“It’s not a tutorial,” Tom explained. He wished he could tell her everything, but he didn’t want to expose his mother. “It’s family business, and very important.”

Polly ran her bitten fingers through her lush red hair and sat down on the bed.

“You’re no fun,” she said. “Well, I suppose it’ll keep. You can shove this in your fridge. Apparently it’ll be nice tomorrow, too.”

“Sounds good,” he said, absently.

She reclined against the pillows, letting her hair spill against them. “I bet if I wanted a shag you’d have time.”

She grinned, and Tom smiled back at her. “Make love,” he said.

Polly trailed her fingers across the shapeless T-shirt. The simple motion pressed it to her breasts. Tom tried not to look, but it was difficult. Even though he knew her body so well, it seemed fresh to him every time. Tom sensed his familiar, implacable stirring; the letter from the lawyers became less interesting.

“Mmm,” she said archly. “Is that what you call it? Chéri?”

She rolled about over his silk sheets, a tumbling, glorious mess of legs and breasts and—

“What’s this?”

“What?” Tom asked, wishing she hadn’t stopped.

“This,” she said, coldly. She tugged at something that sprang free from the side of his bed. Cheap and padded. He recognized it at once. Gemma’s Wonderbra.

“It must be yours,” he said, thinking on his feet.

She stood up, looking daggers at him. Polly was vulgar and low class, he thought, ruefully, but not unintelligent.

“Go fuck yourself,” she said.

“Polly.” She was grabbing her bag. “I can explain,” he lied.

“Don’t bother. Really.” The blue eyes stared him down. “I’ve got no interest. You’re slime.”

“Give me another chance—”

“Oh, grow up,” she said, slamming the door.

He thought momentarily about going after her, then dismissed it. It wouldn’t work, he knew her. She thought she was so worldly, but a tiny dalliance with another . . . okay, a few others . . . and her self-esteem would be shattered. No, Polly Jenkins was not likely to forgive him, and he wouldn’t waste his efforts trying to make her.

Tom felt a pang of loss and tried to dismiss it. Besides, he would soon have finished with her, anyway, he told himself. Maybe not immediately, but surely soon. Polly was never intended to be his wife . . . right? She had none of the qualities he was looking for, well, besides intelligence and sex appeal, he conceded. And good humour. Well, okay, but none of the important things Pierre Massot’s son must have in a bride. Birth. Refinement of dress and manners. Even simple grooming was beyond Polly.

Tom wondered what she would do now. Would she go back to her rooms, or would she go and cry on the shoulder of Mark Allston, the rugby player he had seen her with last Tuesday in the Union bar?