Natalie wanted to cry. It wasn’t right that her mother had to become a cleaner at her age.

‘Mum, I could get a second mortgage on this place,’ Natalie offered. ‘It’s gone up quite a bit in value since I bought it.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ her mother said firmly. ‘We’ll be fine. I don’t want you to worry.’

Then why did you tell me? Natalie groaned silently.

The sound of her doorbell ringing brought Natalie back to her own life. ‘Mum, can I ring you back later? I have a client at the door.’ Her first in a fortnight. Business at Wives Wanted had dropped off a bit this past month. She hadn’t had any new female clients, either. Maybe it was time for another series of magazine ads. It was a rare business that could survive on word of mouth alone.

‘You go, dear. But do ring me back later.’

‘I will. I promise.’

Natalie hung up quickly, buttoning up her suit jacket as she rose and headed for the front door.

A quick glance in the hallway mirror as she passed by assured her she looked every inch the professional businesswoman. Her thick auburn hair was pulled back tightly into a French pleat. Her make-up was minimal and her jewellery discreet. Just a slimline gold wrist-watch and simple gold studs in her ears.

It wasn’t till her hand reached for the knob that Natalie wondered what Mr Mike Stone looked like.

He’d been referred to her by Richard Crawford, a merchant banker who’d been a client of Wives Wanted earlier this year. Natalie suspected, however, that Mr Stone wasn’t in the banking business. He hadn’t sounded like executive material over the phone. He’d sounded less polished than Richard Crawford. Hopefully, that didn’t mean less rich. Most of her male clients were well-off, professional men.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially not right now. If Mr Stone was willing to pay a few thousand for her to find him a wife, then he could be a truck driver for all she cared.

Better, however, if he were a rich truck driver.

Most of her girls weren’t in the market for working-class husbands.

Natalie turned the knob and opened the front door, her eyes widening when she saw the man standing on her doorstep.

Never, during the three years she’d been running Wives Wanted, had she had a client quite like this.

He wouldn’t have looked totally out of place behind the wheel of a truck, she supposed. Not if it was an army truck and he was wearing a military uniform instead of the jeans and black leather jacket he was currently wearing.

Mike Stone was soldier material through and through.