LYNNE PEMBERTON
Platinum Coast

Dedication

To my father.

The past is past,

lost forever,

only the memories survive.

I miss you.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue: Barbados, 10 September 1993

Chapter One: 1982

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen: Five Years Later

Chapter Twenty: 22 September 1993

Epilogue: December 1994

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue BARBADOS, 10 SEPTEMBER 1993

It was dark when the small fishing boat slipped unnoticed out of the shallow-draught harbour. There was a strong sea breeze and spray flayed the skin of Christina’s cheeks. She turned her face away from the wind and caught the smell of diesel fuel and dead fish. Bile stung her throat like acid and she fought hard to hold down the rising nausea.

A strong gust caught the Island Spirit full on its starboard side. She stumbled amongst the coiled ropes. A pair of strong hands steadied her.

‘Are you okay, Mrs Reece-Carlton?’

She stared up into the concerned face and friendly dark eyes of Father Edward Collymore.

‘I’ll be okay,’ she mumbled. She clutched the priest’s arm as the boat rolled alarmingly in the opposite direction, and smiled faintly to herself.

Ever the perfectionist, Stephen had left precise instructions in his will.

The burial at sea must be at dawn and approximately ten miles out from the north point of the island, where the Caribbean meets the southern Atlantic.

Christina looked across to the eastern horizon as the skipper cut the engines. She gripped the gaudily painted side of the boat as it bobbed in sickening motion to and fro. Slowly the sea before her lit up as though floodlit, the top of the sun’s glowing golden orb just visible above the rolling waves.

Dawn comes quickly in the Caribbean. Thick fingers of brilliant light punctured the darkness and suddenly the entire sky was filled with a bright-blue dazzling glow.

‘Now,’ Christina said to Father Collymore, who nodded and squeezed her hand.

He turned to the wheelhouse and said: ‘It’s time’, signalling to a long metal box lying in the stern.

The skipper nodded his grizzled head and went below. A few seconds later he reappeared with five brawny fishermen dressed in faded T-shirts and surf shorts or ragged cut-off jeans.

They all nodded silently to Christina and the priest as they made their way to the stern and lined up three on either side of the lead-lined coffin which contained the mortal remains of Stephen Reece-Carlton.

Father Collymore took up position at the head of the coffin with Christina by his side.

‘Stephen Reece-Carlton,’ he began in his deep, sonorous voice, ‘lived an exciting and eventful life. His departure, so premature and unexpected, will be sadly mourned. His last wish was to be buried at daybreak in the sea he had grown to love – the Caribbean – which laps the shores of our beloved Barbados, the island Stephen Reece-Carlton had made his second home.’

Christina stared at the coffin. Again, the wan smile touched the corners of her mouth. Trust Stephen to have dreamed up such a bizarre burial for himself. He had never conformed before, so why start now? Always larger than life. The smile left her lips and she felt the familiar pricking at the back of her eyes. Her husband wasn’t larger than life Not any more

Her gaze clouded with tears as she heard the priest begin to recite Stephen’s favourite psalm.

‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, he makes me down to lie. She longed for the whole dreadful ordeal to be over.

It was, soon enough. As Father Collymore finished, six pairs of muscular arms lifted the coffin. For a moment they held it poised as the priest murmured the final words, then they let go. It hit the side of the boat with a dull thud before plunging beneath the yawning Caribbean sea.

Christina stared dully at the place where the coffin had disappeared. Sun glinted on the water and a shoal of flying-fish flew over the place where Stephen Reece-Carlton had finally been laid to rest.

She felt the engines surge and the boat turned south and headed for home.

With Father Collymore standing silently by her side, Christina turned her eyes to the sky. To the north, a cloudless horizon stretched as far as the eye could see. It promised to be another perfect day in paradise.

She wrapped her arms around herself for comfort, listening to the swish of the waves lapping against the sides of the boat. A kaleidoscope of recollections filled her mind.

Stephen had always loved the sea. The first time he had taken her deep-sea fishing he had caught an 120-pound king-fish. She had been terrified. In her mind’s eye she could see his teasing face and hear his laughter, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. It was ten years ago. Probably more, she mused.

Then there was the wonderful holiday they had taken with friends on a small sailing ketch in the Grenadines. Long, lazy days spent snorkelling and swimming in the Tobago Keys. Bright starlit nights filled with love …

A sudden surge as a trawler ploughed into the swell brought her out of her reverie. She turned and looked back over the stern towards the place in the implacable sea where Stephen now lay.

‘Death by misadventure,’ the coroner had said, and his verdict had been final. But Christina was not convinced.

Stephen had trodden the hard path to immense wealth and power; a path which had become littered with routed opponents and embittered rivals. One of them might have sought revenge, decided to arrange his premature departure.

Christina recalled Stephen’s last conversation with her, only hours before his death.

‘Remember, Christina, when you live as close to the edge as I do, there’s always the risk of falling off. Or of being pushed. Take care, my darling, I may not always be around to protect you.’

She had thought it a strange thing to say at the time. She had not understood what he was driving at. Now, perhaps she did. When it was too late.

She shivered and turned to face the shore. They were close to land. Past the vast turquoise semi-circle of Brighton Beach she could see the bustling harbour and low stone buildings of the island’s capital, Bridgetown.

‘Don’t worry,’ Christina whispered, ‘I’ll take care of myself. I had a good teacher, the best there ever was – Stephen Reece-Carlton.’

21 SEPTEMBER 1993, NEW YORK

He wasn’t going to catch her; not this time. Her legs torn and bleeding, Christina brushed through the sharp, brittle cane-stems as flying cockroaches buzzed and whistled past her head. The island sun in the cloudless sky was merciless, scorching her shoulders and arms whilst the rushing blood pounded in her ears.

Suddenly, the cane field cleared to a wide expanse of dry scrubland across which she saw the old abandoned plantation house. The breath sobbed in her throat as she ran towards it.

The crumbling coral-stone steps leading up to the front door looked scarcely able to take her weight. She stepped up them cautiously, glancing behind her There was no one there. She had lost him.

‘Thank God.’ she gasped as she pushed open the heavy wooden door with its peeling paint Inside the house it was cool. She stood for a few moments, adjusting her eyes to the gloom as her rasping breath echoed around what she gradually came to see was a vast, domed hallway dominated by a broad, sweeping stone staircase to her left.

She stopped at the landing, her expression a mixture of fear and fascination. She could hear something. It echoed faintly around the vast, empty house a hushed, repetitive scraping sound, sinister yet strangely familiar As if in a trance she walked slowly towards the noise It was coming from one of the bedrooms. She tried the doors as she moved along the landing. They were all locked, except one – the door to the room whence came the ghostly sound. She opened the door and edged into the bedroom. Then she smiled.

Crossing the room she leaned over the old-fashioned gramophone and lifted the stuck needle. The record crackled slightly as she replaced it in the groove and Mozart’s Symphony No. 41 erupted around her

It was loud, so loud that she did not hear the sound of manic laughter coming from the man who had appeared behind her. She heard nothing but the music until he was upon her.

She whirled round as he grabbed her arm.

He was wearing a crude voodoo mask. It covered his face, but she could see his eyes, cold and unblinking. Dead green eyes. The man’s laughter turned into a high-pitched shrieking which shook his body. She tried to struggle but it was no good, he was too strong. Yet, strangely, she was not afraid.

He reminded her of one of the grotesque laughing men she had seen at fairgrounds when she was a child. Somehow he wasn’t real. Yet he was real; so were his actions.

He began unbuttoning her blouse. She watched him as if from a distance, impassively, knowing that it was useless to resist. He bared first one breast and then the other. She cried out as he squeezed one nipple viciously. His laughter had subsided; he smiled at her pain and seemed almost peaceful.

He moved his hands up over her breasts towards her neck. She stiffened as the fingers closed around her throat. Now she was afraid. Rigid with fear she waited for him to tighten his hands. Then she saw the ring: the tricoloured band of gold that she had given Stephen on their wedding night. And it was then that she began to scream …

‘No, Stephen, no, please.’

Christina woke up shouting, drenched in perspiration and knotted in a tangle of silk sheets. Shaking uncontrollably, she sat up and tried to calm herself as her overloaded mind began to distinguish dream from reality. She was not on the island, she reminded herself, but in New York for a meeting with Kingsleigh Klein, Stephen’s lawyer. After a few moments she reached across and switched on the bedside light. It was 3.15. She leaned back against her damp and crumpled pillow and took a deep breath. It was the same nightmare she’d had for the past ten nights, since returning from Stephen’s burial at sea to the familiarity of the apartment in New York’s prestigious Sutton Place.

She ran a shaky hand through her dishevelled hair. Tonight, she thought, of all nights she had needed a good seven hours’ sleep. She contemplated taking a sleeping-pill but thought better of it. It would make her groggy in the morning, and she couldn’t afford that. Not tomorrow at the meeting which Kingsleigh Klein had unexpectedly called to ‘discuss the disposition’ of Stephen’s Platinum Resorts shares. Christina had been surprised that this had not been covered in his will, but at the time it had been read to her by an overawed young associate from Bascombe and Partners on Barbados she had been too stunned and disorientated by grief to ask any questions. All she knew was that Stephen had left a great deal of money – many millions more than she had dreamed possible – in outright legacy to herself and in trust for their son Adam and Stephen’s daughter from his first marriage, Victoria.

She shivered, though this time it wasn’t the bad dream that caused her uneasiness. It was the cold breath of reality.

She knew that there was going to be conflict. In the weeks and months ahead the wolves would be after her, snarling and snapping, eager for blood. She had always hated the deviousness and brutality of high-powered business. It frightened her. Yet later that morning she was to be pitched right into the middle of it, thrown into the arena to fight it out with Antonio Cellini and the stepchild who had always hated her.

At least with Antonio it would be purely business. With Victoria it would be personal. It always had been. Like Christina she had expectations of Stephen’s Platinum Resorts Inc. shares. After all, like Christina she had been much loved by him.

Though unlike me, Christina thought, as she made herself more comfortable against the pillows, she was also completely spoiled and indulged by Stephen.

She shook her head ruefully. She had never been able to make it work with Victoria. From the very beginning, at their first meeting, Christina had seen something in those lovely eyes that did not belong in a child. She had tried to win Victoria over, to become friends with the beautiful child who had fast become a beguiling young woman, but she had failed. Her efforts over the years had been constantly rejected; now the gap between them was filled with distrust and resentment.

It was, she supposed, the classic stepmother – stepdaughter relationship. With Stephen in the middle.

Despite his acuteness in business he had never been able to see how treacherous his own daughter could be. He had showered her with material possessions; her trust funds and the country properties she would inherit in England made her worth tens of millions of pounds. And with her looks and brains she was bound to acquire herself a fabulously wealthy husband.

But it wasn’t enough, not for Victoria. Platinum Resorts Inc. remained, a monument to Stephen’s vision and legendary flair. Tomorrow the disposition of his holding in the company was to be made clear.

Tomorrow, at the lawyer’s meeting, Victoria was certain to make her move.

Robert Leyton awoke with a colossal hangover.

Delicately he eased himself out of the bed, careful not to jolt his sore and aching head.

Behind the bathroom door was a full-length mirror. Robert squinted at his reflection. He looked like death. The muscles of his stocky, gone-to-seed body were slack and his face was drawn and haggard, eyelids drooping heavily over his dark eyes.

‘Getting old, my son,’ he told himself in the mirror.

His hand shook as he slowly and painfully shaved the dark stubble off his chin, careful not to nick himself. He didn’t want shaving cuts on his face today, not with a meeting with that smart lawyer coming up. Besides, as Victoria’s chief trustee he owed it to her to put up a good appearance. He must do his best for Stephen’s daughter. His old friend and partner would have expected no less.

He lit a cigarette with a hand that trembled slightly and inhaled, letting the smoke curl lazily away from his thin lips as he gazed out of the window at the driving rain. Thirty-two floors below him it was washing some of the surface filth off the streets of the city. He hated New York; had never been able to understand why Stephen had loved it so much.

But then, there was much about his former partner he had never understood.

Staring sightlessly out of the window, he drew smoke deep into his lungs and recalled Stephen’s words to him the day before he died. His voice on the telephone had been cold and deadly serious.

‘Robert, you must promise me something. It’s very important. If anything happens to me in the next few days I want you to go to Zurich, to see Nicolas Wagner. He has a letter in his possession. It’s to do with Platinum Resorts …’ – the company Stephen had founded without Robert’s participation – ‘He’ll know what to do if you tell him it’s time. He’ll contact Klein first. It’s all arranged.’

Robert had expressed surprise. He had never known Stephen be so mysterious. ‘But why?’ he had asked.

‘Because you’re the only one I can trust to do it.’

‘Do what?’

‘Stop that bastard Cellini getting his hands on Platinum Resorts! He’ll do anything to gain control, anything. It’s up to you to stop him.’

Robert had shivered. He doubted if there was anyone who could stop Antonio Cellini getting what he wanted. Except a man like Stephen.

‘Have I your word, Robert?’ Stephen’s voice had been low and urgent. ‘You’ll pull out all the stops?’ It had been a demand.

Though mystified, he had agreed. ‘Yes, of course, Stephen. You know I will. Anything you say. But come on, why so serious? You’re as fit as a fiddle. Nothing’s going to happen to you.’

‘I know that,’ the voice at the other end of the telephone had snapped back. ‘It’s merely a precaution. You know me. Better safe than sorry.’

They were Stephen’s last words to him.

The following day Christina had phoned and broken the fatal news in a distant, choking voice.

Victor, the butler, had found Stephen’s body at the foot of the stairs in their Barbados home, Crystal Springs House. His neck was broken.

The island coroner had ruled that it was death by misadventure. Robert had difficulty accepting the verdict, but kept his own counsel. It surely could not have been coincidence that Stephen had set in motion those complicated and highly secret arrangements ‘in case of’ his own death?

He turned from the rain-splattered window and savagely screwed his cigarette out in an ashtray. What, he wondered for the hundredth time, had Stephen got himself mixed up in?

After the fortieth length, Antonio Cellini pulled himself effortlessly out of the heated water and padded across the marble tiles to a towel draped on a chair at the side of the dark-blue-tiled swimming-pool.

He moved on the ground as he had in the water: effortlessly and with an animal grace. Standing at six one and weighing 180 pounds, he had the body of a man of thirty. Which, he considered, wasn’t bad when next birthday he would be fifty-three.

Wrapping himself in the towel, he looked across the grounds of the Southampton colonial-style mansion he had finally bought from his parents-in-law. He never tired of the sense of pride that view gave him; it represented everything he had ever wanted, everything he had worked for and achieved.

A flash of blonde hair appeared at a bedroom window but was gone before he could lift a hand to wave. He wondered why Susanna was up so early. It was unusual.

He jogged barefoot up the well-manicured lawns and through the open french windows. He was surprised to see his wife sitting fully dressed at the head of the polished dining-table in the elegant, pale-green morning room. She was spreading butter sparingly over a wafer-thin slice of toast.

‘Good morning, Susanna,’ he said brightly. ‘Up so early? To what do I owe this pleasure?’

She ignored his question. ‘Antonio,’ she demanded with barely controlled irritation, ‘how many times do I have to ask you? After you have been swimming, please come in through the kitchen. You are dripping all over the Aubusson.’

Her blue eyes were cold and full of disapproval.

He was tempted to tell her acidly that the faded, threadbare rug he was soaking had cost him several thousand dollars. That if he wanted to stand on it, wet or otherwise, he would. And that furthermore, if there was one thing he had learned in his long years of association with a tight-ass like Stephen Reece-Carlton, it was that it was vulgar to use anything but the generic: ‘the car’, not ‘the Mercedes’; ‘champagne’, not ‘Dom Perignon’; ‘the rug’, not the goddamned ‘Aubusson’! He caught his own chain of thought and smiled ironically. Well, what do you know? Some of Stephen’s class had finally rubbed off. Too bad it had to be after his death. He wondered if he ought to correct the supposedly classy woman he had married. But he thought better of it. He didn’t want another argument, not this morning. This morning he had more important things on his mind.

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he continued, glancing at the Louis XV clock, yet another of Susanna’s expensive antiques. ‘Why aren’t you still in bed? You’re never up at this time in the morning.’

‘I have an appointment with Clifford Norton about the party next month. He goes on vacation this afternoon. This morning is the only time he could make.’ Her mouth nipped at a corner of the toast and she chewed it slowly and delicately. He grimaced. It irritated him the way she ate like a bird.

‘Not another party, Susanna,’ he moaned. ‘I’m sick of your constant parties. All those phoney people descending on us like a cloud of locusts. Give me a break. Haven’t we done our quota of entertaining for this year?’

She gave him another icy stare but said nothing. He grabbed a warm croissant from a plate on the table and bit into it as he walked out of the room, leaving a trail of crumbs behind him. He bounded up the wide staircase two at a time and almost collided with a maid. She was new, dark-skinned and attractive, and he smiled at her. He didn’t bother to learn their names any more, they changed so often.

He padded through Susanna’s bedroom suite, which interconnected with his own. He hated the fact that they had separate rooms. He missed waking up next to her.

It has been wonderful, once: to be aroused by the musky remnants of her expensive perfume, to touch the silky strands of her wayward hair, to caress with eager fingers the fine golden hair of her bush. But it hadn’t lasted long. He had realized early in their marriage, after a few cold and indifferent submissions, that Susanna loathed sex in the morning.

And that had been the beginning of their growing apart; the start of what had eventually led to separate bedrooms. It had never excited him to have his women acquiescent. He wanted them eager for it, hungry enough to match his own appetite. His mind strayed to the good-looking maid he had encountered on the stairs. She had possibilities, he thought, and felt his penis stirring into life.

He shook his head vigorously, shaking off thoughts of sex, then smiled to himself. The prospect of a fight always made him horny, and today at the meeting he expected there to be a bloody battle. It was important to keep his mind on business.

Christina, he was certain, could be persuaded to stay out. She had Adam to look after now. Victoria, though, was going to need some careful handling. She always did …

He showered and dressed in a sombre Armani suit, a blue shirt and silk paisley tie, then ran a comb lightly through his hair which, except for the distinguished wings of grey at the temples, was as thick and dark as it had always been.

He smiled at himself in the mirror, showing a set of even white teeth. He felt good: alert and exhilarated, his veins pumping with adrenalin, anticipating the battle.

He was sure he would win. Now, at last, he would gain control of Stephen Reece-Carlton’s business empire. His grin widened at the prospect – and at the thought that his triumph would have Stephen Reece-Carlton turning in his grave.

Victoria surveyed herself in the full-length wardrobe mirror of room 263 of the Plaza Hotel.

She saw a slender, stern-faced young woman whose braided blue Chanel suit matched her eyes to perfection. She had pinned her long, black hair into a chignon in order to emphasize the exquisite heart-shaped diamond pendant glittering at her throat.

Tenderly, she touched the brilliant, six-carat stone and recalled the words that had been written in Stephen’s open, scrawling handwriting on the card accompanying it:

When you wear this I’ll never be far away.

Your ever adoring father.

She felt the tears spring into her eyes and gripped the edge of the dressing-table, fighting to stay in control. He had given her the necklace only days before he had died. It had been his last gift.

She fought back the tears. They threatened to mess up her mascara and she hadn’t time to start on her make-up again.

‘Come on, Vicky,’ she said softly to herself. ‘You’re Daddy’s girl. Do what he always told you to do. Come out fighting.’

She smiled bravely at her reflection, pushing a wisp of stray hair out of her eyes, but inside she felt her heart breaking with the pain of his loss. She missed him so much. He had gone so suddenly, too soon for her to have learned all that he had to teach her: about winning people over, making them feel good, while all the time he was manipulating them for his own ends. About continued success and how not to grow complacent. Most of all about power.

Victoria was twenty-one, rich and beautiful. In his will her father had left money in trust for her until she was twenty-five, more than enough to buy her anything she wanted. But none of that was enough. She wanted power.

Now that her father was dead she saw herself as his natural successor. She had inherited much of his wealth, his good looks and his business acumen. She had also inherited his determination. And it was with that, the iron will she had seen him use so often, that she intended to wrest control of the one thing he had not left her – complete control of Platinum Resorts. Or rather – had not left her yet, she reminded herself. Today’s meeting was to determine the reassignment of her father’s shares. Antonio had been asked to attend, but she couldn’t believe that Stephen Reece-Carlton would have been so weak as to make the sentimental gesture of giving away shares to a business partner. No, Antonio’s presence was a mere formality, as was that of her trustee, Robert Leyton. Dear old Uncle Bob. Yet another man she could twist around her finger. Which left Christina.

There was a fierce stabbing pain in the palm of her hands. Victoria looked down in surprise as blood seeped slowly down one wrist. At just the thought of her stepmother she had clenched her fists so tightly that her long nails had drawn blood. Maybe it was an omen? For the first time since her father’s death, Victoria smiled.

The rain had turned Madison Avenue into a blocked artery of horn-sounding yellow cabs, all going nowhere.

Antonio peered past his driver’s head at the immovable jam of vehicles stretching as far into the distance as he could see, then consulted his watch. He turned to stare at the pedestrians scurrying along the sidewalk. No matter how fraught and bad-tempered they were, he thought, at least they were going somewhere. He decided to join them. He might get a little wet, but that would be better than being a half-hour late.

He arrived at the New York offices of Platinum Resorts Inc. damp and agitated. It had been a struggle among the pedestrians on the wet sidewalks. He was fifteen minutes late.

‘The traffic on Madison was hell,’ he announced by way of an apology as he walked into the huge room that had been Stephen’s office. The others seated around the polished American cedar boardroom table looked up. No one smiled.

‘It was bad for all of us, Mr Cellini,’ Kingsleigh Klein grated patronizingly. ‘But, as you see, the rest of us made it for the appointed time.’

Antonio hid his irritation for the arrogant Kingsleigh Klein, who had been Stephen’s choice of lawyer for himself and the company. Klein had always made it obvious he disliked Cellini. The feeling was mutual, and when he had control, Antonio reflected as he smiled ingratiatingly and sat down next to Victoria, one of his first moves would be to get rid of him.

He glanced at Christina sitting opposite and noticed the dark rings around her hazel eyes, made all the more prominent by the exhausted pallor of her face. He nodded briefly to Robert Leyton. So who was the third man, neat and smooth and prissy-looking, wearing gold-rimmed half-glasses that made him look like a college professor?

‘Now that we are all finally here …’ – Klein glanced at him again – ‘perhaps we can begin? We have a lot to get through. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Herr Nicolas Wagner who has joined us today from Zurich? Like myself, Herr Wagner is a lawyer. Stephen Reece-Carlton consulted him a few months ago.’

Klein looked as if he had swallowed something sour, Antonio was pleased to see, but Wagner seemed to be out of the same mould: boring, precise and fond of the sound of his own voice.

‘Before his death,’ Nicolas Wagner began, ‘Stephen Reece-Carlton left an important document with me. His instructions were that this document was to be opened not less than one week after his burial.’ He produced a large brown manila envelope which he placed on the table in front of him. The room was silent.

Wagner paused for a moment before he went on: ‘This document is to be opened and read to all of those present here today by Mr Leyton.’

The lawyer slid the envelope across the polished table to Robert, who proceeded to open it. Antonio, watching through narrowed eyes, noticed that his hands were shaking.

Inside the envelope was a sheet of white foolscap covered in Stephen’s untidy scrawl.

Robert’s voice cracked slightly as he began to read. He stopped, cleared his throat, and began again.

‘Earlier this year I felt compelled to write this letter in case I met with an untimely death. The building of Platinum Resorts Inc. has been for me a wonderful and challenging experience. I believe that the hotels are a testament to all the effort and time put into making them what I consider to be perfect retreats.

‘I have no regrets. It has been a labour of love. I wish to leave Christina and Victoria 24 per cent of the company each in the hope that, now that I am dead, they may settle their differences and unite to prevent Antonio Cellini gaining control of Platinum Hotels.

‘That is something I do not wish to happen.’

There was a concerted gasp from everyone around the table as they shot Antonio embarrassed looks. His eyes smouldered and he reddened slightly, but he made no comment as Robert continued.

‘Without me there to prevent it, I am afraid Antonio will drag the company down.’

At this he finally exploded. Everyone jumped as he smashed his clenched fist onto the table’s polished surface, rattling the glasses and upsetting Victoria’s cup. Coffee spilled onto her new Chanel suit. She frantically dabbed at the seeping brown stain with a tissue, then glared at him ferociously.

‘I suppose it’s too much to expect an apology?’

‘For Chrissake, shut up!’ he barked at her. ‘I’ll buy you a dozen designer suits.’

Robert looked up from the letter. He was tempted to smile. Cellini had always made him feel inadequate, and now he was enjoying the chance to observe the Italian’s discomfiture. ‘May I continue?’ he enquired with a trace of smug satisfaction.

‘Yeah, you can continue,’ snarled Antonio, ‘but don’t expect me to hang around here if there’s gonna be much more of this crap. Just cut out all the amateur dramatics and get to the point.’

His voice became even more angry. ‘Christ, this is just typical of Stephen! That sonofabitch loved to play power games with people and even now he’s dead he’s still stringing us along. All we want to know is, who’s holding the remainder of the shares? When we know that we can get down to the real business.’

Robert had never been on the receiving end of Antonio Cellini’s legendary temper and wasn’t about to change that now. He became conciliatory. ‘There’s not much more.’

‘Then get on with it,’ snapped Antonio. Robert cleared his throat and continued.

‘Several years ago, for reasons I choose not to disclose, I was forced to part with a substantial proportion of my company. The shareholder, my half-brother Edward Harrington, who holds 28 per cent of Platinum Resorts, has always preferred to remain anonymous and let me act in his best interests but, in the event of my death, I am certain he will make himself known to you.

‘I must warn you that my half-brother is not to be trusted, not under any circumstances, and I am absolutely opposed to his becoming involved in any way with the running of Platinum Resorts.

‘You must always be on your guard against this man. As the other shareholders in the company, you must try to get rid of him in any way you can. Buy him out, but get rid of him. This is vitally important.

‘This is my last wish and I entrust you, particularly Christina and Victoria, with the task of carrying it out.

‘I would like to think that Platinum Resorts will enter the next decade with the same vigour and style that have made it the phenomenal success that it is today.

‘Thank you, Christina, for putting up with my obsession and loving me in spite of everything.

‘Finally, I wish all of you everything I would have wished for myself. Especially longevity.

‘Take care, and bonne chance.’

The sight of Stephen’s signature, still bold and authoritative while his body was now at the mercy of the sea, caused Robert’s voice to falter.

For a while there was a silence in the room, broken only by the soft patter of raindrops on the window panes.

Then Victoria’s voice cut crisply into the silence. ‘This is quite incredible, you know. Daddy and Uncle Edward never got on, barely saw each other. They were only half-brothers in any case. There is absolutely no reason I can think of why my father should leave Edward Harrington a controlling interest in his company.’

The Swiss lawyer glanced at her sympathetically. ‘I appreciate this has come as a shock to you, Miss Reece-Carlton, but your father’s instructions were crystal-clear. It seems that, for whatever reason, Mr Reece-Carlton intended Edward Harrington to benefit.’

‘For whatever reason,’ thought Christina. A lawyerly euphemism if ever she’d heard one. Like Victoria, she could think of no reason why Stephen should have left Edward a stake in the company he had loved. Why, she could remember him refusing his half-brother the loan of a few hundred pounds once. And now to leave him all this? It didn’t make sense.

‘But why all the goddamned secrecy?’ Antonio exploded. ‘So far as I knew, Stephen wouldn’t give his fag brother the time of day. I just don’t believe he could do this! I mean, legally, didn’t he have to notify me? We were partners, for Chrissake.’

Herr Wagner shuddered delicately at the choice of words, but hastened to assure them: ‘Mr Reece-Carlton acted quite properly. On his instructions I formed an offshore company and issued 28 per cent of the registered stock to Mr Harrington. An entirely legal manoeuvre, of course.’

Antonio snorted. ‘Legal, perhaps, but something here stinks. I’m not letting Harrington get his fat little pinkies on my company!’

Christina chose that moment to intervene. ‘Don’t you mean our company?’

For once, Victoria agreed with her. ‘Yes. By my reckoning we three are equal partners, Antonio, dear, holding 24 per cent each.’

Kingsleigh Klein broke in: ‘That’s certainly the current position, but aren’t you forgetting Stephen’s express wish that his half-brother should not be allowed to take part in the running of the company?’ He looked at Nicolas Wagner, who nodded slightly. ‘And I’m not breaking any professional confidences if I tell you that Mr Harrington himself has no intention of becoming involved in the running of Platinum Resorts. I believe you have been talking with him, Herr Wagner?’

The Swiss lawyer allowed himself a careful smile. ‘While delighted by his brother’s generosity, Mr Harrington made it quite plain to me that he does not see business as his forte. He wishes to sell his holding and has instructed me to act on his behalf. Naturally I would approach the other stockholders first.’

‘Now you’re talking language I understand. How much does this bozo want, and how soon can you arrange a transfer to me?’ rasped Antonio.

Christina felt her temples throb with suppressed annoyance. The man was impossible. ‘Hang on a minute, Antonio. There’s more than one guest at this party,’ she reminded him.

So far she had taken a back seat in this discussion. The news of the bequest to Edward had both shocked and surprised her – it seemed such an uncharacteristic move for Stephen to make. But now Antonio’s arrogant presumption had got through to her and she was determined to challenge him. He had no automatic right to those shares. No more than herself or, God forbid, Victoria.

‘Herr Wagner. I take it you would be equally happy to dispose of the shares to any of the existing shareholders?’

He inclined his head. ‘That is so. Mr Reece-Carlton foresaw there might be some – how shall I say? – healthy competition, and I have considered how best to handle it. I presume you will all three be bidding for Mr Harrington’s holding?’

He was looking specifically at Victoria who murmured, ‘Naturally.’ Christina’s heart sank. Her stepdaughter was twenty-one, had never held down a job or even completed her studies. Yet, with all the arrogance she had inherited from her father, she seemed quite convinced that she could step into his shoes.

‘I think, my dear, as your trustee …’ Robert Leyton began to bluster.

Victoria turned huge blue-grey eyes directly on him. ‘Uncle Robert, I know this is what my father would want. Obviously I need your consent to proceed, but you won’t withhold it, will you? After all, I am my father’s daughter.’

He shrugged and glanced slightly shamefacedly at Christina. She was not surprised. Father or daughter, Robert Leyton never could refuse a Reece-Carlton.

‘Then, with Mr Leyton acting on your behalf as trustee, I will accept a bid from you,’ Nicolas Wagner told Victoria. ‘I think the simplest and quickest way of handling this is to take sealed bids from all of you for outright control of Mr Harrington’s holding. I suggest we reconvene here in this office in one week’s time. That should give you all the chance to review your affairs and give me your best offer.’

Antonio was far from happy with this suggestion. ‘Now hold on a minute. Christina, Vicky, come on!’ His tone was heavily condescending. ‘It doesn’t have to come to this, surely? Competing like enemies after all the ties there’ve been between our two families.’ He put one bronzed hand on his heart. ‘If I promise, on the memory of my dead mother, to run the company just exactly as Stephen would have liked, can’t we just forget this competition shit? I mean, surely you do realize how much money I’ve got behind me? This is just a lawyer’s way of beefing up his fixer’s fee.’

It was such a phoney act it was almost laughable, Christina thought. But before she could reject the suggestion, Victoria was replying, her remarkable eyes flashing a stormy blue-grey light.

‘No, Antonio, I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe you’d run Platinum Resorts the way Daddy would have wanted. Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll take my chance in the bidding.’

‘Me too,’ said Christina. ‘Stephen left his family more than well provided for. It was obviously his way of giving us a chance to keep control of Platinum Resorts.’

Victoria gave her a cold, contemptuous stare. ‘Less of the “us”, please. No matter what Daddy might have wished in his letter, I’m acting purely for myself in this. If my bid’s successful, Christina, you’re out. As far as I’m concerned you were never more than an interloper in this family.’

Christina drew in her breath. More than ten years of it, and yet Victoria’s venomous hatred still had the power to cut her like a knife. Such a depth of ill-feeling, just because Christina had had the temerity to become Stephen Reece-Carlton’s second wife.

Stephen, she prayed silently, show me what to do. I miss you so. Why did you push us all into this crazy competition? Was it just to prove how well you had taught us?

Or perhaps it was for another purpose altogether?

Oblivious to the others, wrapped in her own private thoughts, Christina leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes to hide the stinging tears that threatened. Perhaps, by taking part in this battle for control of Platinum Resorts, she could find the answers to the questions that haunted her night and day. Why had Stephen died? Who had entered their house in Barbados and pushed him to his death – for that it had been murder all along she was suddenly in no doubt at all.

Yet the man she had met eleven years before had been kind and generous, rich in more than monetary terms. How could she ever have dreamed it would one day come to this? One company and three contenders equally determined to wrest control. A regular scorpion’s nest after such golden beginnings …

Chapter One 1982

‘I declare the Westside Shopping and Leisure Centre officially open.’ Chris Gowan, the soap star from Coronation Street, smiled broadly at the flashing press cameras.

‘Thank you all for coming today.’ He had to shout above the deafening applause generated by thousands of eager, noisy shoppers gathered outside the huge new shopping mall on the outskirts of Manchester.

Six young model girls dressed in Wild West theme costumes and armed with a stack of promotional brochures walked towards the small rostrum where Chris was standing. Their appearance was greeted by loud whistles and jeers from a group of crested and tattooed punks pushing precariously close to the platform.

‘These beautiful girls will be mingling amongst you today …’ Chris held up his hand for quiet as the youths shouted in unison: ‘Get ‘em off.’

‘Later, lads, later.’ Chris grinned, and the punk rockers roared their approval. ‘The girls are laden with lots of free goodies for all of you.’ He paused before going on to say, ‘Westside Leisure Centre has something for everyone, and we are offering free gifts today and all of next week. Don’t forget to enter our free prize draw and you could be the lucky winner of a holiday for two in Majorca.’

This announcement caused another wave of whooping and yelling.

‘I do hope you will all enjoy shopping at Westside Leisure Centre.’

Chris Gowan stepped down from the small rostrum to join the six models, all wide, gleaming smiles, posed bodies and pouting lips directed at the press and local television cameras. He stood very close to one particular chestnut-haired girl, obviously appreciating the view over her low-cut boned bodice.

‘Do you mind?’ she hissed.

He winked and laughed. ‘No. Do you?’

Christina O’Neill remembered that he was the visiting celebrity and she was just one of the glamorous bodies recruited for the punters to ogle at during the opening ceremony. With a smile fixed firmly in place she moved off through the crowd, handing out brochures.

‘Can I interest you in one, sir?’ she asked a grinning, shaven-headed spectator, and instantly realized her mistake.

‘D’you hear that, lads?’ he asked his mates. ‘She fancies me. Yeah, come on, darlin’. I’d fancy one with you any day.’

Christina was about to tell him to get lost when he hooked his finger through the bright-red garter she was wearing and twanged it so hard against her leg that she jumped and dropped the pile of brochures she was holding. They scattered at her feet, some of them sliding across the ground.

Christina glared at him before bending down to retrieve the brochures.

‘I get so sick of men like you,’ she said angrily, as she rose to her feet and found herself staring, not at the leering youngster, but at a man in a beautifully cut dark-grey chalk-stripe suit. His thick brown hair was brushed away from a high forehead. She caught a hint of the subtle, tangy cologne he wore. Without knowing exactly how, she realized it was a very expensive one.

‘I’m sorry.’ She felt her face flush. ‘I wasn’t talking to you. I was about to tell that creep …’ – she pointed towards the punk, laughing and joking with his gang – ‘… exactly what I thought of him.’

She sighed and added, ‘Men!’

‘Not all of us are like that, you know.’

Christina looked directly into his pale-green eyes.

‘I’m beginning to wonder. So far I’ve had the misfortune of meeting too many of that variety.’ She smiled wryly and added, ‘I’m afraid it’s an occupational hazard.’

He glanced at the scanty saloon-girl’s outfit that accentuated her narrow waist and exposed most of her long, shapely legs, and nodded.

‘I can understand why.’

‘I must be mad, getting dressed up like this for a measly twenty-five pounds a day, but a gal’s got to eat.’ Her laughter held a hint of mischief, and he thought again that she was more than just another pretty girl.

‘At least I’ve met one gentleman.’ She smiled at him under downturned lashes as he handed her the brochures she had dropped. It seemed he was about to speak to her again when an older, slightly corpulent man approached, looking very agitated. She recognized Robert Leyton, one of the mall’s developers, who had contacted the agency to hire girls for the opening.

‘Stephen, there you are! Charles Naylor is waiting in the hospitality lounge. He’s scheduled to tee off at two and would like to see you before he goes.’

‘Mustn’t keep the man from his golf,’ Christina’s rescuer commented, then, before Robert could steer him away, he said, ‘By the way, I didn’t catch your name?’

Robert glared in their direction. ‘Stephen, Charles won’t wait much longer.’

He ignored the impatient voice and smiled at her, showing even white teeth.

‘My name’s Christina.’ She paused. ‘Christina O’Neill.’

‘I’ll see you later, Miss Christina O’Neill.’ His tone was emphatic.

‘Come on,’ Robert shouted, walking ahead.

Christina watched the two men walk away before being tapped on the shoulder by the tattooed arm of the punk rocker who insisted on showing her his fascinating assortment of chains attached to various parts of his anatomy. He took a dozen free offers and asked her out for a drink, much to the amusement of his motley crew of friends, who collapsed into shrieks of laughter when she refused the date.

She spent the next six hours giving away hundreds of free special-offer coupons, chatting to pensioners about the cost of living, placating fraught babies, fending off the unwelcome advances of gangs of unemployed youths, and being battered by an assortment of baby buggies, prams, and huge shopping bags.

‘A free gift of six bags of sugar, three jars of coffee and four boxes of tea with every purchase of food over £50 in Tesco.

‘A record voucher with every two LPs bought at Virgin Mega Store.

‘Two for the price of one with every purchase of an exotic new fragrance from Estee Lauder.

‘A holiday for two in Majorca in the Westside bumper holiday draw.’

Christina’s voice had lost all its sparkle and her throat and head ached as she repeated the list of free offers for the final time and handed out the last of her brochures.

It was seven o’clock and the last few stragglers were leaving the shopping centre. ‘Thank God that’s over,’ Christina said to Janine, a girl she knew vaguely from the same model agency, as they walked into the staff-room.

Janine sighed. ‘It’s bloody slave labour. I wish someone had warned me modelling was going to be like this.’

She took out a packet of cigarettes and handed one to Christina.

‘No thanks, I don’t smoke, but at this rate I think I might have to soon.’

They both sat down on a narrow wooden bench. Christina eased her aching feet out of the high-heeled black patent-leather shoes and wiggled her swollen toes.

‘Look at the state of me,’ she sighed, peeling the snagged black fish-net stockings down her slim legs and pointing to a large, sticky stain on her gaudy red-lace basque where a child had pressed a melting ice-lolly.

‘Whoever said modelling was glamorous ought to be shot,’ she commented.

Janine, clad in G-string panties with a stetson obscuring part of her face, was trying to pull a cowboy boot off one of her bruised feet. She nodded and replied through a haze of cigarette smoke.

‘It’s glamorous, Christina, when – or should I say if – you get into one of the big agencies in London. My friend Sharon works for Models One. She’s just finished a big calendar shoot with Patrick Lichfield. She went to the Caribbean for three weeks, came back really tanned and got signed up three days later to do another big tropical location shoot for Cosmo.’

Janine looked down at her distorted feet and then back at Christina.

‘Now that’s what I call glamorous modelling.’

Christina nodded and sighed, ‘I must admit I’ve thought about going to London lots of times, and if I have to do many more jobs like this I’ll be on the next train.’

Janine pushed the stetson to the back of her head and took a long drag on her cigarette, staring at Christina’s even profile.

‘You should go. You’re definitely pretty enough.’

Christina was about to accept the compliment when the girl went on, ‘I’m stuck here in Manchester whether I like it or not – that is, until my little boy gets older. At least here I can rely on my mum to look after him, and whatever I earn helps.’

Christina watched Janine stand up and pull on faded 501s and a blue chambray shirt.

‘How old is your son?’ Christina asked, and began to pull her own clothes out of a small leather grip.

‘Eighteen months.’ Janine hesitated before continuing, ‘He’s only got me, you see. I don’t even know where his father is.’ She shrugged, a resigned look on her pretty face. Picking up a shabby canvas bag, she said brightly, ‘Hope to see you around some time. I’m sure I will.’ She smiled warmly and her big brown eyes twinkled. ‘But take my advice and get yourself up to London. That’s where the real money and glamour are.’

‘Maybe I will,’ Christina replied, and waved as she left. She finished dressing, thinking about what the other girl had said. Perhaps it was time for a change, to try her luck in London? What had she to lose after all?

It was a few minutes after eight and raining heavily when Christina arrived at her small flat in West Didsbury, five miles south of Manchester city centre.

‘Susie, I’m home,’ she called as she turned the key in the front door and stepped into the narrow hall of the terraced house’s ground-floor flat. There was no reply. A few moments later she remembered that her flatmate was going out with Nick, her boyfriend, that night.

Christina was pleased to be alone. She was dog-tired and relieved not to have to listen to Susie’s incessant chatter. She walked into the tiny kitchen, planning to go to bed early with a large glass of white wine, a giant bag of Golden Wonder crisps, and Yuki, her Siamese cat, hopefully to be in a deep sleep before Susie and Nick could arrive back and keep her awake with their noisy lovemaking.

‘Shit.’ She slammed the fridge door shut angrily. ‘Thanks, Susie,’ she muttered, thinking how typical it was of her flatmate and the obnoxious Nick to drink the last drop of Christina’s Frascati.

She poured herself a large gin instead, filled the tumbler with warm tonic, and managed to find half an ice-cube under an out-of-date packet of frozen peas.

Christina picked up her cat, and carrying her under one arm, the gin and tonic in the other hand, and the bag of crisps held between her teeth, padded towards her bedroom.

There was a message sellotaped to her bedroom door, penned in Susie’s almost illegible scrawl.

Kate Mason from your agency rang. She asked if she could give a Mr Stephen Reece-Carlton your telephone number. He was trying to reach you urgently.

If he is the same Reece-Carlton I think he is, you’ve snared a big one, Chrissy!

Don’t wait up for me. Nick has been away for a week and is as horny as hell – had to do it before we left the house, so God knows what time I’ll emerge in the morning!

Sleep tight.

Susie.

‘Stephen Reece-Carlton?’ Christina said the name out loud. ‘Where have I heard that name before?’ she asked herself, and searched her memory whilst peeling off her clothes and hanging them carefully in the small fitted wardrobe.

She lay on top of the bed in a big baggy nightshirt and took a deep gulp of her gin and tonic. Yuki crept across the bedspread and snuggled close to her. Christina tickled the cat’s tummy, enjoying the softness of her warm coat.

It was then she remembered where she had seen the name before. Stephen Reece-Carlton was co-owner with Robert Leyton of the Westside Shopping Centre – his name had been mentioned in the Manchester Evening News a couple of weeks ago. Stephen … she remembered Robert Leyton’s behaviour towards the man she had been talking to at the mall. They had obviously been business associates. Pale-green eyes, a strong determined jaw … So that was Stephen Reece-Carlton!

Maybe this time she would let Kate pass on her number, something she had automatically refused on every occasion before now.

‘Christina, you must go out with him. You’re mad if you don’t,’ Susie said between mouthfuls of cornflakes.

‘Why must I just because he calls my agency and asks for my private number?’

‘Then he calls you ten minutes after he gets the number and asks you out. If that’s not keen, what is?’ Susie cut in.

‘I don’t even know the man. Why should I go out with a complete stranger?’ Christina said, and took a sip of tea from a Snoopy mug she was holding.

Susie scooped up the last of her cornflakes and pointed the spoon in her direction.

‘He’s filthy, stinking rich, that’s why.’

Christina raised her clear brown eyes, ‘I might have known that would be your reaction. For God’s sake, Susie, is that all you can think about? The size of their wallet?’

Susie pulled a face, considering. ‘The size of their dick?’

Christina burst out laughing in spite of herself.

‘I could get lucky, Susie. He might be blessed in both departments.’

‘Then, my girl, you’ve hit the jackpot. Go on, call him back and tell him you’ll see him.’

‘I’ve already told him I’m busy next Thursday. I promised to go to Robin’s party and that was the only night Stephen could make it. He lives in London and only comes up here occasionally.’

Christina looked at Susie, who shook her head in disgust. ‘Robin Hargreaves is the biggest wimp in the entire county – possibly the whole country! Come on, Christina.’

She agreed with Susie and her voice was lame when she said, ‘But I’ve promised Robin. He’d be so disappointed.’

Susie ignored her. Standing up from the tiny kitchen table, she walked to the sink and filled the kettle with water to make a fresh cup of tea. She caught sight of herself in a small mirror stuck on the front of the fridge door and groaned.

‘God, I look like death warmed up. That Nick is insatiable. In fact, I’ve decided the man’s an animal.’ She giggled, and Christina smiled.

‘I must say I have seen you looking better, but you’re crazy about him, so don’t complain.’

Susie nodded. ‘But he’s broke and I get sick of always having to take him out.’ She paused. ‘Now, if I had your looks and the opportunity to go out with a big fat fish like Reece-Carlton, I’d be there with my boots blacked and my pussy powdered.’

‘Susie!’ Christina pretended to look shocked before saying, ‘I will call him back, I promise, but not today. I’m sure Mr Reece-Carlton can have plenty of girls at the snap of his fingers, so it won’t hurt to play hard to get.’

Susie winked. ‘Good girl. But whatever you do, don’t keep him waiting too long. Let’s be fair – Robin Hargreaves will wait forever, but I doubt Stephen Reece-Carlton will do the same.’

‘Good morning. Metropole Leisure. How can I help you?’

Christina’s heart began racing as soon as she heard the receptionist’s voice.

‘Mr Reece-Carlton, please.’ She made her voice sound crisp and businesslike.

‘Mr Reece-Carlton is in a meeting,’ the impersonal voice informed her. ‘If you wish to leave a message I can transfer you to his secretary.’

Christina was about to say she would call back when the secretary’s voice came on the line.

‘Good morning, Rachael Newton speaking. How can I help you?’

This voice sounded older and kinder. Christina felt more at ease.

‘I would like to speak to Mr Reece-Carlton, please.’

‘I’m afraid he’s in a meeting. Can I help you with anything?’

Christina paused, deliberating as to whether to leave a message or not, when the secretary said, ‘Oh, Mr Reece-Carlton has just walked out of the meeting and will be able to speak to you now. Please hold.’

Christina was holding the receiver with one clammy hand whilst doodling on a message pad with the other. She was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming urge to put the telephone down when she heard him say, ‘Hello, this is Stephen Reece-Carlton.’

His voice sounded deeper than she remembered from their brief meeting at the shopping mall and even briefer telephone conversation two days after that.

‘Good morning, this is Christina O’Neill.’

There was a short pause which seemed interminable, and she thought for one terrible minute that he had forgotten who she was.

‘Sorry, Christina. Can you hold for one minute? My private line is ringing.’ He did not wait for her to reply, and she held the silent receiver for a few minutes more before Stephen’s voice returned, bright and enthusiastic now.

‘How are you?’ He seemed genuinely pleased to hear from her. She felt encouraged.

‘I’m fine, thanks, and you?’

‘Busy as usual, but delighted you rang. I’m planning to come up to Manchester on Thursday as I said, and the offer still stands. I’d love to take you out to dinner if you can make it.’

‘I did have a date, as I told you when you rang, but the party has been cancelled,’ she lied. ‘So the answer’s yes, I’d really like to go out for dinner with you.’

‘You don’t sound sure about that, Christina.’ Stephen had detected the hesitation in her voice.

She forced herself to sound more self-confident. She wanted to see him again, but wasn’t used to such a high-powered approach. Packed schedule, private line, deferential secretary – she had a sneaking suspicion that Stephen Reece-Carlton was out of her league.

‘Of course I’m sure,’ she forced herself to say lightly. ‘I wouldn’t be calling you otherwise, would I.’

He laughed. ‘That’s true. Okay, Miss O’Neill, we’ve got a date. I don’t know where you live but I’ll be staying at the Midland Hotel on St Peter’s Square, so if you give me your address …’

She interrupted. ‘We could meet at the Midland. I’ll be working in town that day so that would suit me fine. Say 7.30 in the bar, if that’s okay with you?’

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Till Thursday, then, Christina. I’ll look forward to it. Bye for now.’

He rang off as she was saying goodbye.

She replaced the receiver, pleased that her heart had stopped racing and excited now about her forthcoming date.

‘Finished?’ her agent, Kate Mason, asked as she walked into the small, cluttered office where Christina had been using the telephone. She walked towards her desk, a large envelope in her elegant, manicured hands.

‘Yes thanks, Kate. I’ll pay you for the call. It was urgent and couldn’t wait until I got home.’

‘No problem, be my guest.’ Kate detected a slight nervousness in Christina’s voice. ‘Are you okay?’ she enquired.

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Christina nodded, and her long, glossy chestnut hair fell in thick waves across one cheek. She looped it back and looked across the desk.

‘You’re going to be pleased with these.’ Kate held up the envelope. ‘These, young lady, are fantastic’

She moved a stack of other photographs and papers to one side and laid out the composite sheets before Christina, who stared at the forty or fifty small images through a hand lens, barely recognizing herself.

The photographer had caught a sensual yet innocent quality in her perfect oval face.

‘Look at that shot. If we can’t sell that to one of the glossies, I’ll eat my hat.’

Kate pointed with a long, red-painted fingernail to the white cross marking an image of Christina wearing a black full-length silk jersey-dress by Bill Gibb. The photograph had been shot in a misty dawn light against the backdrop of the Pennine Chain. Her hair was loosely caught up in a diamante pin, and stray locks tumbled down to play about her face and shoulders.

‘They don’t look like me at all,’ Christina gasped. ‘I look like a wanton young gypsy girl.’

Kate tapped the sheet. ‘They do look like you, but in a different guise. Like I said, they’re fantastic.’ She sounded excited. ‘Colin is a bloody expensive photographer but he’s worth every penny. These could make you a fortune.’

The light in Kate Mason’s eyes suddenly reminded Christina of a similar expression she had seen so often shining in her father’s, before he had killed himself chasing impossible dreams.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Kate looked at her expression, baffled. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. This shoot is the best I’ve seen for years.’

Christina stared at the composite sheet.

‘I am pleased, believe me, Kate. Sorry, I was miles away. Colin promised he’d destroy that one.’

Kate looked at the photograph showing Christina clad in nothing but tiny black panties, her hand covering one breast whilst she pointed an accusing finger at the camera. Her head was thrown back and she was laughing.

‘On the contrary, Christina, Colin has already told me he’s sold that one to Penthouse.’ Kate’s voice was deadly serious.

Christina looked shocked. Before she could speak, Kate burst out laughing. ‘Only joking! But don’t write the girlie magazines off, they pay bloody good money.’

Christina shook her head. ‘No thanks, I’d be far better off working in Tesco.’

Several heads turned as Christina walked into the foyer of the Midland Hotel.

She had dressed carefully for her dinner date with Stephen Reece-Carlton. Fifty pounds drawn out of the bank and twenty borrowed from Susie had bought her a mid-calf-length dress and jacket in a dark emerald-green jersey wool. She had chosen black suede shoes and carried a matching suede clutch-bag. Her mane of hair had been blow-dried by Anthony at Headlines and fell past her shoulders in glossy soft waves.

She wore fake diamond stud earrings and a delicate antique watch which had been her grandmother’s.

‘Christina!’ She heard her name called as she walked through the hotel reception heading for the bar.

She turned, an anticipatory smile lighting her face, expecting to see Stephen Reece-Carlton. Instead she was surprised to see Martin Ward waving to her from the reception area. He was a prominent figure in the city, having been signed recently by Manchester United as their great white hope of a goal-scorer for the eighties. She waved back and watched him excuse himself from the two people he was talking to and walk over to where she was standing in the lift lobby.

‘Christina, how are you? Long time no see.’ A wide smile lit up his boyishly handsome face. She laughed.

‘The last time I saw you, Martin Ward, you were so drunk I don’t think you could see or hear anything.’

He hung his head in mock shame, and she noticed how his longish blond hair curled slightly in at the nape of his neck.

‘I do remember some things about that evening. You were wearing red and I was wearing black.’ He looked at her with amusement in his grey-green eyes.

She laughed, ‘I never wear red with this hair.’ She lifted a strand. ‘And to be honest, I can’t remember what you were wearing.’

She glanced at her watch. It was 7.45; she was late. He noticed.

‘Got a date?’

‘Yes, I have, and I’m late. Lovely to see you. Oh, by the way, how’s Carol?’

Martin pulled a face.

‘Carol has progressed to pastures greener. She met a man with more money than sense who is at this moment indulging her every fantasy.’ He winked. ‘Well, not every fantasy – you know Carol! – but she seems to be having fun.’

‘Sorry to rush, Martin, but I really do have to go.’

‘It seems like every time we meet we’re either in a hurry or with other people. How about we change that pattern and I take you out for a meal?’

Christina nodded. ‘I’d like that. You’ve got my number – call me.’

‘The club is organizing a big dinner-dance in a couple of weeks’ time, so if you can get the ball-gown and tiara out of wraps, I’d love you to be my guest.’

‘I would like Christina to be my guest this evening, if possible.’ Both Christina and Martin turned at the sound of the voice.

‘Stephen.’ Christina looked flustered. ‘Sorry, I met an old friend.’

‘Not so much of the old!’ Martin smiled with the confidence of a young man who has found fame and fortune in his early twenties. Stephen did not. An awkward silence followed, broken by Christina’s bright voice saying, ‘Stephen Reece-Carlton – Martin Ward.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Stephen said, his voice curt.

‘Likewise,’ Martin said, equally abruptly, and he turned to Christina with a smile. ‘Hope to see you soon. Take care.’

He walked back to join his friends. Stephen glanced at his watch.

‘I think we’d better push straight off. I made a reservation for 8.30.’

‘Where?’

‘A surprise,’ he replied, and took her gently by the arm, steering her towards the hotel entrance.

A uniformed doorman held open the door of a dark-blue Mercedes coupé, and Christina noticed that Stephen gave him a pound-note tip.

They drove south out of Manchester.

‘How long have you been modelling?’ Stephen asked after they had been driving for about five minutes.

‘For almost a year, since I left school with bad A-level grades. I met a woman called Kate Mason at a friend’s party. She’s the top agent in Manchester and suggested I should become a model. I got work very quickly and easily, and as you probably know, the money when you’re working regularly is pretty good.’

Stephen detected a flat note in her voice. ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic’

‘I’m not, really. I get so many boring jobs to do I sometimes feel I’m wasting my time.’

‘Like opening shopping centres?’

She laughed. ‘I’m afraid standing for ten hours in a busy shopping centre is not exactly the stuff of modelling dreams.’

‘I know that, but like you said on Saturday, a gal has to eat.’

‘I wish I could eat a little better sometimes,’ she said, and glanced at his firm profile.

‘Well, Miss O’Neill, I can guarantee you are going to eat well tonight.’

‘Where are we going? Please tell.’ Stephen thought she sounded like an excited schoolgirl.

He looked at the speedometer. ‘Ten more miles and all will be revealed.’

Fifteen minutes later they drove into the picture-postcard village of Prestbury, and pulled into the car park of the Legh Arms.

Christina let out a whoop. ‘The Legh Arms! I’ve always wanted to come here. Wait until I tell Susie. She’s going to be so green.’

‘Who’s Susie?’ Stephen asked.

‘My flatmate. She once said to me we would have to save up for a year to come to the Legh Arms.’

Stephen was pleased. He jumped out of the car and helped her out. Christina walked into the smart restaurant, head held high and face glowing with excitement.

She was oblivious to the admiring stares from other diners as she swept past, but Stephen noticed.

The tables were laid with pink cloths and silver cutlery. Stephen ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon.

‘I hope you like champagne?’ he asked, after the waiter had left. She was tempted to say no just to see his reaction, but thought better of it. ‘I love champagne,’ she said, and added, ‘When I can get it.’

Her experience actually amounted to a lukewarm glass which had been served with great pomp and ceremony at a cousin’s wedding, but there was no need to make herself appear gauche, was there?

Christina had never heard of half of the dishes on the big menu she was given, and decided to play safe and have whatever Stephen had to start and Sole Bonne Femme as a main course, a dish she had had at the same wedding. It seemed more sophisticated than ordering a plain steak.

The waiter arrived to take their order.

‘Christina, what would you like to start,’ Stephen asked.

‘I’m not quite sure yet; you choose,’ she answered from behind the large menu card.

‘I would like avocado and prawns to start, please,’ Stephen said, and paused. ‘And to follow, Steak Diane.’

‘How would you like it cooked, sir?’ the waiter asked.

‘Medium.’

‘And madam?’ The man waited, pen poised.

‘I think I will take avocado and prawns as well, please, and Sole Bonne Femme to follow.’

The champagne arrived and Christina drank two glasses in quick succession. She had eaten very little that day, so by the time the avocado arrived she was feeling lightheaded. She stared at the dark-green fruit on her plate, covered with prawns and a Marie Rose sauce.

‘Bon appétit,’ Stephen said, and pushed his spoon into the centre of his pear.

Christina did the same, and scooped up a big piece of avocado which she placed in her mouth. It tasted bitter and waxy and she was tempted to spit it out. But Stephen was watching her, a slightly bemused expression on his face. She swallowed without chewing and almost choked. A spluttering sound came out of her throat, followed by a violent fit of coughing.

‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ She stood up. ‘I’m sorry. Something must have gone down the wrong way.’

Stephen stood up, concerned. ‘Are you okay?’ Her face was scarlet and two spots of Marie Rose sauce stained the collar of her dress.

‘I’m fine, really. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

She rushed into the ladies’ room and began rubbing the unsightly stains off her dress, talking to herself in the mirror. ‘You idiot! Why did you order something you didn’t know? You’ve made a fool of yourself now.’

She returned a few minutes later, quite composed, and noticed the way Stephen rose from his seat as she sat down. Christina had never before been out with anyone who had such impeccable manners.

‘Okay now.’

He looked concerned. Her avocado had disappeared and in its place was a tiny crystal glass containing something white and frozen.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s lemon sorbet to refresh your palate. I can get the avocado back if you like?’

‘No thanks,’ she said quickly, and took a mouthful of the cool, refreshing sorbet. ‘Mmm, delicious.’ She paused and then looked across the table at Stephen. She could read nothing in his expression.

‘I have a confession to make,’ Christina said, and took another scoop of her sorbet.

Stephen took a sip of champagne and looked at her over the rim of his glass.

‘You hate avocado?’ he said, and chuckled as she blushed.

‘How did you guess?’

‘Not difficult if you’d seen the expression on your face when you took the first mouthful!’

‘To tell the truth I’ve never heard of it until tonight, and I don’t think I’ll be having it again in a hurry.’

‘It’s an acquired taste,’ Stephen said, and lifted his champagne glass. ‘Like good wine.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ Christina raised her own glass and touched his.

‘To acquired taste,’ she said.

‘And to the money to acquire it,’ he replied.

The Steak Diane and Sole Bonne Femme were perfection, as were the Chablis Grand Cru and the Belgian truffles and liqueurs served after dinner, Christina having declared herself too full for anything else.

‘I think they’d like us to go, don’t you?’ she whispered to Stephen after her second Cointreau.

They were the only people remaining in the restaurant apart from two waiters hovering conspicuously behind their table. It was after twelve when Stephen paid the bill and they left.

‘Be careful.’ He grabbed her arm and saved her from falling as she tripped on a deep step at the front door.

She giggled. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had a little too much to drink.’

‘I think we both have, but my capacity is probably larger than yours, that’s all.’

He opened the passenger door for her and she slipped into the seat. Her skirt rode up to her knees and he stared at her long, slim legs for a moment before slamming the door. He walked round the car and eased himself into the driving-seat.

‘So tell me about yourself? I know so little about you. We seem to have spent the entire evening talking about me and my business.’

‘There isn’t much to tell, really. I was born in County Cork in Ireland and came to live in England at eighteen months old. We lived in several different parts of the country. My father was, as my mother put it, a dreamer, always chasing rainbows.’ Christina stopped speaking and Stephen glanced at her.

‘What is it?’

‘I lost my father two years ago – I was only seventeen. It was a bitter blow. I adored him, you see. I know now he was a hopeless romantic who found his dreams in the bottom of too many whisky bottles, but he was everything to me. After he died I was unable to concentrate. I flunked my exams. My mother went back to Ireland to be close to her sister and her three squabbling offspring, and I stayed on in Manchester and started work for Kate Mason. I accepted a job a week ago to open the Westside Shopping Mall, and now here we are.’

Christina’s voice was light, but with a sidelong glance he saw how sad she looked. He had a strong urge to stop the car and take her in his arms. They travelled on in silence for a few minutes before she said, ‘And what about you? You’ve talked about your office blocks and the shopping centres and car parks you build, the interesting places you go to and people you meet, but what about your real life? Age, where you live …’ She paused. ‘And who with.’

Christina looked at Stephen, but his face was a mask of concentration. It had begun to rain, and he was driving carefully on the narrow country lanes.

‘I’m thirty-four, born in the north-east, left in my early twenties to seek fame and fortune in the south. My father’s dead. My mother and half-brother still live in South Shields. I work too hard, don’t play hard enough. I have a country house in Sussex and a central-London flat. No steady girlfriends. That’s about it, really; not a lot to tell.’

She sensed he did not want to open up any further to her.

‘Just answer one question – are you married?’

‘I was, but she died.’

Christina looked straight ahead. ‘I’m sorry.’ Trust her to open her big mouth and put her foot in it!

‘I have had a wonderful evening; I can’t thank you enough,’ Christina said as Stephen pulled the car up in front of the little terraced house.

He turned off the ignition.

‘The feeling is entirely mutual. I’d love to do it again sometime.’

She was about to invite him in for coffee when he jumped out of the car and ran around to the passenger door to help her alight. She decided not to do as he probably expected.

‘You’ve got my number; call me next time you’re in town.’

‘Goodnight, Christina.’ He leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek. She turned her face towards his and returned the kiss, lightly brushing his lips with her own.

‘Goodnight, Stephen, and thanks again for a memorable evening.’ She paused for a moment before saying, ‘If I never see you again, at least I can tell everyone I’ve been to the Legh Arms and drank Dom Perignon.’ She started to walk away.

‘You will be seeing me again, Christina, I promise,’ he said softly in the deserted street.

The following morning Christina awoke with a splitting headache. She staggered to the bathroom, almost bumping into her flatmate coming out.

Susie looked at Christina’s pale face and narrowed eyes. ‘You don’t look too good this morning. Good night, was it?’

Christina groaned, holding her head in both hands.

‘Too good. Do you have any aspirin?’

‘Hang on a tick, I’ll get you a couple. Go back to bed and I’ll bring them to you. It’s only seven o’clock.’

‘Thanks, Sue, you’re a pal.’

Christina shuffled back into her bed. The thundering in her temples increased as she lay down.

Susie appeared a few minutes later with two paracetamol, a large glass of water, and a cup of weak tea. ‘Come on, sit up. This will put you right.’

Christina did as she was told and threw the tablets down her throat, swallowing them with two deep gulps of water.

Susie propped three pillows behind Christina’s head and handed her the mug of tea.

‘So how was it?’

She couldn’t wait for Christina’s head to ease; she had to know now. ‘Where did you go?’

‘The Legh Arms,’ Christina mumbled over the top of the mug.

‘You jammy thing!’ Susie sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes wide and excited.

‘Nick would have to sell his old MGB to afford to wine and dine me in the Legh Arms.’ Her voice was resigned. ‘So when are you going to see him again?’

Christina shrugged her shoulders and downed the last drop of tea.

‘He said he would call me.’

‘When?’ Susie demanded.

‘How should I know? He might never call. He’s a busy guy, got property developments going on all over the place.’

‘What kind of car did he have?’

‘A Mercedes,’ Christina replied, her voice impatient. ‘What difference does that make?’

Susie grimaced. ‘You try going out in a sports car that leaks most of the time, feels like you’re in a wind tunnel and if you’re not careful your foot drops through the passenger floor … believe me, it makes a hell of a lot of difference.

‘So what did you have to eat?’

Christina moaned. ‘I think I had more to drink than I had to eat.’ She slid down the bed and pulled the covers over her face.

‘I can see you don’t want my company, Miss O’Neill.’

Christina’s head moved up and down under the covers.

‘Okay, I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll see you later. Don’t forget I’m going to Paul Colville’s party tonight and you promised to lend me your black dress.’

Christina’s head moved in the affirmative, and Susie left the room, switching off the light before she left.

Christina went back to sleep, to be woken four hours later by the telephone ringing.

She reached the phone located in the hall on its final ring.

‘Christina! At last!’ It was Kate Mason’s husky voice.

‘Yes, sorry. Kate. I overslept. Had a late night.’

‘Model girls should not have late nights; they need their beauty sleep,’ said Kate in her best schoolma’am’s tone.

Christina felt like telling her to shut up, but Kate continued talking. ‘I’ve got some great news for you, Christina. A big photographic shoot in two weeks’ time for an American glossy. Five days’ work for a big fat fee of £400!’

‘That’s great.’ Christina could hardly believe what Kate was saying. Five days’ work at a rate far higher than usual.

‘The shoot is in London with a top photographer, so no more late nights for you, young lady. I’ll see you later if you stop by the office. I’ve got a couple of small jobs for you this week.’

‘What are they?’ Christina asked.

‘One is for the Milk Marketing Board and the other for a small old-fashioned lingerie house. They want a nasty cross-over bra and big knicker advert.’

‘They both sound like a bundle of fun.’

‘As I keep reminding you, Christina, they’re your bread and butter.’

‘I know, I know.’ She looked at the hall clock. ‘I’ll see you about 2.30, okay? I’ve got a couple of things to pick up before I come into town.’

‘No later,’ Kate informed her. ‘I’ve a meeting at three. See you, then. Bye.’

Christina walked back to her bedroom, thinking about the photographic shoot and Stephen’s words to her on parting last night.

Perhaps, Mr Reece-Carlton, she thought, I may be able to buy my own champagne in the not too distant future.

Susie was arranging twenty-four long-stemmed red roses in a water jug when Christina came home later that day.

‘They arrived just as I did.’ Susie pointed to the flowers, sighed, and said in an affected voice, ‘I can’t begin to imagine who they are from.’

She held out a small white greetings card. Christina tore it open.

‘I had a marvellous evening – thanks for your company,’ she read aloud.

‘Smoothie, smoothie!’ Susie yelled.

‘You’re only jealous,’ Christina commented, and drew out one red rose. Holding it to her nose, she inhaled deeply.

‘By the way, I got a fantastic job offered to me today. Five days’ work in London for £400.’

‘Wow!’ Susie grabbed her friend’s hands and squeezed them tight. ‘That’s great. Perhaps you’ll be able to pay me back the eighty quid you owe me? I’m a bit short this month.’

Christina bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Sue, but you know how it is in this game – always waiting so long for your money.’

She looked in concern at Susie’s round, amiable face and bright-blue eyes.

‘I’ll pay you back with interest this time, I promise.’

Susie winked. ‘I was only joking. Anyway, you know me. As I’ve always said, a friend in need is a pest – and you are the best pest I’ve ever had.’

Christina laughed and drew her arms around the small, plump girl.

‘And you, Susan Philips, are the funniest, kindest and best friend I have ever known.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Susie said, and produced a bottle of sparkling wine from the fridge. ‘Not quite Dom Perignon, Chrissy, but it’s all we’ve got, and if we drink enough it will have the same effect.’

Chapter Two

‘Just one more shot, Christina … Good … Drop your left shoulder, moisten those lips. Come on, now, sultry eyes, mouth slightly open – wonderful! More teeth, wide eyes, left hand on leg. Imagine you’re in bed with Robert Redford.’

She pulled a long face.

‘Well, whoever turns you on, darling,’ the photographer urged. ‘Come on, baby, think sensual. You’re making love to the man of your dreams. He’s an Adonis, he’s fantastic in bed. Imagine him caressing you.’

Christina imagined what she would actually like – a long hot bath, then, dressed in furry slippers and cosy bathrobe, a large gin and tonic in her hand, to curl up in front of a TV movie. It worked.

Max Raynor shouted: ‘Bellissima, Christina. Hold it like that. Don’t move.’

The camera clicked furiously before he raised his head. ‘Wonderful stuff. You’re a gem.’

He looked at her, draped across an antique French day-bed. ‘That’s it, baby. We can wrap it up now.’

She relaxed and let her head drop onto the back of the padded chaise.

‘I’ve got some great shots. You’ve worked really hard. Thanks.’

He stretched his lean frame and walked across his studio towards an assortment of transparencies scattered in disarray across a huge desk. ‘Mmm, very nice,’ he commented as he flicked through them, his trained eye picking out the best images at a glance.

He rummaged in a drawer under his desk and, producing a small tobacco tin and cigarette papers, began to roll a joint.

Christina massaged the back of her neck and said, ‘Kate should have warned me I was going to be working with a slave-driving maniac who I now know has a reputation for overworking his models and sacking those who can’t stand the pace.’

Max was one of the top photographers in Europe and could afford to be choosy.

With a dismissive shrug of his narrow shoulders, he said, ‘A lot of girls are lazy. If they want to work with me, that’s exactly what they have to be prepared to do. Work.’

He handed her the joint.

Christina shook her head. ‘No thanks, I don’t, but I’d love a glass of wine.’

‘One glass of plonk coming up.’

Max poured a tumbler full of cheap red wine and handed it to Christina, who screwed up her small nose when she tasted the bitter Chianti.

He noticed her grimace and shook his head. ‘Not good, eh?’

‘I have had better.’ She took another sip and added, ‘I have had worse as well.’

He joined her on the sofa, ‘So, Miss O’Neill.’ Max eased his thin body close to hers, crossing his legs – a habit she detested in men. ‘You’re leaving me to rush back to darkest Manchester tonight? I can’t for the life of me understand why when you could stay at my place. The bed is clean, and I know a very chic little Italian restaurant I think you’d love.’

Max inhaled the marijuana deep into his lungs and closed his deep-set dark-blue eyes.

Christina was very tired. She was also acutely disappointed. Stephen had been in France all week but had promised to get back for the weekend. A brusque telephone call earlier that day from his secretary had informed her that Mr Reece-Carlton was delayed in Paris and would call her on his return tomorrow morning.

‘Thanks for the offer, Max, but I’ve got to get back to Manchester. I have someone waiting for me.’

She fervently wished it were true.

‘Woe is me.’ Max pulled a long face. ‘Is there no way I can tempt you?’ He paused and then said, ‘How about the promise of the front cover of Vogue next month?’

Christina stood up wearily. Every muscle in her body ached. She walked to the back of the studio and picked up her overnight bag.

‘Just going to get changed. I won’t be long.’

Max waved, a faraway expression on his face.

Christina squeezed into the tiny bathroom and peeled off the black-velvet boned bodice and long handkerchief chiffon skirt she was wearing. She then took off a heavy gold chain, earrings and assorted bangles, placing them carefully into a jewellery box.

Dressed in her own pale-blue leather trouser-suit and boots, she walked back into the studio, the clothes draped over one arm and the jewellery box in her other hand.

‘Where do you want me to leave this stuff, Max?’

He ignored her question and took one last drag of the joint before grinding it into a cracked saucer.

Christina watched him run grubby hands across his groin.

‘Bloody good dope,’ he said. ‘I feel so fucking randy. Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay?’

She shook her head.

‘Sorry, Max, I’ve got to get back to Manchester.’

She dropped the clothes and box onto a small chair next to her, eager now to leave. Stephen had let her down. She wanted to get home and sleep for a week.

Max stood up and crossed the few feet that separated them. Taking both her hands in his he said, ‘Don’t take any notice of me. I’m just a little stoned; it always makes me horny. Anyway, I fancy you like mad.’

The blush that spread over Christina’s face seemed to encourage him, and he tried to pull her closer.

She backed off and chose her words carefully.

‘Really, Max, I’m very tired. And, like I said, someone’s waiting.’

‘Okay, okay, I get the message.’ He dropped her hands. ‘It’s been great working with you. I’ve been in this game a long time and believe me when I say you have a lot of potential.’ His voice was sincere as he leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek.

‘Thanks, Max, I really appreciate that,’ Christina said.

‘Off you go, then.’

He steered her towards the door, and patted her gently on the bottom.

‘Back to the sticks, baby. Bye bye.’

She let herself out of the studio in Elm Park Mews into a warm, dusky evening. Fading sunlight glinted on the windows of the pretty, shuttered houses, where gaily coloured flowers spilled in profusion from window boxes and an assortment of terracotta and stone pots.

She recognized the number-plate, SRC 20, as the dark-blue Mercedes turned the corner into the mews.

Christina waved furiously, and was unable to stop a wide smile from transforming her face as the car pulled to a halt next to her and Stephen jumped out.

The exhaustion she had felt only moments previously evaporated, to be replaced by a feeling of euphoria when he ran towards her.

‘I’m so pleased I caught you.’ Stephen raked his fingers through dishevelled dark-brown hair. ‘I’ve driven like a maniac from Heathrow to get here. I finished in Paris quicker than I thought and literally raced out to Charles de Gaulle. The flight took off moments after I boarded. Then I ran through Heathrow, and had a real up-and-downer with the customs boys who stopped me. The traffic was dreadful on the M4 … I really didn’t think I’d make it.’

He stopped for breath, and Christina said, ‘I was on my way back to Manchester. Your secretary left a message to say you were delayed.’

‘Excuse me, is that your car?’ an irritated voice intervened. ‘I can’t get out.’

‘Sorry,’ Stephen said to the irate driver, and, picking up Christina’s bag, he led her to his car, which was double-parked. He backed quickly up the narrow mews.

‘I’ve rung the studio three times in the last two days. The phone either rings continuously or else some dimwit of a girl answers and seems incapable of taking a message coherently.’

‘We’ve been out on location for two days and the girl you are referring to is Max’s assistant, Pippa, a complete air-head.’

Stephen stole a swift sideways glance at Christina, feeling ridiculously pleased to see her.

Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright with anticipation. She caught his glance and a surge of excitement passed between them.

‘Fancy something to eat?’ he suggested.

‘I’m absolutely starved. I haven’t had a good meal for five days. Max seems to live on sandwiches and take-away Chinese and Indian.’

‘Okay. What sort of food?’

‘I really don’t mind. As my father used to say, I could eat a scabby horse between two mattresses.’

Stephen chuckled. ‘I’ve got just the place, and it’s only round the corner. Fingers crossed it’s not fully booked.’

Christina lifted both her hands and crossed two sets of fingers. Stephen turned the car into Roland Gardens and pulled up outside Blake’s Hotel.

‘You jump out while I try to park,’ he said.

Christina did as she was told, and walked up three deep stone steps into what resembled a very chic London town-house. Entering the small reception area, she felt as if she was in a private home, and stood awkwardly next to the discreet reception desk manned by a trendy young man.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘I’m waiting for someone, actually,’ she replied in a small voice, and turned as she heard the young man say, ‘Mr Reece-Carlton, how are you?’

‘I’m fine, Rupert. And you?’

‘Overworked, underpaid, and busy,’ he replied, and then added, ‘So what’s new?’

Stephen led Christina to the head of a narrow open-tread staircase, calling to Rupert before they descended, ‘See you soon. Take care.’

‘You obviously come here often,’ Christina said before she reached the bottom of the steep stairs.

‘I used to stay here a lot before I bought a place in London.’

‘Monsieur Reece-Carlton, long time no see.’ The head waiter came forward.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have a reservation, Philippe.’ Stephen’s voice was apologetic.

The small man glanced at his reservations list and his watch. It was 8.30.

‘I can give you a table now, but I’m afraid you will have to vacate it by 10.30. I have an after-theatre reservation.’ He looked at Stephen. ‘Is that okay?’

‘That’s fine by me.’ Stephen stood back to allow Christina to follow the head waiter to their table, which was located in the far corner of the small restaurant.

‘Aperitifs, I presume?’ Philippe asked as they sat down.

‘I would like a large glass of Perrier, please, with lots of ice and lemon,’ Christina said.

Stephen ordered a glass of champagne.

‘What a fantastic place.’ She looked around the dimly lit restaurant, fascinated.

There were long-stemmed white lilies spilling out of several tall glass vases and unusual feathery tulips in the palest shade of pink on every table.

The dark, narrow bar was packed with smartly dressed people, and Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned in the background. Their drinks arrived along with the menus.

Christina, determined not to make a fool of herself again, asked, ‘Can you advise me what to have, Stephen? You must know the menu pretty well by now.’

‘It does change, but there are some firm favourites.’ He glanced at the carte.

‘Why don’t you try the soup followed by fish? It’s always very good here.’

Christina took his advice.

The food was delicious. She ate most of her cream of leek soup with two chunks of crusty granary bread, all of the baked fish with tomato sauce, and polished off her portion of potatoes dauphinoise and most of Stephen’s. They drank vintage champagne followed by a Château Petrus.

It was almost 10.30 when Stephen suggested they have a nightcap in the small, deep-seated area located off the restaurant. Christina was a little tipsy as she sank into the soft Oriental cushions. Stephen joined her.

Brandy and chocolates arrived a few moments later.

‘You must try one of these chocolates. They’re out of this world.’

He pointed to the tiny dish of very thin, flat, dark chocolates. She nodded, and he was about to pick up the dish to hand her one when she leaned forward, her wide mouth slightly open. In a teasing voice she said, ‘You give me one, please.’

He picked up a sweet and very slowly placed it in her mouth. She licked his fingertips before he withdrew them, then her own lips.

She looked into Stephen’s pale-green gaze, and neither of them spoke for a couple of moments until Christina said, ‘Absolutely delicious. May I have another one?’

He grinned. ‘The same way?’

‘Yes, please.’

He placed the chocolate in her mouth, only this time traced her slightly parted lips with one finger whilst she chewed, slowly and deliberately.

His fingertips trailed down her neck and brushed lightly across her shoulders.

Christina shuddered.

‘Do you want to go now?’ Stephen’s voice was thick when he whispered in her ear.

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

They left the restaurant ten minutes later and drove to his flat in Kensington. Neither of them spoke much during the fifteen-minute drive. They were both absorbed in their own thoughts.

Stephen’s flat, though not as big as she had expected, was exquisitely furnished.

‘It looks like something out of a glossy magazine,’ she commented on entering the big open-plan living-room, dominated by two enormous, deep-cushioned beige sofas, covered in piles of assorted cushions.

A two-inch-thick glass-topped coffee table housed stacks of glossy magazines and books, plus framed photographs and a beautiful antique dish containing pot pourri.

‘Have a seat.’ Stephen indicated the sofa. ‘Drink?’

‘I think I’ve had enough to drink.’

‘A final nightcap,’ he said, opening a bottle of champagne.

‘Okay, you twisted my arm.’ Christina took off her jacket and draped it over a delicately carved occasional chair.

‘You have wonderful taste.’ She sank into the luxurious sofa, running her hand across the smooth surface of a silk cushion.

‘Not guilty,’ Stephen said, pouring two glasses of champagne. ‘My wife was born with several silver spoons in her mouth and grew up surrounded by beautiful things. She became an interior designer. All this …’ – he gestured casually – ‘is her work.’

He joined her on the sofa, handing her a glass as he sat down.

Christina took a sip of champagne.

‘Mmm, this is lovely.’

‘Krug is the best in my opinion.’

Stephen sipped his champagne, and stared at her over the rim of the glass.

‘Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes? Such an unusual colour.’

‘Millions of randy young men.’

Stephen looked pensive. ‘I thought as much,’ he said, and began to rummage amongst the books on the coffee table, mumbling, ‘I wonder where it is?’

‘What are you looking for?’ Christina enquired.

I’m looking for my How to Seduce a Beautiful Young Woman manual. I’m sure it’s here somewhere.’ He looked at her helplessly. ‘You see, I’m lost without it.’

Christina giggled, a deep, throaty sound.

‘How about I teach you, Mr Reece-Carlton, since you’re such a novice?’ She lowered her eyes shyly. ‘I’m not exactly the voice of experience, but I’m sure we could learn as we went along.’

He placed his glass of champagne on the coffee table and slid along the sofa to where she was sitting.

‘That sounds like a great idea to me. I’ll be your willing pupil.’

‘Lesson number one, you kiss me.’

Stephen leaned towards her and, cupping her chin in his hand, kissed the end of her nose.

She closed her eyes as the tip of his tongue very gently licked the outside of her lips, gently prising them open before his own lips covered hers and his tongue explored the inside of her mouth.

‘Lesson number two,’ Christina whispered, as he started to kiss her neck, ‘you take off my blouse.’

‘I’ll do whatever you say.’ He was clearly enjoying the game.

Stephen undid the tiny buttons down the front of Christina’s shirt. It fell open to reveal a half-cup white-lace bra, barely containing her round breasts.

He ran his fingers across her bare stomach, then circled first one nipple then the other with the palm of his hand. Her nipples rose in response, and he unhooked her bra. He caressed one breast whilst exposing the other, which he fell upon, sucking and pulling her hard nipple into the soft folds of his mouth.

‘Lesson number three,’ she gasped, breathless, as he ran his tongue across her stomach, ‘you take off my trousers.’

He kneeled at her feet and pulled both her boots off before unzipping her leather trousers and sliding them down her long, lightly freckled legs.

Christina squealed as she spotted her big toe poking through a pair of worn Mickey Mouse socks.

She looked at Stephen, who hadn’t noticed. He was too busy staring at her tiny white-lace bikini-briefs and the thick triangle of dark-brown pubic hair just visible beneath. He pulled off her old socks and flung them over the top of the sofa, then ran his tongue slowly up the inside of her thigh and across the front of her panties, biting gently into the open lace.

He lifted her legs onto the sofa and laid her carefully on her back, putting a cushion under her head.

He was kissing her passionately now, his mouth hard and urgent.

‘You’re beautiful, Christina,’ he told her between frenzied kisses.

She began to undo the buttons of his shirt.

‘Lesson number four …’

‘Lesson number four, Miss O’Neill, is I fuck you until you tell me to stop.’

‘You’re a very good pupil, Mr Reece-Carlton,’ she said in a breathy voice.

He looked deeply into her half-closed eyes.

‘I catch on quick, Miss O’Neill.’

The loud blare of a car horn woke Christina the following morning.

She sat up and stared at her surroundings, confused for a few moments, until she realized that she was in Stephen’s bed in his flat in London.

She recalled their lovemaking of the previous evening and, with a satisfied grin on her face, sank back down into the deep feather pillows.

A few moments later she looked up as Stephen appeared at the door, dressed in a long navy-blue bathrobe and carrying a tray of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, plus a jug of what looked like fizzy orange juice and two glasses.

‘Good morning. Sleep well?’

‘Like a log, but I always wake early whatever time I go to bed. I’m afraid I’ve got an inbuilt alarm clock. I crept out of bed like a mouse this morning so as not to disturb you.’

‘What’s that?’ She pointed to the tray.

‘This is breakfast in bed, Stephen Reece-Carlton-style. So come along, young lady, sit up. We’re going to eat.’

He dropped his robe and she averted her eyes, suddenly embarrassed at the sight of Stephen’s lean, muscular body. He noticed her embarrassment and quickly slid into bed next to her, pulling the covers over his nakedness and placing the tray between them.

He handed her a fork and a napkin.

‘Dig in. It’s delicious.’

‘What’s the orange stuff in the eggs?’ she asked, pushing her fork into the centre of the plate.

‘It’s smoked salmon.’ He poured a glass of the fizzy orange mixture, saying, ‘One Bucks Fizz coming up.’

‘Bucks Fizz?’ She raised her straight eyebrows and took the glass.

‘Champagne and freshly squeezed orange juice.’

‘This is a very decadent breakfast,’ she said between sips of Bucks Fizz. ‘You’re spoiling me, Stephen.’

He looked at the napkin draped across her breasts, one pert nipple protruding.

‘And why not?’

‘Talking of spoiling …’ Christina ran her fingers up the inside of his thigh. ‘Why don’t I try spoiling you a little in return?’

Stephen put the tray on the floor.

‘Why not indeed?’

It was almost midday when they left Stephen’s flat and walked to High Street Kensington where they hailed a cab to the West End.

They wandered hand in hand down Bond Street, idly window-shopping, with Christina chatting non-stop.

‘What a fantastic dress.’ She pointed to a black silk creation in the window of Yves St Laurent.

‘It would look a lot better on you than on that skinny mannequin,’ Stephen declared, and before she could say another word he pulled her towards the big glass entrance door. ‘Come on, try it on.’

‘No, Stephen, it will cost the earth. I can’t afford Yves St Laurent,’ she protested.

‘But I can,’ he remarked, and pushed her into the shop.

An elderly shop assistant dressed in a simple yet very chic Yves St Laurent shift dress came towards them.

‘Can I help?’ she asked, staring disdainfully at Christina, who was now acutely aware of her creased trousers and cheap blouson shirt.

‘We’re interested in the black dress in the window,’ Stephen said.

The assistant beamed at him.

‘Oh, yes, it’s stunning.’

She glanced at Christina, weighing her up.

‘Size ten, I would say.’

Christina held her head high and stared back aloofly. ‘You’re dead right.’

‘Charlotte, check if we have a size ten in the black silk, please,’ she snapped at a girl standing a few feet away.

Charlotte arrived a few minutes later with the black dress draped over her arm. She smiled warmly at them both and gestured to Christina. ‘The changing-rooms are over here.’

She followed the young girl, throwing a wary look at Stephen as she passed.

The dress fitted perfectly.

It was made from pure silk chiffon, cut very low at the back, almost to her waist, and falling in soft tiers to the knee. Thick black satin ribbon edged the hem and formed a waist, accentuating Christina’s own small waist.

Stephen let out a low whistle as she emerged from the changing-room.

‘The dress was made for you,’ the assistant gushed in her best sales voice.

Stephen dragged his eyes away from Christina, who looked much older and more sophisticated in the elegant dress. ‘We’ll take it,’ he told the assistant, ignoring Christina’s shocked expression.

She was about to say ‘But you haven’t even asked the price’, then bit her tongue, thinking that the dress was probably more than the rental on her flat for a whole year. She knew which she would rather have.

‘Go on, get changed.’ Stephen pushed her back into the changing-room.

‘How much is it?’ she hissed.

‘Don’t worry about the price. You look beautiful in it.’

‘But, Stephen …’

‘Shush.’ He placed two fingers gently across her mouth, then walked towards the counter, putting a gold American Express card in the hand of the beaming shop assistant.

‘She looked stunning in it,’ the woman was saying as Christina emerged from the dressing-room and dropped the dress on the counter next to Stephen.

Sheets of tissue paper encased it before it was placed carefully in a smart black monogrammed carrier bag and handed to Christina, who was still flustered as they walked out onto Bond Street.

‘You really shouldn’t have done that.’

She sounded upset. He was surprised. He’d expected her to be pleased.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I know it must have been very expensive, and … it’s embarrassing.’

‘I really thought you’d be delighted. It was done only with that intent.’ He stared straight ahead.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes until she broke the silence.

‘It’s a fantastic dress. Thank you very much, Stephen. But please, never ever think you can buy me.’

‘What?’ He rounded on her angrily, his own temper abating when he saw her beautiful dark-amber eyes flashing defiantly at him.

Christina, he was discovering, was very different to most of the girls he took out.

‘I have no intention of buying you! Christina, I mean that. I’m not being conceited when I tell you there are lots of beautiful women I could have who would be more than willing to be bought.’

She did not reply, but realized he was right. It would not be difficult for a man in his position.

They walked on in silence.

‘To be perfectly honest, Christina, I was so pleased to see you, and had such an amazing time with you last night, I simply wanted to please you. It’s a long time since I’ve felt that way about anyone.’

He lifted two fingers in the air. ‘Scout’s honour.’

‘I bet you were never a scout!’

‘I was. A sea scout, actually, for three years.’ He stopped walking and turned to face her.

‘Truce, Miss O’Neill?’

‘You’re impossible,’ she said, and then added, ‘Truce, Mr Reece-Carlton.’

Stephen took her to San Lorenzo for lunch, where they ate pasta and drank her favourite dry Italian Frascati. They walked to Harrods after lunch, where Stephen bought some new underwear, and Christina spent more than she ever had before on a pair of black suede shoes to match her new dress.

They arrived back at the flat at five.

Stephen busied himself making tea in the small black and chrome kitchen whilst Christina wandered around looking at books and studying photographs in antique frames.

‘Who is this beautiful child?’ she asked.

She was holding a photograph of Stephen pictured with a dark-haired little girl as he walked into the living-room bearing a tray of tea and fruit cake.

He placed the tray on the coffee table and took the frame from her hands.

‘Tea is served,’ he said, and sat on the sofa, patting a place for her to sit next to him.

He stared at the photograph. ‘This is Victoria when she was six years old.’

He said the child’s name with fondness.

‘Who’s Victoria?’ Christina poured the tea.

‘She’s my daughter.’

‘Oh.’ Christina sounded shocked. She splashed tea into the saucer, and onto the glass coffee table.

‘Look what a mess I’ve made.’ She began to mop up the spilt tea with a napkin.

‘Victoria is nearly eleven years old now, and you’re right when you say she’s beautiful.’

‘I wasn’t aware you had a child. Why didn’t you say before now?’ Christina sipped her tea and looked closely at Stephen.

His eyes shifted from her probing gaze and his face adopted the same enigmatic expression she had noticed the last time she had questioned him about his family.

‘I didn’t think it necessary. Anyway, you never asked.’ His voice was dismissive.

Christina was about to remind him that on their first date she had asked him about his family and he had told her then he had been married and his wife had died. Why had he not taken that opportunity to mention Victoria?

Stephen, perceptive as ever under scrutiny, sensed Christina’s unease, and reassured her.

‘I didn’t tell you because I am someone who needs to get to know people before I can open up to them. It’s that simple.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Victoria lives in Sussex, in my country house, and rarely comes up to town. I have a housekeeper there, Mrs Barnes, who looks after her whilst I am away.

‘I do try to spend as much time as possible with Vicky at weekends. She and I have become very close since her mother’s unfortunate death.’

‘How did your wife die, Stephen?’ He hesitated, deep in thought for a few moments, then said, ‘Barbara killed herself. An overdose of alcohol and barbiturates.’

He closed his eyes as if to blot out a painful memory. They were still closed when he continued.

‘Barbara had a lot of problems, and I don’t think I helped. She was constantly accusing me of working too hard and neglecting her. She was an extremely demanding woman.’

His eyes were open now but staring straight ahead, unblinking. His voice was very quiet and resigned when he said, ‘I wasn’t capable of giving her everything she needed.’

He directed his brooding gaze at Christina. There was no pain visible now, only resignation. He looked away and poured himself another cup of tea, more for a distraction than anything else.

‘Well, we have something in common, Stephen,’ Christina murmured softly. ‘We’ve both lost loved ones in a tragic way.’

She pushed a cushion to one side and found his hand. He lifted it to his face and kissed her palm, then her fingertips, one by one.

The gesture sent a thrill through her entire body. She stared at his long, angular face, scrutinizing every one of his features individually so as to imprint them on her mind, never to forget his image.

It was that moment that she realized she was hopelessly in love with Stephen Reece-Carlton.

‘Where on earth did you find her?’

Nigel Sinclair stood with Stephen whilst both men watched Christina dancing with a huge red-faced bear of a man, who was sweating profusely and spinning her to and fro in a pathetic attempt at rock and roll.

‘In a shopping centre in Manchester, actually.’ Stephen looked at his host’s bemused face. ‘I’ve always maintained the prettiest girls in this country are from the North, and so unspoilt.’

Nigel dragged his eyes reluctantly from Christina, whose long legs were revealed every time her partner spun her round.

‘Is she totally unspoilt, old chap?’ He nudged Stephen, an insidious leer curling the corners of his full mouth. The inference was obvious.

‘That’s none of your business,’ Stephen growled.

‘Okay, Stephen, keep your shirt on.’ He held up his hand. ‘A chap likes to know these things, that’s all.’

Nigel gave Stephen a chummy slap on the back. Jerry Lee Lewis’s thumping piano in ‘Great Balls of Fire’ ended and Christina emerged from the conservatory, which was set up as a disco, to join Stephen and Nigel.

‘Thank goodness the DJ changed the music. That guy was all set to rock and roll me to death.’ She was breathless, a becoming glow suffused her entire face, and most of her hair had tumbled out of the neat chignon she had spent half an hour perfecting. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at the two men.

Nigel was clearly captivated.

‘How about catching your breath with me? I can only dance to slow ones.’

Stephen held out his hand, pulling her away from Nigel Sinclair’s lascivious stares.

Christina took it, and they walked back towards the darkened conservatory where several entwined couples smooched to Barry White singing ‘Just the Way You Are’.

‘It’s been a fantastic party. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.’ Her voice bubbled with exuberance.

She could smell his Givenchy aftershave mingled with a lemon, soapy smell when she rested her head on his shoulder.

‘I want to make love to you, Christina,’ he whispered in her ear.

‘Right at this moment?’ she whispered back, and giggled.

‘If it were possible, yes.’ His voice grew lower.

Christina let her hand slide down his back. She moved her body level with his and pulled him gently against her.

‘Stop it, Christina. I won’t be able to walk off the dance-floor if you continue to do that.’

Standing on tiptoe, her eyes open in wide-eyed innocence, she kissed him lightly on the lips.

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Stephen.’

He pinched her rounded bottom and said, ‘Let’s go home to bed.’

‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard all evening.’

It was almost 1.30 a.m. when they said their goodbyes to Nigel and Penny Sinclair and left their beautiful white-stucco terraced house in Pelham Crescent. Christina sat close to Stephen in the back of the chauffeur-driven limousine he had hired for the evening.

‘I can’t start to tell you what a wonderful time I’m having, Stephen.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘Manchester seems a million miles away.’

The car pulled up outside Stephen’s flat in Eldon Road and the driver jumped out and opened both doors.

‘Thanks, Ray. I’ll see you soon,’ Stephen said, and put his arm around Christina to lead her through the wide, dimly lit hall to his ground-floor flat.

He was opening the door when she stepped back. ‘I refuse to enter unless you carry me across the threshold.’

‘Come on, Christina, it’s after two; I’m tired.’

She stood her ground, challenging him.

He grinned. ‘Okay. But be warned, we may not make it.’ He lifted her and staggered. ‘Christ! You’re heavier than you look.’ She kicked her legs up and down. ‘You’re just a weakling,’ she teased, and they half fell into the entrance hall.

Stephen’s legs buckled and he lost his balance as he kicked the door shut behind them.

Christina collapsed onto the Chinese washed rug in peals of laughter, dragging him down on top of her. He brushed a strand of wayward hair from her face and kissed her, gently at first, becoming hard and demanding as she said, ‘Fuck me, Stephen. I want you now.’

He ripped her new dress and she stained his shirt with dark-red lipstick as they tore at each other’s clothes in mutual eagerness to share each other’s bodies.

Afterwards they gathered up their clothes, which were strewn around the wood-panelled hall.

Then, wearing her black lace panties on his head, Stephen chased her into his enormous marble shower, where they soaped each other in fits of giggles.

Later, dressed in one of Stephen’s old shirts, her hair still damp and hanging loosely down her back, Christina joined him in the kitchen to make piles of cheese and tomato toasties which they ate greedily whilst propped up in bed on the soft feather pillows.

‘Look, you’re covered in crumbs.’

He pointed to the front of her shirt and picked at a couple of crumbs, deliberately stroking her breasts at the same time.

Wrapping one leg across his bare stomach, she rested her head on his shoulder. Closing her eyes, she murmured, ‘I’ll never forget this weekend as long as I live.’

He leaned forward and placed a kiss on her forehead.

‘I hope there are going to be many more just like this.’

Christina looked up at the departures screen as they walked into Terminal 1 at Heathrow Airport. BA 294 to Manchester was boarding at gate number six.

‘I’d better go.’

She shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure of what to say to this man with whom she had been so intimate only a few hours before.

‘You really shouldn’t have paid for a flight. I could have got the train.’ Her voice trailed off as she saw the slightly irritated look cross his face. She rushed on, still feeling awkward. ‘Anyway, what can I say apart from what I’ve been saying all weekend? You must think I sound like a cracked record.’

‘You don’t have to say a thing, Christina. It’s been a pleasure having you with me. Believe me when I say I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in a very long time.’ He took her hand. ‘I mean that.’

‘This is the final call for flight BA 294 to Manchester. Any remaining passengers please go immediately to gate six.’

‘I’ll call you later this evening,’ he promised as they walked towards the gate.

‘Goodbye, Christina. See you soon.’

It was more of a question than a statement.

‘You’d better,’ she said. ‘I’ll not forgive you otherwise.’

‘You’re going to miss your flight,’ he said, glancing over her shoulder at a diminishing queue.

‘I wish,’ she sighed, and leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek.

‘See you, and thanks again.’ She ran down the ramp and placed her handbag on the conveyor, turning to wave to him before going through the security check. But Stephen had already gone.

Christina spent the entire fifty-minute flight pretending to be asleep to avoid being forced to participate in a boring conversation with a pharmaceuticals rep sitting next to her who was on his way to Manchester for a three-day sales conference.

Her mind travelled back over the last week, cataloguing the events of the last forty-eight hours so as not to forget one single moment, especially Stephen’s passionate yet sensitive lovemaking.

It was 7.30 p.m. when the plane touched down at Manchester’s Ringway Airport in a heavy rain-storm.

She thought with dismay of her dingy flat which desperately needed a coat of paint that she could not afford.

It was Sunday night, so Susie’s big bras and panties would be dripping above the bath. There would be no food in the fridge because Susie always went to her mother’s for lunch and then out to the cinema with her boyfriend in the evening.

As Christina waited, cold and shivering, in a long, straggly queue for a taxi to take her to West Didsbury, she made a silent vow. She would leave Manchester as soon as she could, with or without Stephen Reece-Carlton.

Chapter Three

The electronic gates swung open and her car swept up a long drive, past a two-acre paddock. A thoroughbred bay pony was being led towards a small fenced ménage by a dark-haired young girl who waved and smiled at Stephen as they drove past.

Christina gazed up out of the window at a tunnel of elm and sycamore branches almost touching overhead. A light breeze stirred the leaves to reveal patches of blue sky. The driveway narrowed suddenly, and they drove past a high dry-stone wall with bright-pink and dark-lavender rhododendron planted under it.

Christina gasped as the part black-and-white-timbered seventeenth-century manor house came into view. Its many mullioned windows glimmered in thick shafts of sunlight filtered through the leaves of an enormous oak tree which stood before the house.

Stephen stopped the car in front of a heavy carved oak door with a highly polished solid brass knocker in its centre. Christina stepped out and stood absolutely still, awestruck. She looked up at the crest carved into the stone above the door. There was a date below: 1626.

Christina was speechless. She had never seen such a beautiful house.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Stephen commented, opening the boot of the car to take out their bags.

‘Lovely is inadequate,’ she replied, and watched as the front door opened and a stocky little woman stepped out onto the worn doorstep, a Cocker spaniel racing past her legs and almost knocking her flying in its eagerness to get to Stephen.

‘Mr Reece-Carlton, welcome.’ The woman smiled, and tiny dark-brown eyes almost disappeared into her doughlike face. Stephen patted the excited, barking dog and smiled at his housekeeper.

‘Dorothy, I’d like to introduce Christina O’Neill.’

She took one step forward and held out her hand. ‘Hello, Dorothy. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

The housekeeper in turn extended a plump, work-worn hand, her wary eyes taking in every inch of Christina, who was acutely aware of the scrutiny.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Dorothy’s lips were tight and her sharp voice indifferent. She turned her attention to Stephen, who was still trying to calm the boisterous spaniel.

‘Come inside, Mr Reece-Carlton. I’ve got something very special for you.’

Stephen patted his flat stomach. ‘Don’t tell me, Dot. Cinnamon and apple tart with home-made ice-cream.’

Dorothy beamed. ‘And fruit cake too. That’s his favourite,’ she commented to Christina as they all trooped into the large, square oak-panelled hall.

Christina heard her own heels clicking on the flagstone floor and was momentarily embarrassed in such grand surroundings, but Dorothy Barnes chatted on to Stephen, not seeming to notice her discomfiture. ‘Good journey? How was the traffic? It’s usually so bad on Friday afternoons.’

‘It was okay. I picked Christina up at Gatwick and I think we made it before the real rush.’

Stephen dropped her bag at the foot of the stairs and they followed Dorothy into a big beamed kitchen.

‘Sit yourselves down,’ she ordered. ‘Tea coming up.’

She bustled towards a bright-red Aga, where a kettle was already simmering.

Stephen and Christina sat at a long scrubbed-pine table, which was laid with a blue and white tea set. A big earthenware pot filled with fresh flowers stood in the centre.

Christina looked around the homely kitchen. Pots and pans hung from exposed beams in the low ceiling next to clumps of dried flowers and fresh herbs. Brightly coloured ceramic containers lined the Delft-tiled work-surfaces, and greetings cards, children’s drawings and cookery books covered a thick stone mantelpiece above a deep fireplace blackened with age.

‘This reminds me so much of the kitchen at home,’ Christina commented.

‘Really?’ Dorothy’s thin brows raised in disbelief.

‘Though you could probably fit my kitchen into your pantry! I mean the atmosphere, really,’ Christina said honestly.

The housekeeper’s expression softened.

‘This kitchen is an extension. Mr and Mrs Reece-Carlton built it a few years ago. It was a poky little thing before, half this size.’

She placed a teapot complete with a red woollen cosy onto the table, closely followed by rich, dark-brown fruit cake and a crumbly short-pastry apple tart baked golden-brown.

‘Mmm, that looks delicious.’ Stephen rubbed his hands together.

‘Tuck in. I hope you’re hungry because I’ve made wholemeal scones as well.’

Dorothy looked at Christina’s tall, slender figure. ‘You look like you could do with feeding up.’

‘I eat like a horse, actually.’ And as if to confirm her statement, Christina reached across the table and helped herself to a thick slice of fruit cake.

The telephone rang, and Stephen stood up. ‘I’ll get it. I’m expecting a call from Robert.’

Dorothy clicked her tongue and sighed as she wiped the top of the tiled work-surfaces.

‘Always telephone calls during meals … infernal instruments! A damn nuisance if you ask me.’

‘What’s a damn nuisance?’ The voice belonged to the pretty young girl who had padded into the kitchen in red-stockinged feet. Christina saw it was the girl from the paddock, Stephen’s daughter presumably. She was dressed in beige jodhpurs and a white cotton jumper. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a messy pony-tail, and her small, heart-shaped face was flushed from running.

‘None of your business, Miss Nosey,’ Dorothy chided, affection softening her tone.

‘Where’s Daddy?’ the child asked, then looked from Dorothy to Christina, sitting at the breakfast table.

‘Who are you?’ She stared unsmilingly at the visitor with wide blue-grey eyes the colour of a stormy sea. Christina was about to tell the girl her name when Dorothy cut in, ‘This is Christina. A friend of your father’s, come to stay for the weekend.’

‘Well, he never mentioned her to me!’ the girl snapped, then turned at the sound of her father’s voice.

‘Please don’t refer to our guest as “her”, Victoria,’ Stephen admonished gently. ‘Where are your manners?’

Not waiting for her to reply, he continued, ‘Christina, may I introduce my daughter, Victoria.’

She stood up and smiled as warmly as she could into the girl’s pretty, scowling face.

‘Pleased to meet you. Your father talks so much about you, I’ve been dying to meet you.’

It was the truth. After initially being slow to speak of his daughter, Stephen now mentioned her frequently - often as the reason why he could not leave Sussex. This weekend was an attempt to ease Christina into his home routine. She wished she could feel it was going to be successful, but so far the signs were far from promising.

Victoria didn’t smile but lowered her eyes and in a sullen voice said, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ It was obvious that she felt anything but.

Victoria turned her back on Christina. With a glorious smile transforming her face she stood on tiptoes to kiss her father’s cheek, flinging her arms around his neck. ‘It’s so lovely to have you home with me. Daddy.’ She took his hand. ‘I have something very special to show you upstairs. Please come with me now.’ Her voice was demanding.

‘Can’t it wait a moment, Vicky?’ He glanced in Christina’s direction. ‘I was about to demolish some of Dorothy’s wonderful apple pie.’

‘No. You’ll have to come at once or it will spoil. Please, Daddy,’ the girl implored.

Stephen looked over Victoria’s shoulder at Christina, his eyes apologetic.

‘I’ll be two minutes. Don’t eat all the cake.’

She smiled. ‘You’ll have to be quick!’

‘What about your cinnamon and apple pie, Mr Reece-Carlton? I haven’t stood in this hot kitchen baking all day for it to go to waste,’ the housekeeper shouted.

‘Oh, shut up, Dossy. You know you love baking, whether it gets eaten or not,’ Victoria shouted back.

‘I’ll spank your hide, you cheeky little monkey.’ She pointed a chubby finger at Victoria, who dragged her father out of the kitchen without so much as a glance in Christina’s direction.

‘I’ll eat it, don’t worry,’ Christina said, helping herself to a large slice of apple pie.

‘Thank goodness someone will.’ The housekeeper sat down next to her and poured herself a cup of tea, shuffling her ample bottom into a more comfortable position.

‘How long have you worked here?’ Christina asked.

‘Too long, I think sometimes. Especially when that imp Victoria plays me up.’

She helped herself to a huge piece of fruit cake. ‘I came to work here when my eldest, John, was fifteen. He’s twenty-eight now.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Nigh on thirteen years. Mr Reece-Carlton hasn’t had the house all that time, mind you. There was the Naughton family before that. Americans they were, a funny lot, only came here a couple of times a year. And before them there was Lady Somerville, a lovely old lady. It was her who employed me originally. I’d only been here about six months when she upped and died. My old man used to joke and say it was my pea and ham soup that killed her off!

‘Then, when Mr and Mrs Reece-Carlton bought the house in 1976, they asked me to stay on.’

She took a noisy gulp of tea and slopped a little onto her pinny. ‘Mrs Reece-Carlton was a real lady, very generous too. It was so tragic.’

She stopped speaking abruptly and quickly stood up as she heard Stephen’s voice in the hall, followed by girlish giggles.

Victoria raced into the kitchen. ‘Daddy’s promised to take me to the gymkhana tomorrow, Dossy, so could you make us a picnic lunch?’

‘Of course I’ll make a picnic, with all your favourites.’ She fondly ruffled the top of Victoria’s dark head then nudged her, eyes shifting to Christina sitting awkwardly at the table, watching the cosy scene.

‘Would you like to come to the gymkhana?’ Victoria asked, her tone flat and lacking any enthusiasm.

‘As long as I can have egg sandwiches in my picnic’

Victoria noticed the glance she exchanged with her father and her eyes narrowed. So they had already been on a picnic together? She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that.

Going to the fridge, she poured herself some orange juice and then sat at the breakfast table, so close to her father that they looked glued together. Stephen edged away a little, feeling uncomfortable, but Victoria slid closer to him once more.

She glanced at Christina from under thick black lashes and announced, ‘I wouldn’t bother coming to the gymkhana if I were you.’ She helped herself to apple pie then went on, ‘Unless you absolutely love horses, you’ll be bored to death.’

She turned to her father for confirmation. ‘Won’t she, Daddy?’

‘I really think that’s for me to decide, don’t you?’

Christina forced her mouth into the semblance of a smile as she stared into Victoria’s flinty gaze, aware for the first time of the strong resemblance to Stephen when he was deep in thought.

The girl continued staring at her whilst she ate her apple pie. ‘It’s up to you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘Victoria, if Christina would like to go to the gymkhana, she can. I personally think she would enjoy it.’

Victoria poked out her tongue at her father.

He tapped the end of it with his finger. ‘Put that away. You don’t know where it’s been.’

She giggled and poked her tongue in and out rapidly whilst Stephen pretended to try and catch it.

Christina stood up. ‘Sorry, but I must use the loo.’ She glanced at Stephen.

He jumped up. ‘I’ll show you to your room.’ He pulled Victoria’s pony-tail as he passed the back of her chair. ‘See you later. Miss Reece-Carlton.’

‘I’m going down to the stables. Come and join me there,’ she said.

‘Thanks for the tea, Dorothy, it was lovely – especially the fruit cake. Just like my mother makes,’ Christina called across to the housekeeper, who was taking a can of dog-food out of the pantry.

‘My pleasure. I like folk who eat well and appreciate my food.’

They left the kitchen and Stephen picked up Christina’s bag before leading the way up a wide, dark oak staircase.

She almost slipped twice on the highly polished stairs, and noticed that the uneven floor creaked with every other step as she followed Stephen past walls lined with paintings in ornate gilded frames.

He stopped at an arched, oak-panelled door which he flung open to reveal a medium-sized room with an elegant Regency four-poster.

The room was wallpapered in a yellow and blue flowered print, and the two colours in toning shades were reflected in the bedspread, curtains, cushions and upholstery.

There was a tiny beamed bathroom en suite with a white tub and a small antique sink. The towels were blue with lemon edging, and there were several pots and jars containing bath oils, soaps and cotton wool.

Christina emerged from the bathroom to find Stephen standing next to a small lead-paned window sill and looking out over the garden. It was planted in Old English formal style with smooth, green lawns divided by stone-flagged paths and neat hedges within which the richly stocked herbaceous borders burst with colour. It seemed to end at a high screen of neatly trimmed, spiralling topiary.

‘What a magnificent garden,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it, except in films.’

‘This is only half of it. Come on, I’ll give you the guided tour of the grounds. Put on some suitable shoes and follow me.’

He waited patiently whilst Christina unzipped her bag and found a pair of trainers which she quickly pulled onto her stockinged feet.

He took her hand and they left the house by the front door, meeting Muffin, the spaniel, panting on the doorstep.

‘Come on, Muffy,’ Stephen called as they set off down the drive. Muffin slumped down in the warm porch and dropped his head on his paws, ready for a snooze.

‘He must have been down at the stables with Victoria all day,’ Stephen commented. ‘He usually comes back exhausted.’ They walked round the side of the house, down a set of old brick steps to a narrow path where they had to walk single-file. The path twisted through a vast rose garden where Old and New English Roses, floribundas, miniatures and hybrid teas blossomed in every shade from white and palest lemon to deepest pinks and crimsons. The garden was heavy with scent.

‘There are over fifty different varieties in here. My wife had this garden planted specially. It was her pride and joy. She was a keen gardener,’ Stephen said in a soft voice.

‘What about you?’ asked Christina.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t got green fingers; I love to see it looking beautiful, but I’d much rather pay someone to keep it that way.’

The path ended at a crumbling old summer-house where a white rambling rose swathed the black-beamed walls.

‘Come on.’ Stephen opened the door and Christina stepped inside. It was damp and musty-smelling.

‘This was Victoria’s den.’ He pointed to a heap of dusty toys piled in one corner. Rubbing a small pane in one window with the flat of his hand, he beckoned to Christina. ‘Look.’

With her nose almost touching the glass, she peered out onto an enclosed patio where flowering plants poked through old flagstones and honeysuckle and clematis crawled up pale stone walls. A small swimming-pool was set in the centre. It looked unused. Dead insects and leaves floated on the surface.

‘Don’t you use the pool?’ Christina asked, staring at the stagnant water.

‘I do occasionally, but Victoria never does. She’s afraid of the water. She almost drowned when she was two years old and has never forgotten it.’

‘I love swimming,’ Christina said.

‘Well, swim you shall. I’ll get Jack the gardener to clean the pool out this afternoon, and if it’s warm enough we can go swimming together in the morning.’

‘How about skinny-dipping this evening?’ she said mischievously.

‘If we can manage it, I’m game.’

They left the summer-house and walked hand in hand through several acres of woodland, completing the tour of the twenty acres of grounds at the stables, where Victoria was grooming her bay gelding in the yard as they approached.

‘Come and meet Mischief.’ Stephen pulled a reluctant Christina towards the fourteen-hand pony. She thought the name might be apt and approached the animal warily.

Victoria continued grooming Mischief’s tail as Christina cautiously stroked his mane.

‘How long have you had her?’

‘Daddy bought him for my tenth birthday as a surprise present. Didn’t you, Daddy?’

Stephen nodded and smiled.

Victoria continued speaking just to him. ‘Do you remember how you tied his tail and mane with lots of big red ribbons, and what fun we had that day? I’ll never part with Mischief. Even when I get big I’ll still keep him.’

Victoria finished grooming the horse’s tail, and put the brush on a bench by her feet. ‘Daddy always knows just what to buy me.’

She stood next to her father, watching Christina stroke the pony’s neck.

Stephen smiled. ‘I think he likes you, Christina.’

‘This pony has good taste,’ she said, and gave hisa neck a final pat.

Victoria left her father’s side to stand in front of Mischief, saying, ‘Come on, boy, back you go.’ She pushed him back towards his stall, but he was enjoying the attention he was receiving from Christina and did not want to move.

‘Back, boy!’ Victoria slapped his hind quarters and Mischief bucked, landing heavily on Christina’s foot. She screamed and pulled away from the beast, who rolled his eyes at the noise and movement. Victoria did not spare her a glance but concentrated on calming her pony.

‘Are you okay, Christina?’ Concerned, Stephen bent over and examined her rapidly swelling foot.

‘She’ll be fine, Daddy, really. What a fuss. It happens to me all the time.’

Victoria bolted the stable half-door and held out her hand to Mischief. In it were two Polo mints which the pony took and chomped with great relish.

‘See you tomorrow, my darling Mischief,’ she crooned. ‘I hope you’re going to win for me.’ Then she turned to Christina. ‘I really would think twice about coming to the gymkhana tomorrow. There’ll be lots of horses there and you could get trodden on again.’ Her voice was cold.

Stephen took Christina’s arm and gave his daughter an angry glare. ‘Have you no sympathy, Victoria? Can’t you see Christina’s hurt?’

‘It’s not my fault if she’s not used to being around horses.’

A petulant look appeared on Victoria’s face. She would have relented and said she was sorry, if only for her father’s sake, but could not bring herself to speak as she watched him supporting Christina and tenderly sympathizing with her as she limped out of the stable-yard.

Victoria threw a spiteful look in Christina’s direction and muttered under her breath, though loud enough for them to hear, ‘Stupid girl! She’s just making a fuss to get attention.’ Before her father could rebuke her she ran past them and up the small service drive across the top paddock. They saw her round the back of the house and vanish from sight.

‘I’m sorry about her behaviour,’ Stephen apologized as he helped Christina back to the house. ‘She resents anyone in my life. That’s why I never bring women down here. You’re the first since Barbara’s death.’

Christina winced in pain and thought: If this is the way Victoria’s going to act, I’ll probably be the last!

She would have liked to have said so, but held back.

‘I’m sure she’ll get used to me in time.’

She squeezed Stephen’s arm as a sharp pain shot through her ankle. She was positive that Victoria had engineered her accident and sincerely hoped that the wilful child would get used to her soon. If not, she might not survive the weekend.

Within hours Christina’s foot had swelled to the size of a small balloon, and Stephen insisted on calling in his local doctor, who suggested the possibility of a hair-line fracture. There was certainly a very severe sprain. He advised an X-ray first thing Monday morning. Meanwhile he strapped her foot and ankle and gave her pain-killers, recommending lots of rest with her feet up.

Stephen had planned to go to a local Italian restaurant for dinner, so had given Dorothy Barnes the night off.

Christina insisted he should still take Victoria.

‘Really, Stephen, I’ll be fine if you make me a cheese sandwich and leave me here in front of the telly.’

He hesitated. ‘I really don’t like to.’

They were sitting in the living-room in front of a deep inglenook fireplace.

‘Would you like me to light the fire?’ Stephen pointed to the grate which was ready laid with logs and newspaper neatly arranged on the black, charred iron. A dog-chewed wicker basket full of extra logs stood on the hearth next to a highly polished brass fender.

Christina shook her head. ‘I’m warm enough, thanks.’ She shifted herself into a more comfortable position on the royal-blue damask-covered three-seater sofa with its assortment of needlepoint cushions behind her back and neck. Her leg was resting on a small foot-stool.

‘Anyway, you mustn’t disappoint Victoria. She’s looking forward to it.’

Christina watched Stephen’s reaction carefully, thinking how attractive he looked in a navy-blue sports jacket and a mint-green shirt that almost matched the colour of his eyes.

She wanted him to say that Victoria could miss her treat for once, but was not at all surprised when he said, ‘I’ll be as quick as possible, I promise. We’ll be a couple of hours at the most.’

He looked relieved as he said again, ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’

Victoria walked into the room and stood in front of the sofa, unable to disguise the satisfied smirk on her face.

‘I’m really sorry about your foot, Christina. It’s such a shame you can’t come with us tonight. Mario makes the most fantastic lasagne.’ She smiled sweetly at her father.

‘My, my, you look very pretty. Is that a new jumper?’

Victoria had changed into a soft pink angora short-sleeved sweater with the head of a white Persian kitten appliquéd on the front. It was tucked into faded blue-denim jeans with silver studs on the pockets, and she wore pink socks and pale-pink ballerina shoes with bows on the front. Her thick, glossy hair hung loose, swinging down her back and shoulders, almost touching her elbows.

‘Nanny bought this for me last time she came to stay. Don’t you remember, Daddy?’

Stephen shrugged. ‘You know me and clothes, poppet, I can never remember things like that.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Now you sit and chat to Christina while I make her a sandwich; then we can go.’

Stephen left the room and Victoria sat awkwardly on the very edge of the sofa.

Christina broke the silence.

‘I realize you’re used to having your father’s exclusive attention, Victoria, and I really don’t want to spoil anything for you.’

Immediately the child got up from the sofa and stood in front of her.

‘That’s good, because I’m not going to let you. Just stay away from us!’ Christina was shocked at the harsh words and saw something in the eyes of the eleven-year-old that chilled her to the bone.

‘I think I’ll go and help Daddy now,’ Victoria said, and ran out of the living-room before Christina had a chance to speak to her further.

Stephen returned ten minutes later with a big tray covered in a white lace tray-cloth. He placed it in Christina’s lap with a flourish.

‘Dinner à la carte.’

‘Thank you.’ She looked down at the tray on which he had laid cheese and tomato toasties, garnished with lettuce and delicately cut cucumber. A slice of apple tart sat next to a bottle of chilled Frascati, and a champagne tulip held a single pale-peach rose.

A small white envelope sat on top of the pile of sandwiches. Christina lifted it up, a question in her eyes.

‘Read it later.’ Stephen put his hand on her shoulder and bent forward, ‘I won’t be long, I promise.’ He glanced at the open doorway where Victoria was standing, an impatient look marring her pretty face.

He planted a soft kiss on Christina’s cheek.

‘See you later.’

‘Have fun,’ she called, and heard Victoria shouting from the hall with glee: ‘Don’t worry, we will!’

The last sound she heard was Victoria’s delighted giggling before the door slammed shut and she was left alone.

Christina had very little appetite but drank most of the wine.

Then she remembered the little card Stephen had left for her.

Remember the last time we had cheese and tomato sandwiches?

I’ll never forget.

Love, S.

Christina sighed and thought about the wonderful time they had shared in London four weeks previously. Stephen was a very different man this weekend. She was dozing in front of an old black and white movie when Stephen and Victoria returned home by taxi two hours later. Christina could tell that Stephen had been drinking as he bounded into the living-room. She noticed two scarlet spots of colour standing out on his cheeks as he sat down next to her.

‘How’s the lovely injured Christina?’

‘All the better for seeing you.’ She touched his hot cheek and leaned forward to kiss him. He jumped up as if he had been stung as Victoria bounced into the room, cheeks ablaze with excited colour and eyes sparkling.

Christina groaned inwardly. Victoria did not look in the least bit tired.

‘How about a game of Monopoly?’ She began to rummage in an old oak chest, pulling out an assortment of board games.

Stephen looked at the Victorian carriage clock on the carved mantelpiece and said, not firmly enough in Christina’s opinion, ‘I think it’s bedtime.’

Victoria pouted, it’s only ten o’clock. I don’t usually go to bed until eleven on weekends.’

She held the Monopoly box in front of Stephen’s face. ‘One quick game, please.’

‘Monopoly is not quick, Vicky, it takes hours,’ he sighed.

‘I don’t have to get up for school in the morning, Daddy. Please.’

Her big eyes pleaded with him.

‘Would you like to play, Christina?’ Stephen looked at her, his eyes imploring.

‘It’s best if we play at the big table in the dining-room. Christina would be uncomfortable there,’ Victoria announced, pulling on his sleeve. ‘Come on. Daddy. I can’t wait to buy up all the Mayfair properties.’

Stephen gently extracted his arm. ‘I think Christina should play. It’s more fun with three.’

A defiant look entered Victoria’s face, and Christina suspected she was about to throw a tantrum. She doubted she could stand it, so took the easy option, yawning deliberately and then stretching.

‘I’m very tired, Stephen, so I think I will leave Monopoly this time. I was never very good anyway.’

She saw the look of delight in Victoria’s eyes.

‘Can you help me, Stephen?’

‘Of course.’ He leaned down and put one strong arm around her back and another under her legs, lifting her into his arms.

‘You set up the board; I’ll be down in a few minutes, Vicky,’ he called.

‘Okay, will do, but don’t be too long,’ she replied, not saying goodnight to Christina, who held onto Stephen’s neck very tightly.

He helped her upstairs and lifted her onto the bed. ‘I’ll be fine now, Stephen. You go and play with Victoria.’

Christina tried to keep the resentment out of her voice, but he detected it.

‘She is my only child, Christina, and I don’t see as much of her as I’d like.’

Christina sighed. Victoria was just a little girl, and one who had lost her mother in tragic circumstances. What sort of man would Stephen be if he didn’t put his daughter first, at least some of the time? ‘I’m sorry. It’s just I would have liked a little time with you alone. I’d been looking forward to this weekend so much.’

‘I feel the same way, but it’s difficult for me to refuse her anything. I’m over-compensating for the loss of her mother.’

He sat on the edge of the bed and held both her hands.

‘Don’t take any notice of me, I’m just feeling sorry for myself,’ she said.

‘I’ll make it up to you later, as soon as I get Victoria to bed. You’ll forget all about your foot, I promise.’

‘And I promise to make you forget everything.’ She touched the front of his trousers.

‘I wish,’ he said, and kissed her full on the mouth, his hand seeking her breast and gently tweaking her nipple between thumb and forefinger.

Christina was immediately aroused and wrapped her arms around his neck.

‘Daddy, Daddy, the Monopoly’s all set up. Do you want a cup of cocoa or a brandy?’

‘I’d better go.’ Stephen lifted his head and Christina nodded, letting her arms fall by her sides.

‘See you later,’ he said as he left the room.

‘I may be asleep.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll wake you up!’

She undressed slowly and hopped into the bathroom where she brushed her teeth, combed her hair, and doused herself in perfume. Not wearing her customary bedshirt or pyjamas, she limped across the room and, holding onto one of the bedposts, hoisted herself into bed.

She lay awake for a long time anticipating Stephen’s lovemaking, and eventually fell asleep, trusting he would wake her up.

Raindrops pattering on the bedroom window and an excruciating pain in her ankle woke her at dawn the following morning.

She struggled to sit up and squinted at her wristwatch. It was ten past six and she was alone.

Christina got up and found the bottle of pain-killers the doctor had given her. She took two in a tumbler of icy-cold water and staggered back to bed, sleeping fitfully for the next three hours until Stephen came to her room with a breakfast tray.

‘The top of the morning to you,’ he said, mimicking an Irish accent, and set the tray on the bed.

‘What happened to you last night?’ she snapped, and pulled herself into a sitting position, rubbing her eyes. ‘I stayed awake for ages waiting for you to come.’

‘I played Monopoly for almost an hour like a good, dutiful father, then I tucked my daughter up in bed and tiptoed down here, intending to be a good, dutiful lover. But you …’ – he pinched Christina’s leg – ‘… were in sweet dreams.’

‘I wouldn’t have minded if you’d woken me up!’

‘You looked so peaceful,’ he grinned. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ She slid her legs out of bed. ‘It’s your loss as much as mine.’

‘Come on, Christina, don’t be like that. I’ll make it up to you tonight.’ His voice was flippant.

‘Don’t make promises you may not be able to keep, Stephen.’ She began to limp to the bathroom, ‘I must do my teeth before I can eat breakfast.’

He ran round the bed to help her. She refused his arm, saying, ‘I can manage, Stephen. My foot’s a lot better this morning.’

He watched her shapely naked bottom disappearing into the bathroom and thought she had been right when she had said it was his loss.

‘That’s great. So do you think you’ll be able to make the gymkhana?’ he called after her.

‘I’m sure I shall,’ Christina shouted from the bathroom. I’ll get to that bloody gymkhana if it kills me! she thought.

The gymkhana was crowded, cold and very, very wet.

Stephen tramped around the muddy field for hours under a vast umbrella, arm in arm with Victoria, whilst Christina, hating every moment, sat in the car becoming more and more morose.

Victoria won a rosette for second place and talked non-stop about horses for the hour-long journey back to Purley Hall. It was almost six o’clock when the car pulled into the drive, and Christina had a splitting headache. She took a further two pain-killers and excused herself to lie down.

Hobbling downstairs an hour later she found Stephen and Victoria curled up in front of a log fire watching a video. He looked up briefly. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Christina; this is a really exciting bit.’

Victoria’s eyes did not leave the television screen.

She left them and walked towards the kitchen, where Dorothy was preparing a roast-beef dinner.

‘We usually have Sunday lunch, but Mr Reece-Carlton has to go abroad tomorrow so we’re having it tonight instead,’ she informed Christina, who looked surprised.

Stephen had not told her he was going away – but then, she was slowly learning, there were lots of things Stephen did not tell her.

The smell of the meat roasting set hunger pangs gnawing at her stomach.

‘Mmm, that smells wonderful.’ She sat down heavily at the kitchen table. She would have loved a cup of tea but did not like to ask the rather formidable housekeeper to make her one.

‘Well, I make a good roast even if I say so myself.’ The housekeeper stuck out her ample chest. ‘Mr Reece-Carlton says he’s never tasted a better roast lunch anywhere.’ She continued to heap praises on her own cooking whilst vigorously beating a batter mixture for Yorkshire pudding.

‘How’s your foot?’ Dorothy enquired, but seemed indifferent to Christina’s reply.

‘A lot better, thanks.’ She looked down at her swollen ankle, which was looking more like its normal size.

‘You’ll feel a whole lot better after you’ve had my roast dinner,’ Dorothy assured her. Christina wished she would stop boasting about how good a cook she was, and just get on with it.

The housekeeper poured the batter mixture into a smoking oven-tin as Stephen came in to kneel down and survey several bottles of wine in a rack below the work-surface. He eventually pulled out a 1963 St Emilion which he opened and decanted.

‘Twenty minutes for the Yorkshires,’ Dorothy announced, and slammed the oven door tightly shut.

They ate their Yorkshire pudding separately as a starter, a custom Stephen’s mother had faithfully followed. Christina didn’t care how it was served; it tasted wonderful – light and crispy. The roast beef was done to perfection, and she had an extra helping of beef and golden roast potatoes with thick, rich gravy.

Victoria had spoken very little during the meal, much to Christina’s surprise.

They were all eating enormous portions of plum crumble and cream when Stephen said, ‘I thought your friend Caroline was coming to see you tonight?’

Victoria shook her head, and some of her hair fell into the dessert bowl. It was sticky with cream when she continued, ‘She was, but I told her not to when I knew you were coming home for the weekend. You know how Caroline always spoils things.’

The girl pulled a face, and Christina thought how well Victoria knew about spoiling things.

Stephen poured the last drops of red wine from the decanter into his and Christina’s glasses.

‘I’ve got another James Bond video I thought we could watch together.’

Victoria was looking directly at her father as she spoke, deliberately excluding Christina. She glanced over Victoria’s shoulder at a portrait of a very dark young woman. Her large grey-blue eyes stared back, heavy-lidded and mysterious.

‘Is that your wife, Stephen?’ she asked.

He turned. ‘Yes, that’s Barbara.’

‘She was very attractive,’ Christina commented.

‘She was more than attractive – she was beautiful!’ Victoria looked at the portrait then back at Christina. Her eyes were narrowed and her voice very quiet.

‘No one could replace my mother. Not ever.’

Christina held Victoria’s troubled eyes for a long time. They were both silent until Christina said, ‘I don’t think anyone would even try.’

She finished her dessert, though it stuck in her throat, and congratulated Dorothy, who seeped up the praise, a huge smile stretching from one ear to the other.

Christina hated old James Bond movies but was forced to watch Goldfinger, squashed at the far end of the sofa as Victoria lay full-length with her legs looped over her father’s lap.

Christina was delighted when the child fell asleep halfway through the movie and Stephen carried her to bed.

‘She’s sound asleep.’ He seemed relieved when he joined her on the sofa five minutes later with two glasses of Hine.

She took the brandy goblet from his outstretched hand, saying, ‘You didn’t tell me you were leaving tomorrow?’

He took a sip of brandy and sighed heavily.

‘I’m sorry. That call from Robert Leyton last night was to confirm I had to go to Spain. I forgot to tell you after you hurt your foot.’

He raked his long fingers through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’m afraid I have to catch the 11.30 plane from Gatwick to Malaga. We’re trying to set up a leisure park in Spain and I must meet the planners on-site first thing Monday morning. It was the only available flight. I took the liberty of booking you a flight back to Manchester fifteen minutes after mine, if that’s okay with you? I didn’t think you’d want to stay down here without me.’

‘No, thanks. With you gone, Victoria might eat me!’

‘Oh, come on, Christina. She’s not that bad.’

Christina suppressed the reply she’d have liked to have given. ‘Only joking.’ She pinched his leg. ‘This is our last opportunity to be together. Let’s stop wasting time.’

She lifted his dark-green cotton sweater and with her fingertips curled the fine hair of his stomach, which he pulled in with a sharp intake of breath. His head fell back onto the sofa as she began to undo the top button of his jeans. The zip slid down easily and Stephen moaned from deep within his throat as he felt her hand slip inside his boxer shorts. She leaned forward to kiss him – and jumped back in fright as a white figure loomed from behind the sofa.

‘Daddy, I had a horrible nightmare! I couldn’t get back to sleep; I was really afraid.’

Victoria, dressed in a long nightdress, walked round the sofa and stared at Stephen, who was frantically zipping up his jeans and pulling his sweater down.

‘What are you doing?’ She continued to stare wide-eyed. He pulled her quickly down beside him to cover his embarrassment, pushing stray hairs away from her brow and saying, ‘Nothing, baby. Now tell Daddy all about the horrible nightmare and he’ll make it better.’

Christina left Stephen and Victoria curled up on the sofa, engrossed in one another, and limped slowly to her room. She fell into bed angry and frustrated. There was no point in staying awake. She knew Stephen would never come to her while his daughter was under the same roof.

‘Your daughter is impossible, Stephen. Surely you can see she’s trying to jeopardize our relationship?’

Stephen looked across the table at Christina’s flushed face.

‘I really think you’re over-reacting, as usual.’ He sounded tired and exasperated.

‘Over-reacting? Victoria feigns illness, so you instantly cancel a weekend in Spain with me. One which I have been looking forward to very much!’

‘Keep your voice down,’ he urged. They were seated in the bar of the Midland Hotel in Manchester, and Stephen could see several people staring in their direction. He leaned forward. ‘Everyone is looking at us.’

‘I don’t care, Stephen,’ she snapped.

‘Well, I do, and as far as Victoria’s illness is concerned, Doctor Montague thinks it may be some kind of virus. Can’t risk it. What if she’s seriously ill while I’m away?’

‘Dorothy is with her. She knew about your trip to Spain a week ago. Don’t you find it too much of a coincidence that Victoria takes ill the very day you and I are due to go away for a long weekend?’

‘I’m sorry. I was looking forward to it as much as you.’ He took another sip of his drink and emptied the glass. ‘I can’t go away next weekend; it’s Vicky’s school play and I’ve promised to be there, but we can go the weekend after that, Christina.’

‘I don’t know where I’ll be in two weeks’ time. As I’ve told you a million times, I have to spend some time in Ireland. My mother is genuinely very ill.’

‘Well, we can go another weekend.’ He paused. ‘Soon.’

Stephen tried to take her hand but she pulled away.

‘How about coming with me to France on Wednesday and Thursday of next week?’

He was trying desperately hard to make amends, but Christina was unforgiving.

‘I’m working, remember? I do work for a living.’

‘Who cares about some daft job for Manchester United football club? Cancel it.’ His voice was dismissive. It made her suddenly furious.

‘I care, Stephen. And I need the money.’

He turned away from her defiant expression and waved to a passing waiter. She shook her head as the man approached their table and Stephen ordered another large gin and tonic. ‘Don’t talk to me about needing money!’ His voice had a cutting edge as he continued: ‘I’ve offered you an allowance, and a beautiful flat in your own name. But you refuse to swallow your stupid pride and continue to live in squalor with that scatty flatmate who drives you nuts! You insist on taking degrading work and struggling to pay the bills when you could live in London close to me!’

The waiter came to their table. He jumped back as Christina shouted: ‘No, no, no, Stephen! How many times do I have to tell you to stop trying to buy me?’ The waiter placed Stephen’s drink in front of him and backed away quickly.

She felt a tremor inside her when she encountered Stephen’s narrow, unblinking gaze. She had never seen him look so cold or so remote from her.

‘I’m not trying to buy you, merely trying to help you. Can’t you see that? You are so stubborn and immature sometimes, Christina.’

He made an effort to control his voice, but there was no mistaking his mounting temper.

Christina stood up. She was visibly shaking and her legs did not feel capable of taking her weight.

‘I may be both of those things but I am not stupid, nor am I blind. What I can see very clearly, Stephen, is that you want me on your terms and your terms only. Neatly tucked away in a cosy flat in London where you can come around whenever it suits you, far from any prying eyes – and of course your precious daughter!’

‘That’s just not true.’ His voice shook with anger. Conversation ceased in the busy bar. Everyone was watching the scene.

‘You know the situation as well as I do, Christina. You’ve known from the first weekend you spent at Purley Hall almost six months ago, but you just can’t accept the fact. Victoria needs me.’

She stood up. He got to his feet and put a hand on her arm. ‘I can only give you so much of my time, Christina. You must understand,’ he implored.

She took a deep breath.

‘I do understand, Stephen.’ Her voice was resigned. ‘You must go and catch your plane to London. You’re right. Victoria wants you.’

Christina picked up the suitcase she had packed with such excitement that morning and gripped the handle firmly with trembling fingers. She was fighting hard to prevent the tears welling up in her eyes and blinked several times before she was able to say, ‘I don’t need you any more, Stephen. At least not like this.’

She turned and walked out of the Midland Hotel, hoping Stephen might run after her but knowing deep in her heart that he would not.

Christina squinted, trying hard to focus. She could have sworn Martin Ward had three heads as he came towards her. Thankfully they merged into one when he sat next to her.

‘I’ve been looking for you for ages. Where on earth have you been?’

‘Drinking. And I want another.’

‘I really think you’ve had enough.’ Martin gently prised the glass from her hand.

‘I will decide when I have had enough.’ She leaned forward to attract the barman’s attention, and almost fell.

‘Why don’t we go back to my place?’ Martin suggested, planning to give her coffee and perhaps something to eat in an effort to sober her up.

‘Your place?’ She glared at him. He was reminded of the little tabby kitten he’d rescued from the railway embankment as a child. Small-boned, saucer-eyed and spitting defiance. He realized she had mistaken his meaning.

‘I really don’t think you’d be much use to me in bed tonight, Christina,’ he said as he caught her firmly in his arms. ‘Come on, love, I’m taking you home.’

So much for using the club dance to show Christina how attractive he found her, Martin thought ruefully, as he steered her across the dance-floor. He hadn’t been able to spend as much time with her as he’d hoped. The Chairman had been in an expansive mood, pressing forbidden cigars on him, and then there’d been the duty dances with players’ wives and starstruck girlfriends. With his thick blond hair and broad-shouldered, tapering physique, Martin had caught the eye of any number of women tonight. But the one he wanted to attract, the one he found himself thinking of more and more these days, seemed to want him only as a shoulder to cry on.

He knew what was at the bottom of it, of course. A man, must be. Maybe the man he’d seen her with at the Midland that time?

Outside in his BMW Christina seemed to come to herself.

‘I’m sorry, Martin. I feel so ashamed. I didn’t show you up, did I?’

‘Don’t be, Christina. Everyone has too much sometimes. It’s not the end of the world. Listen, I’ve made a fool of myself on more than one occasion and had to be carried home.’

She sniffed and blew her nose.

‘I’d like to spend the night with you, Martin. I can’t bear to go back to the flat.’

He stared straight ahead, both hands gripping the wheel. A car passed and his handsome profile was suddenly illuminated in the headlights.

‘I’d love to sleep with you, Christina, and to be honest I’ve thought about little else since our date last week.’ He thought carefully about his next words. ‘But I don’t want you on the rebound. You’ve had someone else on your mind tonight. I don’t think you’re ready for me or anyone till you’ve got him out of your system.’

Christina sniffed again and stared ahead, not speaking. They drove in silence for a few minutes until she spoke, very quietly. ‘You’re right, Martin, though not many men would be so understanding. Thank you. If you could take me home I’d be grateful.’ He stopped his car in front of her flat.

‘I’d like to see you again, Christina, and there may not be much time. As you know, I’m on the transfer list. If the deal with Tottenham goes through next week I’ll be leaving Manchester.’ He paused. ‘I know you’d like to work in London …’ He wanted to say ‘We could go together’, but his voice trailed off and he left the sentence unfinished.

Christina half smiled. ‘I really hope you get it, Martin. I’m sure you will.’

She got out of the car. He was about to follow when she bent down and spoke through the open window.

‘Don’t get out, Martin. I’m fine now. Sorry about this evening.’

‘No problem. Think about London, won’t you, Christina? I’ll call you in the morning.’

He waved and drove off. She watched the car until it was out of sight.

It was ironic, she thought. Half the girls in Manchester would give their eye-teeth to have an invitation like that from Martin Ward. Christina could see the attraction. He was good-looking, he was famous. But he wasn’t for her. There was only one man she wanted.

She expected to hear Martin’s voice when she picked up the telephone the following morning, but it was her sister instead.

‘It’s bad news, Christina. The doctors say Mam won’t last the night.’

She stared at her own pale face and sunken eyes in the cracked mirror above the telephone.

‘But – they said she had a few more months! God, Marie, I’d have cancelled my jobs if I’d realized.’

Her sister’s voice cracked as she replied, ‘Sure and Mam wouldn’t hear of that. She was always so proud of you, Christina.’

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