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had clearly been a great shock to him.
    â€˜Why don’t you sit down?’ she invited. ‘I’ll get you that drink.’
    â€˜Sure...’ he murmured, shrugging off his coat.
    He draped it over the arm of a nearby easy chair as though it was nothing, but she glimpsed the Italian designer label attached to the silk lining. The garment was both exclusive and expensive, and it said much about the taste of its owner.
    She watched thoughtfully as he dropped down onto the battered brown leather couch that had serviced several other tenants before Imogen. Even though she’d personalised it with the flowing red-and-gold Indian shawl that she’d draped over the back, it was still more ‘shabby chic’ than smart. Positioned next to the couch was a pile of hardback books on a maple-wood coffee table, and he picked up the top one to examine it.
    â€˜Interesting,’ he murmured, reading the flyleaf. ‘I can see that you like a mystery.’
    â€˜Thrillers aren’t really my thing, but a friend lent it to me,’ she explained. ‘She said the story was terrific.’
    â€˜Would that be the same friend who gave you the bottle of brandy?’
    â€˜Yes, it was, as a matter of fact...though I rarely drink that stuff at all. She was hoping I’d let my hair down and celebrate for once.’
    Imogen stared at the fire and felt her cheeks heat. Why had she told him that ?
    â€˜And did you?’
    â€˜I did—but not with brandy. I stuck to orange juice that night.’
    Checking that the flame had taken hold in the wood burner, she straightened and dusted her hands down her jeans.
    Her companion was studying her intently and, feeling strangely as if she’d been put under a spotlight, she said, ‘Give me a minute and I’ll go and get you that drink.’
    The tiny kitchen was adjacent to the living room. It wasn’t particularly well-appointed, but it had a fairly new gas stove, an original butler’s sink that was still in good order, a plum-coloured granite worktop and a couple of sturdy pine shelves on which she’d stacked some blue-and-white crockery. The bottle of brandy was located next to the stoneware bread crock.
    Pouring a proper drink for a man wasn’t something she was remotely used to. Her ex-fiancé, Greg, had been teetotal. That was until she’d found out that he wasn’t . It had been another lie amongst the many that he’d told her. But dwelling on the thought was apt to remind her of his shocking betrayal and make her mood plummet. She was determined not to let that happen. After all, she’d vowed to make a fresh start, hadn’t she? From now on she wanted to believe that good things did and could happen, despite the evidence to the contrary. How else was she going to turn her life around?
    But her hand visibly trembled as she reached for the bottle of brandy and she had to take a couple of deep breaths to steady herself. Seth Broden was the first man she’d ever invited back to the flat and she shouldn’t forget that he was neither a friend nor a colleague. He was practically a stranger . And such was the contrast between the awe-inspiring mansion he owned and the modest flat she rented that it was bound to make her conscious of the difference between her life and his.
    She reached up to the overhead shelf and retrieved a couple of glass tumblers and, taking the bottle of brandy with her, returned to the living room. Handing one of the glasses to Seth, she set the brandy down on the table beside him.
    â€˜Please help yourself. I’m just going to hang up my coat. Want me to do the same for yours?’
    He quirked what looked to be an amused eyebrow and said, ‘Thanks.’
    When Imogen returned from hanging the garments on the coat stand the fire in the burner was nicely warming the room and, having helped himself to brandy, Seth had set down the book he’d been perusing. He’d also