was going to destroy. She was here, lying on a bed, surrounded by a pool—a woodland nymph reaching out for her lover.
She didn’t need the tingle at the base of her spine, didn’t have to turn around, to know Darius was there with her.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
She turned. ‘How did you know?’
‘I didn’t. I gave you a description of the house that would be perfect for us. Five bedrooms, room for a home office, an outbuilding of some sort, a staff cottage, and I waited for you to find it.’
‘But what about Mrs Harper?’
‘There is no Mrs Harper. I’m your client.’
‘You? But...’ She shook her head. ‘But how did you organise this?’ she demanded, flinging out a hand in the direction of the sculpture.
‘The owner indulged me. Unfortunately, the downside to that was his insistence that it stay, whether we buy or not.’
‘But...but...but...’ she spluttered. And then she knew. ‘You’ve already bought it, haven’t you?’
‘It seemed wise, just in case he got a better offer. I’ve leased out the studio. You decide whether we keep the mews or your flat for our London bolthole; you can find a tenant for the other, which leaves only two questions.’
‘Two?’
‘The first is: will you marry me?’
She swallowed.
‘What’s the second question?’ she asked.
‘I think you’ll find that your mother is hoping for a Christmas wedding. Are you happy with that?’ He waited as she struggled with a throat that was Sahara-dry. ‘If you need a hint, yes and yes are the correct answers.’