“But I don’t … why? And how was she even let in here? Oh, Chloe, I’m so, so sorry.” He shook his head, obviously still in disbelief.

“It’s not your fault. You don’t need to apologise. She does, but not you.”

Archer angled his body towards her, his expression changing from confusion to concern, his hand reaching to stroke her cheek. “Are you all right? She didn’t do anything to you, did she?”

From the way he’d asked the question, it was clear that her encounter with Madison could have been far worse.

“Oh, no, nothing like that. Unless you count saying cruel things to me but, you know … I’m a big girl and all that.” Chloe smiled feebly.

“God, I’m so, so sorry. Here I am inviting you to London with me so I could spend proper time with you, and I’ve gone and put you in the firing line.” He ran a hand through his dark hair and blew out an exasperated sigh.

“Archer, this isn’t your fault. But I do think you need to talk to her.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so. Quite right. And the hotel. I can’t believe they let her in here.”

“Yes, well, she had her own key card, so someone on the front desk was a little lax in the security department. And she did say that a member of your publicity team alerted her that you were staying here.”

“Bollocks! Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks!”

Chloe couldn’t help the snicker that burst from her mouth. It was such a silly swear word, like something out of a Monty Python sketch.

“What?” His eyes, filled with mirth, met hers. “Are you disparaging my choice of profanity?” he asked with a mock-serious glare.

“Never.”

“Like buggery, you weren’t, Ms Sims.” He gave her a look worthy of a pantomime. Chloe wouldn’t have been surprised to suddenly hear a chorus of, “Look behind you, look behind you.”

She sighed dramatically—two could play at this game—and returned the hard stare. “Mr Tate, may I remind you that I am from Australia where we say the F-word on TV and include words like ‘bloody’ and ‘bugger’ in award-winning ad campaigns. Yes, I know that those are the height of profanity here in the UK, but in ’Straya”—she bunged on a broad Aussie accent—“they are regularly heard on the playground.”

His mouth puckered in an obvious attempt not to smile. “Is that so?”

It was time for the big guns, the Ocker accent! “Yeah, mate, so drop the airs and graces and let’s call a spade a spade. Your ex is deadset batty, mate. For realz.”

He threw his head back and laughed, then, regarding her with an amused smile, conceded the win to her. “Good lord, that accent. Very Australian, well done you.”

“You know, there some are people who, when they meet me, think I’m English—Americans mostly.”

“Is that so?” He seemed dubious.

“Yes. Maybe it’s because they think all Australians sound like the Crocodile Hunter.”