Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

“I’ve been sitting herestaring at St. Michael’sMount, wondering whythe hell I can’t rememberwho I am!”

“Getting angry about it won’t help. At least you know that’s St. Michael’s Mount,” Carla pointed out.

“Which tells me I’ve been in this part of the world before.”

“So it does!” She turned to him, eyes alight. “And slowly but surely it will all come back, Daniel.”

“I’m sure you’re right. If I can survive the wait.”

“Are you a naturally impatient person?”

Daniel shrugged. “Impatient is maybe the wrong word. Active. I’d say I feel like I’m naturally active. I get the feeling I’m used to a lot of challenge in my life. Mental and physical.”

Carla gazed at him, her brain whirling in fascination.

Having abandoned her first intended career for marriage, ROSALIE ASH spent several years as a bilingual personal assistant to the managing director of a leisure group. She now lives in Warwickshire, England, with her husband, and daughters Kate and Abby, and her lifelong enjoyment of writing has led to her career as a novelist. Her interests include languages, travel and research for her books, read” ing and visits to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in nearby Stratford-upon-Avon. Other pleasures include swimming, yoga and country walks.

Myths Of The Moon
Rosalie Ash

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

HE’D fallen asleep. But, in spite of that long, hard body sprawled in the red wing-chair by the fire, he managed to retain an air of wary vigilance. In a position when most men would look vulnerable, this one looked threatening…

Carla hesitated in the doorway, tray in hand. Then she crept quietly into the cottage, and closed the front door behind her. She could feel her heart beating a touch faster than normal. Carefully, soundlessly, she put the tray down on the black oak sideboard by the door, and stared at him.

Who was he?

Not for the first time in the past twenty-four hours, she wondered bleakly what on earth she’d got herself into. It was all very well being a good Samaritan. And she being naturally stubborn, the words of warning from friends in the village had merely made her more determined to offer help…

She had the accommodation. She’d had this small self-contained cottage converted last year, from the stables of her stone farmhouse. She rented it out to holidaymakers in the summer. It had a superb view over the bay, and down along a mystical, timeless stretch of south Cornish coastline. It even overlooked the precise spot where the cliff accident had sent ripples of concern through this tiny Cornish village. The cottage was tailor-made for the accident victim’s recovery…

It wasn’t as if she was sharing her own house with a total stranger, was it? Back in the safety of the farm, she could shoot the bolts and turn the heavy old keys in the locks, and barricade herself in against potential night-time assaults, should he prove to be the crazed rapist of the village postmistress’s imagination…

And it wasn’t as if she was a naive, impressionable young girl, her reasoning ran on, bolstering her nerve. She was a twenty-five-year-old widow, a successful writer of detective novels, nobody’s fool…

So…why was she standing here, throat dry as sandpaper, staring at her mysterious lodger as if he were Jack the Ripper?

Catching sight of her wind-blown appearance in the big oval mirror above the fireplace, she pushed her fingers hastily through her tousled brown bob. She made a rueful face. Rufus had always complained that she didn’t take enough trouble with her appearance. And since his death in an accident last year she’d probably taken even less. Bundled up in heavy Aran polo neck, green cord jeans, and ancient, battered Barbour jacket, she felt quite sure that Rufus would have disapproved. But then she and Rufus should never have got married. They’d discovered that, very shortly after their wedding. Her late husband had envisaged a wife as someone who spent mornings at the hairdresser, afternoons painting her nails, and evenings cooking cordon bleu meals before slipping into slinky lace night-wear for torrid nights of pleasure. He had disapproved of just about everything he’d discovered about Carla, during their three brief years of marriage, and wasted no time in seeking consolation elsewhere…

Carla chewed her lip indecisively, wavering over whether to retreat, with the meal-tray, and return later. Lurking under the silver foil was a robust beef and red wine casserole, judged by her to be ideal food to fortify a large six-foot male recovering from concussion and temporary amnesia.

Could it endure a re-heat in the microwave, and still retain recuperative properties? she wondered wryly…

‘Hello.’

The husky voice made her jump with nervous reaction. The black-fringed eyes were open. Her visitor was looking at her, with a bemused expression.

‘Oh, you’re awake…! Sorry, did I wake you?’

‘Possibly.’ His mouth twisted in wry humour. ‘But don’t feel guilty. Something’s smelling good on that tray. Would it be presumptuous to hope it’s for me?’

She smiled stiffly.

‘Yes. It’s beef and red wine…with mushrooms. I hope you like mushrooms?’

‘Sounds delicious.’

He made a visible effort to straighten up, and lever himself to standing. With his left arm still in a sling, his progress was hindered. But he made it. In the low-ceilinged cottage, Carla found his height less alarming than she’d expected. Tall, lean, black-haired, with that villainous growth of stubble on his jaw, he should surely have exuded even more threat. But, with the slight hint of unsteadiness in his stance, perversely enough he now looked more vulnerable than when he’d been asleep.

With a rush of remorse, she grabbed the tray from the sideboard and hurried over to him.

‘Please, don’t stand up! Oh, dear, now I feel even worse. You’re supposed to be resting, getting better! I’m afraid I make a lousy nurse…’

‘I don’t need a nurse,’ he pointed out shortly, subsiding into the chair again with a grimace. ‘Physically the hospital pronounced me dischargeable. All I need is a good night’s sleep away from the chaos of a public ward, and my mind back.’

‘You haven’t lost your mind,’ she pointed out, quietly. She thrust the tray on to muscular, denim-clad knees, and lifted the foil to reveal a hearty portion of the casserole, flanked by creamed potatoes and buttered cabbage. ‘Just your memory. And it will come back soon. The less you worry about getting it back, the quicker it will come. That’s what the doctors said. And staying here, where you had the accident, should hurry up your recovery…’

She was wittering nervously, she realised, annoyed with herself. She stopped for a moment, meeting the contained expression in his face. Somewhere deep inside, she felt an unwelcome lurch of awareness.

Beneath the mass of straight black hair, his face was firm-jawed, with a powerfully aquiline nose. Even with the distraction of the pad of lint stuck to one temple, and the bluish bruising on one high cheekbone, it was a daunting sort of face. Maybe it was his eyes. He had lynx-like, penetrating eyes. Eyes which made her feel as if her private thoughts might be analysed, maybe before she’d analysed them herself. They were deep-set, beneath straight dark eyebrows. Against very clear whites, the irises were a curious shade of green. Not emerald, not sage. More the colour of the rock-pools on the beach on a cloudy day.

She straightened up abruptly, and stepped back.

‘I hope you like cabbage?’ she finished up foolishly. She felt unsettled by the faint flicker of humour in his gaze. ‘But leave it if you don’t. I…I made sure everything can be easily eaten with just a fork. Can you remember what you like and what you don’t like to eat?’

‘Cabbage is just fine.’

There was a pause, slightly awkward. He smiled a touch more widely, revealing even white teeth. Then he began eating, sublimely unselfconscious of her watching eyes.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it…’

She retreated to the door, then hesitated.

‘Unless…’ She sought for the right words, desperate not to appear pushy, or, heaven forbid, forward in any way. She’d no wish to give him the wrong impression. ‘Unless you’d like some company?’

There was a silence. Then he nodded, with a brief, slightly haggard smile.

‘Thanks. I could do with some company.’

‘I’ll go and get my dinner, and join you,’ she said calmly, darting across the wind-swept cobbled yard and returning with her own meal on a tray, with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. She put the tray on the low black oak coffee-table in front of the fire, discarded her Barbour on the hook by the door, and began to uncork the wine.

‘It must feel so strange,’ she added, busying herself determinedly to maintain her poise under his scrutiny, ‘not being able to remember who you are, or what you were doing here…’

The dark head nodded slowly.

‘Like waking up in a dark cellar, and not being able to find the light switch.’ The thoughtful words were tinged with irony.

Carla glanced at him quickly, handing over a glass of red wine.

‘When you’re feeling like it, perhaps a walk along the same cliff-path might trigger something?’

‘Isn’t the path barred to walkers now?’

‘Well, yes. But you can still get partway, along the upper path. Close enough to see where the ground gave way…’

Involuntarily, she shuddered in memory. The recent drama rushed back to haunt her. Dusk falling, a stiff breeze blowing off the ocean, and with no warning near-death had beckoned, right in front of her eyes…

She’d taken a break from her intense concentration on her word-processor screen, leaning back to stretch and rub her eyes, and contemplate the next intricate twist of her plot. She’d been so absorbed in writing, she hadn’t noticed how dark it was getting. The greenish glow from her VDU was the only light in her study, and she’d been about to reach across and click on the Anglepoise lamp when her attention was caught by a movement on the cliff-top. From her study window the rugged sweep of coastline had been framed with perfect clarity. The sky was that brilliant, unreal shade of pale, duck-egg blue that came when the sun set on a winter evening. A full moon had already been visible. The movement she’d seen had been a man, walking along the coastal path. One moment the tall, broad-shouldered figure had been striding along in the direction of the farm. The next moment, with a muffled, doom-laden rumble of falling rock and crumbling earth, he’d disappeared over the edge of the cliff. A cloud of dust had risen to blot out her view. When it had subsided, all that remained was a jagged hole in the side of the cliff.

Seized with horror, she’d sprung up instinctively, hand over her mouth. Then, so stunned by the suddenness of the scene, she’d felt frozen to the spot. Common sense had finally reasserted itself. Snatching up the telephone, she’d rung the emergency services. Then she’d found a torch, dashed from the house, grabbed a coil of rope from the now empty barn, and rushed down the lane and out on to the cliff-top, to see if she could help. Inching as close as she dared, her heart pounding and her throat dry with fear, she’d steeled herself to peer over the edge. Dreading seeing a broken, bloodied body down below, she’d felt a slight surge of relief. The man had looked to be unconscious, but at least he was in one piece. Or as far as she could see, anyway, in the rapidly fading light…And he hadn’t plummeted all the way down to the rocky beach below. The fall of earth had somehow blocked his fall. The pile of rocks and earth had rolled halfway down the cliff, then come to a halt against the resistance of gorse bushes and brambles clinging to the cliff-side. The man’s face had been deathly white, though. And an ugly gash on his temple had been trickling ominously red.

Heart squeezed in her chest, trembling with apprehension, she’d called down to him, without response. All she’d been able to do was sit there, while the sky grew darker and the moon grew brighter, watching fearfully in case of further subsidence, until the coastguard, and the rescue helicopter from Culdrose, had arrived…

‘Are you all right?’

Her visitor was regarding her with bleak amusement.

‘I thought you were dead, you know,’ she said ruefully, pouring some wine into her own glass and taking a fortifying sip. ‘You looked like a ghost, lying down there on the cliff.’

‘Sorry. But, as you can see, I’m very much alive. In body, if not in mind.’ He took a drink of the red wine, and made a wry face. ‘I doubt if alcohol is the approved cure for extradural haemorrhage and amnesia, somehow.’

‘Oh…sorry.’

‘Stop apologising.’ The sea-green eyes levelled calmly on her face. ‘If anyone here should be constantly apologising, Miss Julyan, it’s me. I’m imposing on your time and hospitality. Being waited on, fussed over. And frankly, you’re a brave woman. You don’t know who I am. I could be a psychiatric case, a dangerous criminal.’

She bit her lip. Her earlier doubts were still so fresh in her mind, she stopped herself just in time from blushing bright red.

‘You don’t strike me as either.’

He shrugged slightly. There was a gleam of frustrated humour in his eyes.

‘I don’t feel like either. The hellish thing is not knowing.’

They stared at each other in silence for a few moments.

‘It’s going to take some detective work, that’s all,’ she said at last. ‘It’s a question of piecing together all the small things you can remember, until something jolts the rest…’

‘All I know is that my name’s Daniel.’

‘True…if that note was addressed to you.’

He frowned, then made a face.

‘It was in my shirt pocket. “Daniel, darling, hope you’ve everything you need—see you soon, all my love, R.”,’ he quoted flatly. ‘Are you saying I could have been about to give the note to someone? That I could be “R”?’

‘Well…’ The flaw in this theory had just struck her. She was too used to thinking up strange twists in her detective books. She coloured a little as he laughed.

‘If so, it could be that “Daniel, darling” and I have a relationship I don’t feel ready to admit to!’ He grinned. He was watching her embarrassment with a merciless gleam.

‘Well, there’s something else you know about yourself.’ She covered her loss of poise with a stab of teasing humour. ‘You’re heterosexual!’

‘As far as I can tell from analysing my thought-processes,’ he agreed.

There was an ironic gleam in his slow appraisal of Carla’s flushed, heart-shaped face, her slender figure hidden by the Aran sweater. The unabashed curiosity made her stiffen slightly. Then the implication of his words sank in. The heat which abruptly engulfed her was so all-consuming, she felt as if invisible flames were licking around her. The lurch of awareness was back, double strength. She was horrified to feel a shiver of physical reaction, new and deeply unnerving.

She looked quickly away, praying that he hadn’t noticed her hot cheeks and erratic pulse-rate…

‘Don’t look so anxious, Miss Julyan.’ He grinned. ‘I’m in no state to put any theories to the test. Besides, you brought sex into the conversation, not me!’

‘I wasn’t intending to look anxious.’ She defended herself as calmly as she felt able. There was an annoying huskiness in her voice. ‘And please stop calling me Miss Julyan…’

‘What would you prefer to be called? Ma’am?’

‘Carla. I’d prefer to be called Carla.’ She hung on to her temper with difficulty.

‘Then we’ll seal the intimacy. You call me Daniel,’ he said irrepressibly, finishing his meal with a nod of approval. ‘And you’re a great cook, Carla. One of these days you’ll make a husband a very happy man.’

‘My husband is dead.’ She said it without inflexion, embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. ‘He was thrown from his horse in a riding accident, a year ago. And, to be quite truthful, he wasn’t a very happy man when he was alive…’

What had prompted her to say such a thing? The confession seemed to hang in the air between them, out of place and unwarranted.

Daniel leaned back in the wing-chair, watching her intently. To cover her confusion, she stood up and took the tray from his knees, carried it to the sideboard. Pausing there, she pressed her hands to her hot cheeks for a few seconds, and drew a deep breath before she came back to sit down opposite him again.

‘You reverted to your maiden name?’ His curiosity was clearly aroused.

‘I…yes.’

He was searching her face, a dissecting light in his eyes.

‘Do I detect that your marriage was an unhappy one, Carla?’ There was a gentler note in his voice.

‘What makes you say that?’ She knew she sounded idiotic. She’d virtually told him it was unhappy, hadn’t she?

‘Dropped your married name only a year after being widowed? And what you said just now? About your husband?’ he suggested, quietly ironic.

‘Sorry—ignore what I said, would you?’ She managed to smile at him, sipping some wine while she grappled with her composure. ‘Rufus died just over a year ago. I guess I’m…I’m not really over it all yet…’

‘I’d say it takes a lot longer than a year to mourn the loss of someone you love.’ Daniel’s face was shadowed. The flicker of the fire lit one side only.

To evade further discussion, she nodded quickly.

‘That’s assuming, of course, that you did love your husband?’

‘I…’ She stopped, staring at him, mauve-blue eyes wide with indignation. ‘What a strange question!’ she finished up coldly. ‘I appreciate you’ve got time on your hands, but if you’re going to spend it making rude speculations about me I might regret offering to have you here…!’

There was a brief silence.

‘Would you like me to leave?’

‘No, of course not!’ she amended irritably, cross with herself for losing her cool.

‘Thanks.’ The edge in the deep voice was difficult to fathom. There was certainly more to it than gratitude, or remorse.

She forced a laugh. ‘I offered you company this evening. All we seem to have done is bicker!’

‘We don’t seem destined to hit it off,’ he confirmed evenly.

For some reason, this analysis made her feel even angrier.

‘The trouble is, we seem to have got round to talking about me, when the idea is to talk about you,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’m convinced that if we adopt a logical approach to your memory-loss, something will trigger its return.’

‘You mean, like tracking back over your movements when you lose your wallet?’

‘Something like that. Why not?’

‘Why not indeed?’ His smile was far from reassuring. ‘You’re not a policewoman, by any chance?’

‘No. I write detective stories…’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘Are you published?’

‘Yes. I write under the pseudonym of Carl Julyan.’

He looked unflatteringly blank for a few moments, then his eyes betrayed a flicker of recognition.

‘Carl Julyan? You’re Carl Julyan? Creator of Inspector Jack Tresawna?’

‘Yes. Have you read any of my books?’

‘I must have done.’

‘And did you enjoy them?’ she felt forced to enquire, goaded by his lack of comment.

‘I did. Sorry, I wasn’t intending any insult,’ he added evenly; ‘I was waiting to see if this revelation brought anything else filtering back to mind.’

‘Has it?’

He shook his head slowly.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But you can remember reading Carl Julyan books. That’s a breakthrough, of a kind!’ she said, excitement making her eyes glow. ‘Maybe if you reread one or two your memory might be jolted by something?’

‘Possibly. Although I’d hazard a guess that fiction is unlikely to.’ Lifting his uninjured hand to his forehead, he massaged his temples with a sudden, jerky motion.

‘Are you all right?’ She found herself quelling an instinctive urge to jump up and fuss like a mother hen.

‘Yes…I’m all right.’ He dropped his hand quickly.

‘Have you got a headache?’

He smiled bleakly. ‘Since I woke up in a hospital bed three weeks ago, I can’t remember not having a headache. I gather from the doctors that headaches and head injuries tend to go together.’

The put-down seemed deliberate.

‘I’m sorry, I’m probably tiring you out with all this talking. Would you like anything else to eat? Or coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Nothing else.’

‘Not even home-made apple pie and clotted cream?’ she tempted lightly.

‘Another time, perhaps.’

Carla stood up decisively. ‘Let me get you a painkiller, then I’ll leave you to go to bed…’

‘I’ve got pain-killers. I can manage to open the bottle and swallow a couple all by myself.’

Again, the sarcasm was unprovoked. She was evidently getting badly on his nerves. Wincing inwardly, she turned away.

‘Wait…’ Was there the faintest tinge of vulnerability in his curt voice? ‘Tell me something, before you go…’

She turned back to look at him. There was the shadow of physical pain in his eyes. In spite of her annoyance, a wave of sympathy and helplessness washed over her. This man was suffering, physically and mentally. And one thing was certain—he wasn’t a natural patient. He loathed being ill, loathed being at a disadvantage, hated being virtually dependent on others for his recovery. And she could think of few worse mental tortures than being unable to remember who you were…

The insight made his prickly behaviour more understandable. She felt faintly guilty for allowing his defensive taunting to provoke her. She definitely hadn’t missed her vocation in nursing, she reflected ruefully.

‘Yes?’

‘What made you offer to help me?’

Taken aback, she stared at him blankly. ‘I’m not sure what you mean…’

‘I mean you virtually saved my life,’ he persisted quietly, his expression obscure. ‘That would have been enough. Why did you offer to let me stay here?’

‘I didn’t save your life…!’ She met the penetrating stare with a fresh warmth in her cheeks. ‘I just happened to be looking out of my study window at the right moment, that’s all…’

‘Same thing. If you hadn’t been, I’d probably have lain halfway down the cliff all night. If I hadn’t been found promptly, the chances of surgery succeeding would have been diminished. I have it on reliable medical authority. So I was already in your debt, Carla. Why all this as well?’

She gazed at him in mounting confusion.

‘That’s a silly question,’ she protested, shaking her head. ‘It’s obvious why. You needed somewhere to recover. You had no obvious place to go. No access to money or anything…it seemed the only thing I could do!’

‘Not necessarily. The police, the hospital, Social Services, any of them could have offered a solution. So why you?’

The narrowed gaze searched her flushed face.

‘Well, I suppose having seen the accident, having found you…’ she caught her breath, feeling herself getting angry again and this time not at all sure why ‘…I felt a kind of responsibility to help. And staying so close to where you were walking…I thought it could bring your memory back quicker…’

What was he getting at? Did he suspect her of some ulterior motive? Was he implying that she must be the typical ‘lonely widow’? Or, worse still, the typical ‘merry widow’? Her heart seemed to contract in her chest. What was it about this man which seemed doomed to rub her up the wrong way? Did there have to be some hidden motive for offering simple kindness?

‘I think you should get an early night,’ she advised, adopting her most formal manner. ‘Can you manage by yourself…?’

‘You’re not offering a full nursing service, by any chance?’ he teased lightly. ‘Because I think I can still remember how to wash my face and clean my teeth.’

‘Good.’ Hateful, sardonic, ungrateful man. Why was she wasting any sympathy on him at all? ‘In that case, I’ll say goodnight.’

‘Good night, Carla.’

She risked one parting glance at him, and wished she hadn’t. The cool green eyes seemed to be far too dissecting, as he observed her suppressed resentment.

Loading everything on to one tray, she made a bolt for the relative safety of the main house, and her own kitchen.

She felt as if she’d just been put through some psychological mangle. Daniel Whoever-he-was was the most disruptive man she’d ever met.

With angry precision she unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, stacked fluted white porcelain in dark oak cupboards, wiped green-tiled worktops, then finally collapsed on to the ancient oak settle by the Aga. She glared distractedly at Moppy, a fluffy, apricot Persian, stretched as close to the warmth as he could get. Moppy stared back, and blinked lazily, golden eyes forgiving. With an apologetic smile she reached down to stroke him. He might be hopeless as a country mousing cat, but he was a comforting presence, and she loved him dearly…

She thought about phoning someone, anything to calm this strange agitation inside her. But it was gone ten, too late to ring her friend Becky at Carperrow Farm—she’d have tucked her small, well-behaved daughter into her cot and leapt eagerly into bed with her husband Tom by now. And ringing her mother, probably still engrossed in a bridge four in her genteel Regency flat in Bath, was equally out of the question. She’d immediately think some dreadful disaster had occurred.

Carla shook herself out of her reverie and stood up. She could ring Becky in the morning, console herself with a light-hearted natter with a friend, before buckling down to work on chapter fifteen. She had a deadline on this book. Getting sidetracked and thrown off-centre by Daniel’s overpowering personality was the very last thing she needed…

But upstairs in bed, showered, hair vigorously brushed, teeth energetically scrubbed, clad in demure pale blue silk pyjamas, she lay wide awake and tense beneath her cream duvet.

It was his parting probe which had unnerved her. He wasn’t a mind-reader. That was too far-fetched. But even so…his questions had made her examine a disturbing truth. In some way, some unexplained way, she’d been aware of an underlying emotion behind her practical offers of help…

Frowning into the darkness, she tried to make sense of it. She couldn’t. All she knew was, ever since that moonlit night, when she’d kept her lonely vigil on the cliff-top, she’d felt this invisible pull…

It was scary, she decided angrily. And it was ridiculous. Was she behaving like Inspector Tresawna’s rather fey female sidekick, in her novels? Imagining psychic auras?

The best thing she could do, she decided, squeezing her eyes shut and willing herself to sleep, was help her mysterious visitor to get his memory back, and get him out of her life, in that order, as fast as she could.

But, even though he was across the yard, in the cottage, she was aware of Daniel’s presence. Mentally, and, to her continuing shame, physically. A feathering of goose-bumps broke out all over her skin, simply at the memory of those cool green eyes…The sensation was so strong, he could be standing here, in the same room…

With a burst of anger, she sat up and clicked on her light, glaring round the bedroom to allay her ridiculous imaginings. Then she subsided back against the pillows, and tossed feverishly on to her side.

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU’RE taking a risk,’ Becky said, across the table.

As if by telepathy, her friend had appeared this morning, bearing a basket of eggs and a big bunch of late chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies from her sheltered, south-facing walled garden.

‘Don’t you start…!’

‘It’s true. Tom and I are worried about you.’

‘It’s only for a maximum of three weeks,’ Carla pointed out. ‘I’ve got some visitors booked in for a pre-Christmas break then…’

‘Still, I thought I’d pop in and offer moral support,’ Becky said stubbornly.

‘Thanks. I must confess, I feel in need of it.’ Carla made a wry face as she glanced over her shoulder, busily putting the glorious flowers in water. Their sharp, spicy fragrance filled the air. ‘These are wonderful, Becky. Especially so late in November. My favourite flowers, and my favourite colours.’ She thrust the last sprig of mauve daisies between autumn-gold and russet, and stood back to admire her handiwork.

‘Clever you. My flower arrangements always look…basic.’ Becky laughed, sipping her coffee. ‘Why Rufus never cherished your talents I’ll never know!’

There was an awkward pause, and Becky groaned to herself.

‘Sorry—my big mouth…’

‘No, it’s OK.’ Carla turned quickly, and came to sit down, her eyes clouded. ‘Just because Rufus is dead it doesn’t make it taboo to mention his name, you know!’

‘No, I know…’

‘And do you know something?’ Carla rested her chin on her hand, and met her friend’s eyes thoughtfully. ‘I don’t feel bitter about him any more. It occurred to me recently that poor old Rufus got a raw deal when he married me. I was so engrossed in trying to establish my writing career, I never had time for fancy flower arrangements or elaborate meals—it was a minor miracle if I ran a duster over the furniture or made it to the supermarket! It’s only since he died that I’ve become better at domesticity! Ironic, isn’t it? Looking back, maybe it’s hard to blame him for being unfaithful…’

‘Carla, that’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard…!’

‘Well, I’m not sure…I wasn’t what he thought he was getting. I expect he felt duped…’

‘I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead,’ Becky said flatly, ‘but Rufus didn’t want a wife and equal partner, he wanted a subservient little slave to indulge his every selfish whim. Frankly, Carla, Rufus was a waste of space, and you know it…’

‘Becky…!’

‘He spent most of his time subtly ridiculing you, to compensate for his own weak character! Undermining your confidence in your writing, your appearance, everything…while he wallowed in misery about the unfairness of his life, his failures in business, the injustice of that partnership that went sour, started drowning his bitterness in whisky…I mean, I’m sorry about his tragic accident, Carla, but the man ruined your self-confidence!’

‘Becky…’

‘The trouble with you,’ Becky drove home her point, ‘is that you’ve never had enough self-esteem! You’ve got this image of yourself as hopeless and inept—you’ve never shaken that off since your dad used to tell you how disappointed he was in you! Now here you are, a big success as a detective-writer, and you put yourself down still; you lock yourself away like a recluse…’

Carla laughed ruefully. ‘Have you quite finished? I do not lock myself away like a recluse. I enjoy my own company…’

‘But you don’t make any effort to socialise, Carla.’ Becky thrust an impatient hand through her short blonde hair, and sighed at the stubborn tilt to her friend’s chin. ‘I honestly think that husband of yours has put you off men for life,’ Becky added crisply.

Carla gazed back, her pale, heart-shaped face set determinedly within its frame of straight dark hair, steady resistance in the large, purplish-blue eyes.

‘Maybe he did.’ She shrugged carelessly. ‘I just wasn’t any good at being the meek, biddable wife. To top the lot, I wasn’t even any good in bed…’

Carla’s grin lightened the words, but behind her eyes was a pain she kept fiercely dampened down.

‘Huh!’ Becky’s snort was derisive. ‘You and your guilt complex! It never occurred to you that it could have been the other way round…?’

‘Oh, Becky…!’

A knock on the half-open stable-door to the kitchen made Carla swivel round abruptly. Daniel stood there, a quizzical look on his face.

‘Good morning. Sorry to interrupt,’ he said evenly, nodding and smiling briefly at Becky before glancing back to Carla. ‘Do you have some milk and eggs I could use?’

Carla caught a fleeting glimpse of Becky’s widened brown eyes as she took her first proper look at the stranger the whole village was gossiping about. Then she resolutely avoided her friend’s gaze.

‘Of course—but I was going to bring you some breakfast,’ she said hastily, standing up and darting to the fridge. ‘I’ve got bacon and tomatoes grilling at the moment…’

She felt hot all over. How long had he been standing there, listening? How much of her conversation with Becky had he overheard? Why did he have to creep up on her like that?

‘Maybe it was the delicious smell that lured me over.’ He grinned, raking a hand through his dark hair, and eyeing her flushed face. ‘But it’s all right, I can easily cook for myself. The problem is obtaining the ingredients!’

His rueful tone reminded her forcibly how dependent he was for support.

‘Whatever you’d rather do,’ she agreed. ‘But, since I’m already cooking for you this morning, maybe you’d like to join me here? This is my friend Becky Pascoe, from Carperrow Farm. Becky, this is…Daniel.’

‘Delighted to meet you.’ Daniel reached to shake Becky’s outstretched hand, his expression unreadable. Carla found the slight pinkness in her friend’s cheeks oddly reassuring. It wasn’t just her, then. Other females, even down-to-earth and happily married ones like Becky, were affected by this man’s subtle charisma…

With enviable composure, he sat down at the table. He was wearing a checked shirt, denim jeans, and a ribbed crew-neck jumper in dark forest-green which emphasised the colour of his eyes, not to mention the impressively lean width of his chest and shoulders. He’d discarded the sling the hospital had discharged him with yesterday. His left wrist was bandaged, but he seemed to be flexing the fingers deliberately, as though impatient for recovery.

‘How are you getting on?’ Becky was asking. ‘Do you have any idea yet why you came to Penuthna?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’ His expression was wry. ‘But the fact that no one seems to have missed me points to a holiday, maybe.’

‘True. But the police haven’t been able to trace where you could have been staying, have they?’

‘Not yet.’ He flexed his shoulders, as if easing hidden tension. Carla busied herself dishing up bacon, tomatoes and sausages, while Becky chatted vivaciously, an excited glitter in her eyes. Daniel’s replies were brief and humorous. As Carla brought the plates to the table, Becky jumped up and excused herself reluctantly.

‘That looks wonderful! I’d love to stay and eat with you, but Tom’s minding the baby so I’d better dash back. Come up and see us soon…’ She smiled from Carla to Daniel, adding quickly, ‘In fact, come and have dinner. Both of you. I’ll ring you, Carla…’

When her friend had gone, Carla met Daniel’s shuttered gaze with an inward groan of embarrassment. How could Becky be so…insensitive? Practically pairing them off together! It was ridiculous. One minute voicing concern for her safety with a stranger in the house, the next inviting them to dinner as if they were a long-established couple!

‘Sorry about that,’ she said lightly. ‘I don’t think Becky knows quite how to treat you…’

‘How do you think I should be treated?’ he queried calmly. ‘Like a circus freak or like a normal human being?’

‘There’s no need to be so…touchy,’ she felt compelled to retort. ‘I didn’t mean that…I mean, I just don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.’

‘And what idea would that be?’ He sounded amused.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, do I have to spell it out?’

‘I’m afraid you do.’ There was a silky trace of mockery beneath the light tone.

Furious, she sat down, watched him begin to eat and forced herself to do likewise. ‘This is a very small village. Gossip is one of the few pastimes available to people…’

‘It’s bound to happen,’ he pointed out easily. ‘A woman on her own offers accommodation to a strange man—tongues wag. You should have thought of that before you issued your invitation.’

She froze in the act of slicing her grilled tomato, large mauve-blue eyes simmering with annoyance.

‘You know, I could almost get the idea that you’re enjoying this!’

He shrugged slightly. ‘Having a blank slate for a memory is no joke. But watching you tiptoeing around your own conscience, juggling with your guilt complexes, is reasonably entertaining.’

‘Oh, is it?’

‘Perhaps the word “entertaining” is too offensive, Carla. Sorry. Maybe “intriguing” is a better word.’ He didn’t sound particularly sorry. The sea-green gaze was amused, and irritatingly aloof. Carla pushed her plate away, and regarded him balefully. What kind of viper had she opened her doors to?

‘Tea or coffee? And what guilt complexes would these be?’ she enquired at last, adopting her sweetest tone.

‘Coffee, please. Black, no sugar.’ He grinned remorselessly. ‘What guilt complexes? At a guess, they’re all to do with your marriage…’

So he had been eavesdropping! There was a hot wash of colour in her cheeks. She was glad to hide behind her dark swath of hair as she poured boiling water into two white china mugs. Tipping milk into hers, she carried both back to the table, and clicked Daniel’s down with scant grace in front of him.

‘My marriage is none of your business,’ she pointed out, ‘and I think your time would be best spent delving into your psyche, prying into your past, don’t you? Not snooping around overhearing conversations and poking your nose into my life!’

‘Ouch. Firmly put in my place.’ Daniel laughed shortly. The wry twist of his lips as he eyed her furious expression struck an answering chord somewhere inside her. Despite her fury, she found herself attempting a weak smile back.

‘All these arguments, and we hardly know each other.’ She raised her eyebrows mockingly.

‘Yeah,’ he agreed, deadpan, ‘just think what hell we’d be if we were a couple.’

‘Quite.’ Carla found that she couldn’t hold the cool, expressionless gaze. With a jerk, she switched her eyes to the view from the window. The silence intensified to the point where she could feel it clamping down on her, like an invisible vice. Then Daniel said easily, ‘How long were you married?’

She sighed, then managed a slight laugh.

‘Three years. You don’t give up, do you? I think I’ve guessed your identity for you. Your interrogation skills have given you away. You’re the real-life incarnation of my Detective Inspector Jack Tresawna!’

‘Anything’s possible. That’s what’s so unnerving.’

‘What’s so unnerving about being my fictional character come to life?’

Daniel grinned, but looked thoughtful.

‘You’re not suggesting I’m a myth? A psychic disturbance created by your overheated imagination, Carla?’

‘You never know,’ she said flippantly. ‘Stranger stories have been recorded in this part of the world. Cornwall is full of myths…’

‘But I’m flesh and blood,’ he confirmed coolly, catching hold of her wrist across the table. ‘Feel me…’

The physical contact jolted her. Sitting quite still, she stared down at the lean brown fingers circling her arm. She was trembling, she realised dimly. Surely something as simple as a hand on her arm couldn’t make her feel like this? She stared at Daniel’s hand, registering the well-shaped, strong-looking fingers, short, clean nails, the scattering of black hair at the wrist. His palm was warm, clasping the pulse-point in her wrist. Could he feel the faster rhythm? Feel her tension?

‘Yes, I believe you,’ she said hurriedly. She twisted away, pulled her wrist away, and stood up, before he could see the confusion in her eyes.

Just the touch of his hand on her arm had triggered a buried warmth in her stomach. Shivers of response in her thighs. A tingling in her breasts, thankfully well-protected from view beneath her voluminous blue jumper. But even more confusing was this unnerving sense of déjà vu. As if she’d met him before, somewhere, somehow, without remembering where or when. He seemed alien but familiar…

‘The hint of strange, other-worldly happenings,’ he was teasing calmly. ‘Isn’t that the style that made your Carl Julyan books well-known? Detective novels with a suggestion of the supernatural?’

‘Yes. I suppose it is…’ Dragging her frayed emotions together, she caught her breath, forced her thoughts back on to a logical course, furious with her own idiocy. She managed a commendably direct look. ‘You seem remarkably alert and well-informed for a man suffering from memory-loss, you know.’

‘Do you think I’m faking?’ The cool challenge held a gleam of mockery. She shook her head.

‘I didn’t say that. What possible motive could you have for faking amnesia?’

‘What indeed? I imagine that I’d have better methods of occupying my time.’

There was a pause. Carla collected the coffee-cups and began stacking dirty crockery into the dishwasher. Daniel’s presence was like an invisible electric charge in the air behind her.

‘What made you choose a male pseudonym?’ He spoke calmly, breaking the silence. ‘Does this have any connection with your habit of dressing like a boy?’

She paused as she stacked the last breakfast plate. Froze into stillness. Don’t get angry, she urged herself silently. He obviously gets his kicks out of baiting people. Straightening up, she turned a cool, expressionless smile towards him.

‘As a matter of fact, it probably does. I should have been a boy. Or so my parents always said.’

‘Meaning that you always acted like one? Or that they would have preferred to have one?’

Carla gazed at him, her throat abruptly constricting. How often had she heard her father bemoan the fact that his longed-for son had turned out to be an unwanted daughter? Worse still, an unwanted daughter who didn’t even grace the family snapshots with beauty and talent? She had a brief mental vision of herself growing up. Plump, plain, spotty, teeth in a brace until she was seventeen, hair stick-straight, that flat, uninteresting shade of dark brown which no amount of waving or styling seemed to transform.

‘A bit of both,’ she said aloud, with a casual shrug. ‘And I’m sorry if you don’t approve of my clothes.’ She glanced down at her baggy denims, and equally baggy jumper. So what if their bulk and lack of cut did hide her figure? She hadn’t the least interest in her figure. Catching a glimpse of her face, pale and devoid of make-up, in the mirror over the sink, she looked quickly away. Dressed like a boy? Did this horrible man have to be so intensely personal all the time? Couldn’t he just make polite conversation and mind his manners?

‘One thing you’re certainly not is a diplomat!’ She grinned, determinedly retrieving her poise. ‘But whatever your profession you’re definitely an amateur psychologist!’

‘It doesn’t take a psychologist to detect that you’re unhappy with your femininity, Carla.’ It was drawled softly. Suppressing the urge to throw something at him, she shrugged again, fighting an annoying heat in her cheeks.

‘I’m a full-time writer, not a…a photographic model. And you’re wrong. Whatever I am, I’m perfectly happy with it, thanks. Now, can I get you some more coffee?’

He shook his head, and then winced as if he wished he hadn’t.

‘Do I gather this place used to be a farm? Before your husband died?’

‘Yes…this was one of several places my father owned and rented out. He gave it to us as a wedding present. Silver was mined here once.’ She was so relieved to have the spotlight temporarily off herself, she was gabbling nervously. ‘Then it was a dairy farm. Then beef and vegetables. We had a few horses until…until my husband died…’

‘So your husband ran the farm, while you wrote books?’

‘Yes. Although he didn’t really enjoy being a farmer…’ In fact, he’d run the farm right down, she reflected.

‘What did he want to do?’

‘He wanted to own his own company, be the successful businessman. He bought into a business once, before we married. But he had a bad experience with a back-stabbing friend, and lost out…Look, would you please stop?’

‘Stop what?’

‘Grilling me about my life!’

‘There’s very little point in your grilling me about mine,’ he pointed out, ‘since I can’t remember a damned thing about it.’

‘True…’ Despite her irritation, she felt a pang of sympathy.

‘What are you so defensive about, anyway?’ he wanted to know, his eyes cool on her hesitant expression.

‘Nothing. I’ll complete my entire life story if it amuses you,’ she went on calmly. ‘I went to an all-girls’ boarding-school in Somerset, followed by an English degree at Exeter. I then couldn’t find a job, but, since I’d already decided all I wanted to do was write novels, it was probably a blessing in disguise. My father was chairman of a big international farm machinery company and he and my mother were abroad a lot. My late husband’s parents were friends of my parents, through the farming connection. That’s how he and I knew each other…’

‘And you fell in love and got married.’

She turned her back on him, and stared out of the window. The spell of fine weather was continuing. The pale sun shone on the wide sweep of bay. The sea shimmered with a million tiny reflections.

‘Of course. What else?’

‘People have various reasons for marrying,’ Daniel said calmly. ‘I just wondered what yours was.’

Carla felt as if that X-ray vision was somehow penetrating the back of her head, sorting mercilessly through her jumbled thoughts. She swung round and faced him. She felt tense as a reed under the searching appraisal, and now she was angry. Really angry.

‘OK. I realise you were listening in on my conversation with Becky…’

‘I couldn’t help overhearing the tail-end of it. It sounded to me as if you were putting yourself down.’

Carla drew a deep breath, and glared at her tormentor.

‘I realise you’ve time on your hands, and apparently nothing better to do than amuse yourself at my expense…’ Her heart was thudding. Two angry flags of colour darkened her cheeks. She was painfully aware of his eyes searching her face, moving slowly and consideringly over her from head to toe.

‘Hey…I’m sorry.’ His voice was cool. ‘You’re right. I was going to say that your husband sounded like an insensitive bastard. But maybe I’m one too.’

She swallowed.

‘Well, you said it.’

Daniel stood up, stretched his shoulders slightly. His dark face was wry.

‘Thanks for breakfast, Carla. I think I’ll go for a walk.’

She found herself staring at him in consternation, in spite of her suppressed anger.

‘I don’t think you should go alone…’

A sardonic gleam sharpened the cool green. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll steer clear of the lower cliff-path.’

‘Even so…’ Why was she feeling so guilty? But if he was still getting headaches, and still suffering from amnesia, surely he shouldn’t be left to his own devices for too long?

‘Even so?’ he teased gently. ‘I’ve been discharged from hospital. I’m feeling fitter by the hour. The police haven’t managed to pin any unsolved murders on me yet. And making idle conversation with you seems to be fraught with unexploded time bombs. I need some air.’

‘Of course.’ Turning away, she closed the dishwasher with a controlled click, and briefly shut her eyes. ‘I must get back to my study. I’m in the middle of a book…’

‘In that case, I’ll keep out of your way.’

There was no expression in his voice, but she found herself swinging round abruptly.

‘If you need anything, let me know.’

‘Thanks.’ He shot her a cool smile and strolled towards the door. ‘And stop looking so worried. You haven’t been officially appointed my keeper, have you?’

‘No.’

‘See you later.’

When he’d gone, she hung on to the worktop fiercely for a few seconds, then felt almost limp with reaction. She watched him disappear across the gravelled yard, and into the cottage, his loose-limbed, rangy walk holding her gaze, in spite of her anger.

Breathing deeply, she forced herself to finish the routine morning jobs, before marching purposefully into her study and slamming the door shut.

Here was her sanctuary, her haven. Here was the place she’d retreated to when things had got unbearable during her marriage. She switched on the word processor, slotted in the disk, and tried to immerse herself in the complexities of her current plot…

For once, her characters seemed to elude her. Inspector Jack Tresawna, the drily spoken Celt with the passion for local history and a habit of accidentally tapping in to another dimension in the course of his investigations, somehow lacked any substance in her mind. Instead, all she could see as she concentrated on her story was the dark, rather harsh image of Daniel’s face. In place of Jack Tresawna’s piercing blue eyes she kept seeing Daniel’s equally piercing green. Sea-green, and amused. Watchful and intelligent, beneath those straight dark eyebrows, and above lean, slightly hollow cheeks. Tresawna’s firm mouth blurred into Daniel’s well-shaped, slightly quirky lips.

Carla sat motionless at her desk, staring into space, the two images melting together in the most exasperating way in her mind’s eye. It was almost as if Daniel and Jack Tresawna had merged into the same man. Which was the craziest idea she’d had so far, she lashed herself impatiently. But the lunatic notion refused to go. It totally blocked her ability to write. The intricacies of her plot defeated her. The multi-layered strands waiting to be neatly unravelled stayed stubbornly tangled.

Finally, she abandoned the attempt. Fetching her waxed jacket from the hook in the hall, she thrust her feet into wellingtons and set off towards the coastal path at an impatient pace. When she couldn’t write, walking often proved therapeutic. It was a cool, breezy November morning. The sun still defied a depressing weather forecast and was steadily gilding the green and blue landscape. It would soon be December, but it had been such a mild autumn, there were even more wisps of tamarisk still blooming, lacy pink on the feathery bushes. The deeper pink of a few late-flowering wild valerian dotted the hedges as she made her way through to the open cliff-top.

The lower path was blocked, but she took the higher one, which wound round behind banks of gorse and bracken, and eventually looped back towards the cliff edge.

Then she saw Daniel. He was sitting not far above the spot where he’d fallen, his Barbour jacket spread out beneath him, elbows resting on bent knees, hands thrust into his hair, staring fixedly out to sea. He looked so isolated, so frustrated and alone, her heart seemed to squeeze idiotically in her chest.

Drawn like a magnet, she found herself steering her steps down towards him. He heard her approaching, and slowly turned to watch her.

‘Hello again,’ she said brightly, stopping a few feet away.

‘Hello.’ He sounded abrupt, then smiled ruefully. ‘I thought you had a book to finish? Did you feel obliged to make sure I hadn’t fallen over the cliff again?’

‘No. I couldn’t concentrate. Walking helps…’ She hesitated. Pride dictated that she exchange pleasantries and then continue on her way. But something about that lonely aura he’d projected kept her rooted to the spot. She heard herself saying, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

‘Be my guest.’ He moved to the edge of the spread Barbour, and after a few seconds’ inner battle she forced herself to sit down, at the furthest edge away from him. Feeling prim and prudish, she sensed his humorous glance. She kept her eyes on the horizon. ‘I’m not scintillating company this morning,’ he added. ‘I’ve been sitting here staring at St Michael’s Mount out there, wondering why the hell I can’t remember who I am!’

‘Getting angry about it won’t help. Stress could make it worse.’

‘What a wise woman you are, Carla.’ The mockery was tempered with a wry smile. The sudden glimmer of warmth in his eyes made her look quickly away again.

‘At least you know that’s St Michael’s Mount,’ she pointed out.

‘Yup. Which tells me I’ve been in this part of the world before.’

‘So it does!’ She turned to him, eyes alight. ‘And slowly but surely it will all come back, Daniel.’

‘I’m sure you’re right. If I can survive the wait.’

‘Are you a naturally impatient person?’

He shrugged. ‘Impatient is maybe the wrong word. Active. I’d say I feel like I’m naturally active. I get the feeling I’m used to a lot of challenge in my life. Mental and physical.’

She gazed at him, her brain whirring in fascination.

‘Let’s just run over everything we know about you again,’ she suggested firmly. ‘You’re roughly…thirtyish, I’d say.’

‘Is that meant to be compliment or insult?’

‘Neither,’ she said crisply. ‘Let’s try to keep this impersonal, shall we?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She shot him a vexed look. Couldn’t he take her efforts to help a little more seriously?

‘You don’t have an accent. Apart from an Oxford-style accent, that is. Which suggests you’re well-educated. You seem intelligent…’

‘Can my ego cope with all this?’

‘You were walking east along the coast path, from the Penzance direction. You were wearing denims, checked brushed-cotton shirt, brown leather walking-shoes, this green jumper and the Barbour jacket we’re sitting on. On your wrist you were wearing an eighteen-carat-gold Rolex Oyster Chronometer which the police seemed pretty sure was worth a small fortune. In the pocket of your shirt you had a hundred pounds in twenty-pound notes. And that cryptic note from “R”. Is that it? Is there anything else at all?’

He slanted a ruthless grin at her. ‘You missed the dark green socks and the navy striped boxer-shorts.’

‘Are they significant?’ She would not blush.

‘Strangely enough, they could be,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘The boxer-shorts had a label from an up-market New York store. Not your run-of-the-mill boxer-shorts at all.’

‘Yes. Well, that’s interesting. You’ve either been to America, or you’ve got a sweet old American aunty who sends you American boxer-shorts for your birthday, maybe?’

‘Right.’

She let out her breath in a rush, and shook her head.

‘This is hopeless,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m clearly wasting my time.’

‘Not at all. I appreciate the effort you’re making,’ he affirmed nonchalantly, ‘but, like you said, getting impatient doesn’t help. I can’t rush my memory back.’

‘Sorry. I am impatient, I admit,’ she confessed with a short laugh. ‘One of my many failings.’

‘Don’t put yourself down again, Carla,’ he advised, standing up. ‘If you want my opinion, I’d say you don’t have nearly as many failings as the rest of us mortals. Angelic verging on the martyred would be my verdict…’

‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’

She began to jump to her feet beside him. She caught her foot in the sleeve of his jacket, and, losing balance, she stumbled against him, felt him stagger slightly under the impact of her weight. Her upper arms were firmly clamped in supporting hands as he retrieved the situation. Speechless, she tried to jerk shyly away, but he held her still. She looked up, and met his shadowed gaze.

‘Yes, it was,’ he said quietly, ‘of sorts…’

There was silence between them suddenly. Carla opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. She was mesmerised by the expression in his eyes. Her throat tight, her heart thudding, she began shaking her head, unsure why.

‘Carla…’ It wasn’t a question exactly, more a stifled warning. Then slowly, and with almost exploratory caution, he bent his head and gently kissed her parted lips.

CHAPTER THREE

ALMOST simultaneously, they jumped apart as if they’d been stung. Daniel was gazing at Carla with blank, unfathomable eyes, then he squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to block out what he saw.

She felt electrified. Every nerve-end tingling. Her heart pounding. Abruptly she thrust her shaky hands through her wind-blown hair, then clutched her arms around her defensively.

‘Why did you do that?’ she demanded huskily.

He’d opened his eyes again. The sea-green gaze still held no recognisable emotion. Not anger, nor remorse, nor even mockery.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said flatly, expelling his breath on a short sharp burst. ‘It wasn’t a good idea.’

‘No. It wasn’t!’ Her response was automatic, but inside she vaguely recognised a surge of conflict. Unidentifiable emotions seemed to be scudding through her as haphazardly as the clouds across the sky. If he touched her again, if he touched his mouth to hers again, she didn’t know how she’d feel…

‘Maybe we’d better get one thing straight,’ she added frostily, dropping her arms and thrusting her hands into her pockets. ‘I’m not a…a frustrated widow, yearning for sexual fulfilment…’

One dark brow tilted as he watched her.

‘I’m sure you’re not.’

‘And let’s face it,’ she persisted, her anger hardening as she detected that teasing glint, ‘you could be anyone!’

He nodded slowly. ‘Anyone in expensive American boxer-shorts,’ he amended. The wicked gleam had sharpened to real amusement.