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I checked my watch for the fourth time in barely a minute.

Was I nervous?

Yeah, I suppose so.

I'm the owner of an art gallery in central London and today was set to be a unique occasion.

Rarely do I find myself having to close the gallery - on this occasion the afternoon - for a private viewing, but when Max Roberts, a 24-year-old multimillionaire and devout art lover, via his PA, showed interest, I couldn't help but respectfully volunteer that to her.

As luck would have it, I'd only just recently received some exquisite exhibits by a new artist, named Caitlin Dubious. Four etchings from a month-long trek through the Amazon bush, where she visited several villages.

They captured the mood of some of the women she met, Caitlin said, while, on first glance, they leaned towards the erotic.

"Nervous?" the sound of Frank's voice over the gallery's com's startled me.

Although the gallery was closed, the only staff I'd kept on for Max's visit were the security team, Frank and Emitt. With expensive art, none of which is by the front door, they are my main eyes against theft.

With barely five minutes before Max was due to arrive, I mordantly smiled through the CCTV camera at him.

"You look fine, Miss Lidbetter," Emitt's deep bass voice boomed out when I quickly checked myself in my pocket mirror.

‘Just fine,' I thought, tousling several loose strands of hair into place and then closing my compact.

‘He's here,' I noticed upon hearing the sound of the door's buzzer ring, which, in turn, made my stomach flip and my heart beat that bit faster as I went and let Max in.

God, he was more handsome in the flesh than I'd seen in magazines. Just the sight of him sent tingles racing throughout my body.

‘Control yourself,' a voice inside me urged as I pulled the door open for him, a huge Cheshire cat smile plastered over my face.

"And you must be Miss Lidbetter," he intoned, his words feeling like honey as they tripped off his tongue.

"Call me Sheah, Mr Roberts," I said to him, holding the door open wide, eyes focused on his warm elegant smile.

"Only if you'll do me the courtesy of addressing me Max," he lilted, and who was I to argue with that.

"Welcome to the gallery, Mr-Max," I said, closing and locking the door as his eyes took in the first of the gallery's many exhibits.

"As you were doubtless made aware by my PA, I'm looking for something to adorn the walls of my new home."

Home? From what I'd seen in ‘OK magazine', it was more of a mansion.

"If you'll just follow me," I said, moving ahead of him.

Every so often, as I led Max past the gallery's many other exhibits, he would stop and pass his critical eye over what caught his attention before moving on.

"Here we are," I announced having come to a stop.

The items I was sure he would like were kept in a small upstairs area, yet to have been properly displayed. In effect, Max would be the first

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