Half of me is wondering why I suggested dinner with Miller today when I was desperate to be swallowed up by him yesterday, and half of me is wondering why I suggested any day at all. He hasn’t slept with anyone? I need to make a list of questions. If I’m stupid enough to meet him.

I pull my bedcovers back and immediately frown down at my semi-naked body. I have my knickers on, but everything else is gone. Glancing up, I see all of my clothes folded neatly and placed in a pile on my chair. I’m not totally losing my mind. I fell into bed in my clothes after Gregory stormed out; I know I did. I consider the possibility of Nan stripping me down in my sleep, but that pile of precisely folded and placed clothes tells me otherwise.

Still frowning, I untangle my body from the bedcovers and make my way across the room, opening the door quietly and listening out for Nan. There are the sounds of happy singing and clanking dishes, but no talking. Casting my eyes back to the offending pile of clothes, I think hard, trying to remember if it’s my doing, but I’m blank. Nothing is coming to me. Maybe I’m walking in my sleep, or maybe I’m tidying in my sleep.

A quick look at my clock tells me I haven’t got time to ponder this mystery any more, so I make quick work of showering and dressing for work, throwing on some jeans and my white Converse, like I want my feet to dictate my mood: lifeless . . . blank.

There are cornflakes in my bowl before I even sit at the table, and Nan is looking at me with an edge of delight mixed with curiosity. We’re alone for the first time since yesterday morning, which means she finally has the opportunity to pick at me for answers. Quickly searching my brain for the best words before she hits me with her own, I very quickly come up with . . . something.

‘How was the dance?’ I ask.

‘We rocked it.’ She brushes me off, even though I’m certain she has many tales to tell from her night as Ginger Rogers. ‘And it was two nights ago.’

I wince. ‘Sorry.’

‘No matter,’ she insists, and I know why. ‘Miller looked mighty sad when he left yesterday.’ She potters around with her tea towel while watching for my reaction. ‘And I didn’t like the sound of you and Gregory arguing.’

I sigh, letting my backside fall to the chair, and pour some milk over my cornflakes as Nan loads my tea with too much sugar. ‘It’s complicated, Nan.’

‘Oh . . .’ Her rounded rump hits the chair next to me, her old navy eyes way too curious. ‘I can deal with complicated. In fact, I bet I have the answer.’

I smile fondly and rest my hand over hers. ‘This is for me to fix.’

‘I get the impression that Gregory doesn’t like Miller,’ she says cautiously.

‘You’ve got the right impression, but can we leave it there?’

Her thin lips purse slightly, annoyed that I won’t confide in her. I’m not exposing her to the hideousness of my complications, so she’ll just have to be annoyed and accept the lie that Miller has fed her. I can’t risk sending her into that horrific dark place again. ‘I might be able to help,’ she persists, squeezing my hand.

‘I’m a big girl, Nan.’ I raise my eyebrows, making hers fall into a scowl.

‘I suppose you are,’ she relents, still scowling, ‘but remember one thing, Olivia.’

‘What?’

‘Life’s too short to hang around waiting for answers that can only be found by getting off your skinny arse and finding them.’ She gets up and viciously plunges her wrinkled hands into the dishwater, then proceeds to dump dish after dish onto the drainer heavy-handedly.

It’s a quiet afternoon at the bistro – until Miller Hart walks through the door. He immediately holds everyone’s attention in the place. And the bastard knows it.

‘Are you free to leave?’ he asks politely, but I expect there is only one correct answer to this question, and behind his impassive façade, he’s just daring me to give the wrong one.

‘Uh . . .’ I can’t form words. Del hands me my satchel and denim jacket with a wary nod, but it takes Miller to physically collect me from behind the counter to get my feet moving. He takes my nape gently and starts guiding me from the bistro, massaging my neck as he does, leaving me with no option but to keep up with his punishing pace. The black Mercedes is parked on double-yellow lines, and it’s only when he opens the door to guide me to the seat that I speak up.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, looking up at him.

My question doesn’t make him falter in his attempts to put me in his car. ‘You promised me dinner. Get in the car.’

‘That was before you just humiliated me.’ I twist out of his grip and step back. I definitely notice the semblance of a scowl at my rejection, but Miller’s smidgen of emotion isn’t the only thing that has my attention.

He leans down, quite a way, so his eyes are level with mine. They are soft and reassuring. They have me. ‘Why do you keep denying me?’

I rip my stare from his gaze before I can lose myself in it, and walk away from him, my stride quick but completely pointless, too. I’m going nowhere.

He’s behind me, his expensive shoes pacing evenly. ‘I don’t like repeating myself.’ He catches me and turns me in his arms. Then he straightens me out and places my hair neatly over my shoulders before stepping back. ‘I’ll make an exception this time. Why do you keep denying me?’

His audacity sets my emotions in gear. My lips start trembling, my eyes welling. The anger is restoking, too, the hurt magnifying, the confusion tripling. ‘Because . . .’ I close my eyes briefly, feeling my strength slipping away, despite his arrogance. ‘Everything.’ I know William is right. I shouldn’t be getting myself caught up in Miller’s web of pleasure. I might not like William’s interference, and he might not have a right to enforce his demands, but I can’t deny that he knows what he’s talking about. Everything I now know has been confirmed by William. I should listen to him. He’s wise and familiar with this world.

Miller’s luscious lips purse and his eyes drop, prompting that soft curl to fall forward, but I don’t remind him of his rule of looking at someone when they are speaking to you. ‘You don’t desire me?’ he asks quietly.

My face bunches in confusion. What kind of question is that at a time like this? ‘Of course I do.’ I realise my error immediately when his eyes lift and drown me in . . . desire. My own desire is reflecting back at me through the never-ending depths of his blue eyes.

‘And I you,’ he whispers. ‘More than my body desires water to survive or my lungs air to breathe.’

I fight for breath. ‘I’m also frightened of you,’ I confess.

‘And I you.’

‘I don’t trust you.’

That statement makes him falter slightly, but he quickly pulls it back. ‘I trust you with my life.’ His hand lifts, his thumb stroking over my eyebrow. The skin-on-skin contact puts me in my comfort zone and the sparks fire off within. ‘I trust you to help me.’ His finger drifts down my cheek, my jaw, until he’s stroking my bottom lip. My eyes close on a quiet hitch of breath. ‘Let me taste you.’

My nod of agreement is automatic. I can feel bursts of life within.