MIKE smiled wryly to himself as he drove towards Natalie’s place the next day.

Richard’s response when Mike had called this morning to tell his friend whom he’d secured for his wife still amused him.

‘You’re joshing me!’ Richard had exclaimed. ‘Natalie Fairlane! Madame Tough-nut herself?’

A very funny but apt description in Mike’s opinion.

Richard’s initial surprise had quickly subsided once Mike had explained the lucrative terms he’d offered the owner of Wives Wanted.

‘Amazing what some women will do for money,’ Richard had remarked in a cynical tone that echoed Mike’s opinion.

Still, there was no doubt she would impress old Helsinger, once he got her wearing some decent clothes. Natalie couldn’t have always dressed as she’d been dressed yesterday. She’d had a lover for four years. Married guys who had women on the side went for sexy pieces of skirt, not uptight, women’s-lib types who hid their female assets behind unflattering gear.

Mike couldn’t wait to re-uncover Natalie’s female assets. He’d glimpsed a more-than-adequate bust stretching that awful grey jacket. And she was tall enough to have good legs. He’d noted slim ankles when she’d sat down at the café and crossed her legs.

Pity about her shoes, though. Black pumps with thick heels didn’t do a thing for any woman. Nor did grim grey trouser suits.

He’d love to see her in tight hipster jeans that hugged her body and left absolutely nothing to the imagination. He’d team them with a sexy top and some come-to-bed stilettos.

The sudden awareness of a hard-on reminded Mike that this was not a sensible train of thought at this moment, muttering a steely reproof at his wayward flesh as he slid his car into the kerb outside Natalie’s place.

It was a terraced house, one in a long line of identical houses that stretched down her street. The only difference between them was the paintwork.

Some of the others were a bit on the garish side, but Natalie’s was painted in traditional federation colours. Cream walls, with forest-green roof and iron-work, and a splash of burgundy here and there. The front door and window sill were burgundy, plus the guttering. The tiny front yard was totally paved in old-fashioned terracotta tiles, with green glazed pots filled with palms sitting in each corner.

Mike stayed where he was for a further five minutes before climbing out from behind the wheel and making his way slowly to her door, before finally ringing the brass bell.

‘You’re late,’ she snapped as she swept open the door.

‘I don’t consider five minutes late,’ he retorted, thinking all the while that the improvement in her appearance was only minimal.