Heathcote wondered who’d let her in. Some of the security guards could be trusted but not all, and he couldn’t afford another scandal. But the smell of her perfume was more intoxicating than a bottle of his finest malt. Her lips were red and full. He knew exactly what she was able to do with her mouth. Christ, he wanted to fuck her.

She trailed a manicured finger around the rim of the crystal tumbler. ‘How long are you going to be?’

He sighed, aroused by her presence but not quite able to disguise his impatience. ‘I’ve got to work tonight, remember? Important government business. Why don’t you go back to the hotel? I’ll cover your expenses. We can talk tomorrow.’

She laughed at him, puncturing his pomposity. ‘I don’t need you to cover my expenses. I can pay for my own hotel rooms.’ She poured herself a whisky and eyed him over the glass. ‘I thought you might want some company, that’s all, but if you’re busy, I can always call someone else.’

Geoffrey Heathcote was a politician with a formidable career behind him, and a pin-sharp brain. But when it came to women, his ego was governed by a different part of his anatomy.

He was ageing well, a touch of grey at his temples, his weight controlled by running and a careful diet. But he wasn’t naive. Women like Anna were seduced by power, not necessarily the men who wielded it. Perhaps she would move on if he lost his ministerial job. But he didn’t think so. She might be thirty years younger than he was, but they shared a connection, didn’t they?

He suspected he wasn’t her only lover, but his most secret self hoped he was. In truth, Anna was the only woman he had ever considered leaving his wife for. Barbara was older now, and flabbier, dismissive and impatient much of the time. Their sex life had dwindled to twice a year.

‘Like who?’ He knew he sounded jealous but he didn’t much care.

She raised her eyebrows and left him to fill in the blanks.

‘Come here,’ he said, his voice thickening.

Anna laid down her coat and made her way around the office towards him. A painting of Heathcote gazed down from the wall. Two silver-framed photographs of his wife and children sat on his desk. He pushed back his chair to make room for her, and she sat astride his lap, pressing herself against him.

He stared at her mouth, his hand slipping beneath her shirt, travelling over her stomach and towards her bra. She closed her eyes, lips parted, a hitch in her breath. Heathcote swallowed. If he was caught having sex with his mistress in his Commons office, he would almost certainly have to resign. But the place was almost deserted, his special advisers long gone.

She bent towards him, slid her tongue into his mouth.