Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the publishing industry, having written over one hundred and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful, passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Alien Wife
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

LUKE pushed the Lamborghini up to a hundred on the brief straight, impatience making him grind the gears as yet another corner confronted him, forcing him to slow to a saner sixty. Since leaving Fort Augustus, the scenery had grown progressively more rugged and wilder, the road narrow and winding between reed-edged lochs and purple banks of heather. After the motorways of the south, the powerful car baulked at these primitive highways where long-horned Highland cattle seemed to have right of way. He had already had to make one detour to avoid a lumbering stock wagon, and wondered how long it took to develop the kind of temperament that took all these obstacles in its stride.

Glancing at the plain gold watch on his wrist, he saw that it was only a little after three o’clock, and taking into account the fact that he had stopped for a superb lunch of locally caught salmon and out-of-season strawberries, rounded off by strong black coffee and brandy, he was making quite good time. Ardnalui should not be much further and with luck he would have time before dusk to study the general layout of the place so that when he rang Scott later, he could give him an honest opinion.

A few spots of rain landed on the windscreen, as if to mock his intentions, and he looked up at the low clouds hanging over the mountains that had dogged his progress. It was so remote, thought Luke irritably. How could they possibly bring a film crew out here? And not even an airstrip within fifty miles.

The road swung round a steep curve and there ahead of him lay the village, a cluster of whitewashed dwellings bordering the shores of the loch. A long narrow inlet of water, Loch Ifor ran into the Sound of Sleat, and a collection of fishing vessels nudging a stone jetty indicated the livelihood of many of the villagers. As he drove slowly between the cottages, he had to concede that Scott had been right in his belief that Ardnalui was the ideal setting for Luke’s novel. But then Scott had been born here. Luke, born and bred in Liverpool, had seldom been far from the concrete trappings of his kind of civilisation.

He wondered what his host, Daniel McGregor, would be like. The fact that Scott had been closely acquainted with the parish priest did nothing for Luke himself, who on the whole preferred to make his own arrangements. But Ardnalui did not possess a hotel, and the inn he passed on his way through the village did not look as if it had room for boarders. Besides, Scott had arranged that he should stay with McGregor, and it was only for a couple of nights anyway. It would be amusing to tell Ella he had been to her birthplace when she got back from Rome. Somehow he sensed she would not altogether approve. She was not proud of her humble beginnings, while he had no compunction about telling people how his mother had struggled to bring up his three sisters, four brothers and himself after their father lost his life in an engine explosion at sea.

Several children turned to stare at the car, and Luke felt his normally good humour returning. He liked children, and had several nephews and nieces who benefited from his weakness. Now that he was here, he could forget about the tortuous journey, and concentrate on the job in hand.

He passed the grey stone church of St Cecilia and there, exactly as Scott had described it, was the presbytery. Grey stone, like the church it served, with small leaded panes and a sturdy wooden door. A cobbled yard fronted the building, and Luke parked the Lamborghini here before sliding out to stretch his legs.

He was a tall man, easily six feet, with a lean muscular frame. Used to an active life, since his writing success, he had kept himself fit with a twice weekly workout at a gym not far away from his London apartment, playing squash and badminton whenever he had the time. He was tanned, from a recent holiday in the Bahamas, and his hair was silvery fair, bleached even whiter by the sun. It was smooth, thick hair, overlapping his collar at the back, but it needed no hairdressing and always looked clean and vital to the touch. He was not a handsome man, but he was attractive to women, a fact he had not lived until thirty-eight years without appreciating.

The air was sharp for April, or perhaps he was soft from the milder London climate, he thought dryly, breathing deeply. And it was so quiet here. He doubted he’d be able to sleep. Looking about him, he wondered where Ella used to live. One of these cottages? Some transition to a May-fair apartment and a villa in the South of France. What a pity she had no relatives to share her success.

A huge lion’s head knocker resounded noisily throughout the presbytery, and he stood, his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket, waiting to be admitted. He had never expected to stay at a priest’s house, but at least he had been baptised into the Faith.

The door was opened by an elderly woman in a long black dress and a white apron, a lace mob cap set on her grey hair. Good God, thought Luke in astonishment, do servants like this really exist outside of novels?

Smiling disarmingly, however, he said. ‘I’m Luke Jordan. I believe Father McGregor is expecting me.’

‘That he is,’ agreed the woman politely. ‘Will you come in, sir?’

Luke stepped inside, his eyes taking in the polished floor with its single rug, the dark wood panelling and angled staircase. The doors opening into the hall were all closed, but even as he registered this, one of them opened to an elderly man, leaning on a cane, whose sharply alert eyes belied any diminishing faculties of his advanced years.

‘Is it Mr Jordan?’ he asked, staring at Luke appraisingly.

‘That’s right, sir,’ Luke nodded. ‘How do you do?’

‘I’m well.’ The man smiled and held out his hand. ‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Jordan.’

‘Luke will do,’ responded the younger man easily, taking an immediate liking to his host.

‘You’re not a Scotsman, Luke,’ observed the priest, leading the way back into the room he had just left.

‘No,’ Luke agreed. ‘I came from Liverpool, actually, although I live in London now.’

‘Ah!’ McGregor nodded. ‘Well, let us make ourselves comfortable, shall we? It’s a chill day, and you’re no doubt feeling the cold after all that central heating you have in the south. No such refinements here, I’m afraid. A fire is all we have. But it’s cosy, and it keeps you warm.’

The room they entered was a comfortable study, pleasantly illuminated by the fire burning in the grate, and lined with shelves of books. There was the scent of pine logs and pipe tobacco, and indicating that Luke should take the armchair at the opposite side of the fire from his own, McGregor issued the hovering housekeeper with orders for afternoon tea.

‘Unless you’d like something stronger?’ he queried, raising his eyebrows, but Luke said tea would be fine.

After they were seated, Luke added: ‘It’s very good of you to accommodate me like this. I mean, Scott tends to expect everyone to jump to his bidding at the studio, and I guess he lets the feeling carry him away.’

‘Any friend of Scott Anderson’s is a friend of mine,’ McGregor assured him warmly. ‘And you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I enjoy a bit of company, and there’s a little enough goes on here at the best of times. Tell me, do you play chess, by any chance?’

Luke looked apologetic. ‘Not very well, I’m afraid.’

‘Ah, well. That’s a pity.’ McGregor reached for his pipe. ‘And you’re here to consider making a film of Ardnalui?’ He lit a spill from the fire. ‘Scott told me that you are a writer. Should I know your name?’

Luke grinned. ‘It’s possible. It depends what kind of literature you read. My books are not masterpieces, but I’ve been lucky enough to have a couple of them filmed, and now they’re wanting to make a television series about the third. That’s why I’m here. Scott commissioned the book, you see.’

McGregor chewed thoughtfully away at his pipe. ‘Do you know Scotland at all?’

‘No.’ Luke was honest. ‘This is my first visit.’

‘And yet you wrote about it.’

‘It’s not difficult, sir. I have been to Austria, and the scenery is not too dissimilar. And people are people, the world over.’

‘I doubt the people here would agree with you,’ remarked McGregor dryly. ‘But I know what you’re trying to say.’

‘Inverleven—the imaginary place in my book—isn’t intended to be Ardnalui,’ Luke explained quietly. ‘But I used Scott’s descriptions of the place, and it was his idea that I should come to see it for myself.’

‘With a view to filming here.’

Luke shook his head. ‘Somehow I doubt it. It’s too far off the beaten track, I’m afraid. I think Scott just wanted me to see this place—where he was born.’

The priest nodded. ‘I can’t deny you’ve somewhat reassured me. I don’t know that I like the idea of Ardnalui being overrun with film people.’

He made them sound like a different species, and Luke smiled. He had had similar reservations when his first book was bought for the screen. But he had met a lot of decent people in his association with the industry, and they offset the seamier side.

‘Are you a married man, Luke?’

McGregor had a priest’s healthy interest in the personal lives of his acquaintances, and Luke shook his head. ‘Not now. I was. I got married when I was about—eighteen. It didn’t work. We were divorced twelve years ago.’

‘Divorced!’ The priest looked regretful. ‘There is no divorce in the eyes of God, my son.’

Luke shrugged. He had expected that. ‘Jennifer’s dead now,’ he said flatly. ‘She married again, but she and her husband were killed in a car crash five years ago.’

The housekeeper returned with a tray of tea and some delicious-smelling scones and sandwiches. While McGregor took charge of the teacups, Luke looked round the room with interest. His host’s interest in chess was evident in the exquisite set of chessmen, set upon a board table to one side of the fireplace, but he obviously enjoyed fishing, too, for there were rods and a creel basket, and several boxes of flies.

While they ate, McGregor described the village. He was interested in its history, and mentioned how the Jacobite cause had been strongly supported in these parts. He talked about Prestonpans and the bloody defeat of Culloden, and it was with reluctance that Luke eventually pulled himself up out of his chair and explained his desire to take a walk around the village before supper.

‘Can it not wait till the morning?’ suggested McGregor hopefully, and Luke guessed the old priest was trying to prolong his stay. After the lazy relaxation of the last hour, Luke was not so averse to that as he might have been. His life in London was inclined to be hectic, and it had been good to loosen up and let time take care of itself for a change. And after all, he had nothing to hurry back to town for.

‘Well …’ he began, and guessing he was weakening, McGregor added: ‘You could take a walk down to the loch. Then tomorrow, I’ll accompany you on a tour of Ardnalui.’

‘All right,’ Luke nodded. ‘But I promised to phone Scott later.’

‘You can use the phone in here,’ said McGregor at once. ‘Now, I expect you’d like to see your room before you take your walk. I’ll have Mrs Tully show you.’

Luke collected his overnight case from the car, secured its doors and windows, and then followed the ample proportions of the housekeeper upstairs. The panelling of the staircase was continued along the landing. There were several doors, and a half frosted glass one which Mrs Tully explained was the bathroom.

‘There’s a wash basin in your room, sir,’ she said, opening one of the bedroom doors and preceding him inside, ‘but I’m afraid we only have the one bath.’

Luke assured her that he didn’t mind, and after she had departed, he walked to the low windows which overlooked the loch. It was quite a view, and he turned back to face the room with resignation. It was reasonably large, but chilly after the warmth of his apartment, and although the bedroom suite was large and old-fashioned, the bed was a modern divan, and singularly ungenerous in its proportions.

He left his room and used the bathroom, amused at its antiquated fitments. The bath had claw feet, and the cistern made peculiar noises when one turned on the taps. Back in his room again, he washed his face and hands, ran a rueful finger over his roughening jawline, and then deciding that shaving could wait until later, he went downstairs.

He let himself out of the house, and stood for a moment, bracing himself against the cold evening air. Perhaps he should have put on his overcoat. The leather jacket was little protection against the mist that was now rising from the loch. Still, he wouldn’t stay out long, he decided briskly, and ran lightly down the steps.

As he did so, a figure straightened from the far side of the Lamborghini, and used to the ever-present menace of car thieves in London, Luke checked and turned about, reaching the youth before he could get away. ‘What do you think you—– Good God! Ella!’

The girl turned to face him and he saw at once he had made a mistake. This girl was tall but slimmer than Ella, and her long silky black hair had none of the chestnut lights he was used to. Her eyes were different, too—dark, instead of blue, her mouth wider and more generous. Besides, she was casually dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a red wool sweater, the kind of attire Ella would never dream of assuming. Nevertheless, there was more than a resemblance.

She frowned at his recognition, and said flatly: ‘My name is Abby Rodriguez. Should I know you?’

Luke stared at her helplessly, and then shook his head. ‘I’m—sorry. I thought you were someone else. You have a definite—look of someone I know. But I realise now, you’re younger than she is.’

And more attractive, he realised incredulously, his senses stirring. How Ella would dislike the knowledge that there was someone else with her particular brand of beauty, someone with youth and innocence on her side.

The girl’s face cleared. ‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘You must be Mr Jordan. You—know my aunt.’

‘Your—aunt?’ Luke was confused.

‘Yes. Aunt Ella—Ella McKay.’

‘Ella McKay is your aunt?’

‘Yes. Didn’t you know she had a niece?’

‘I—why, no.’ Luke could not have been more astounded. Why hadn’t Ella ever mentioned the girl?

‘I was admiring your car,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘It’s beautiful! How fast can it go? Over a hundred?’

Luke endeavoured to grasp his thoughts. ‘Well over a hundred,’ he agreed dryly. ‘Do you drive, Miss Rodriguez?’

‘Call me Abby, everyone does. And yes, I can drive. Uncle Daniel taught me.’ Her expression was rueful. ‘You look as if you could do with a drink. I think Uncle Daniel has some fire-water, as well as the sherry he keeps for his parishioners. Shall we go inside?’

Luke was perplexed. ‘Daniel McGregor is your uncle?’

‘My adopted uncle,’ she amended quietly. ‘My parents are—dead. Uncle Daniel made himself responsible for me.’ She paused. ‘Aunt Ella didn’t tell you, did she?’ Luke shook his head, and she went on: ‘I’m not really surprised. A film star with a sex image doesn’t want a twenty-year-old niece hanging around, does she?’

Luke supported himself against the bonnet of the car. ‘I didn’t even know Ella had a sister.’

Abby shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Oh, well …’ She smiled again. ‘I must say, you’re not what I expected either. Uncle Daniel told me you were coming, but I expected someone old—forty-five or fifty, at least.’

‘Thank you.’ Luke half smiled. ‘I am nearing forty, and strange as it may seem to you, I don’t consider that old!’

She laughed, revealing even white teeth. ‘Well, you don’t look it,’ she conceded lightly. ‘Are you staying long?’

‘Two—maybe three days.’

‘Is that all? Uncle Daniel will be disappointed. He expected you to stay a week, at least.’

Luke straightened. ‘We’ll see.’

She put her foot on the bottom step. ‘Are you coming in?’

‘Actually, I was going to walk down to the loch,’ he replied, although that idea was not so attractive as it had been.

‘Shall I come with you?’ she suggested. ‘I can point out our famous landmarks.’

‘All right.’

Luke was willing, although he wondered that she didn’t feel the cold in her thin sweater. She walked easily beside him, matching her steps to his long strides, exchanging a smile of shared enjoyment.

‘Do you live in London, Mr Jordan?’ she asked, as they climbed over a low wooden fence and crunched across the shingle to the water’s edge.

Luke nodded. ‘Have you been there?’

Abby shook her head. ‘I’ve only been away from Ardnalui once, and that was on a holiday to Madrid. My grandparents used to live there, but they’re dead now, too.’

Luke was amazed. ‘So you’re half Spanish?’

‘Mmm.’ She laughed softly. ‘Not so like Aunt Ella after all.’

‘But how did your parents meet?’

‘My father was working in a hotel in Glasgow. He used to come up here for holidays.’

‘I see.’ But Luke was curious. She was very young to be an orphan. ‘Did your parents have an accident?’

A flicker of pain crossed her face and he realised how tactless he had been. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Don’t answer that. I had no right to ask. It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘That’s all right.’ She had herself in control again. ‘No, they didn’t die together, if that’s what you mean. My father—went away with another woman. It broke my mother’s heart. Later, when she learned he had died, she just didn’t want to go on living.’

From anyone else, the words might have sounded over-dramatic, but she spoke quietly, without emphasis, relating the events as they had happened.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘It must be very painful for you to talk about it.’

‘It used to be. But it’s five years since my mother died. I’ve got over the worst.’

‘And now you—live with Daniel McGregor?’

She nodded. ‘He’s been like a second father to me.’

Luke wondered how much of this Scott Anderson had known. He must have known Ella had a sister, of course, yet he had never mentioned it. Why? And even when he had arranged for Luke to stay at the presbytery, he had not said a word about its other occupant. Scott and Ella only tolerated one another, Luke knew that, but had it some other deeper significance that the conflict of artistic temperaments Luke had imagined?

‘Do you see that mountain across the loch—the one that’s almost obscured by the mist? That’s our most famous landmark—Ben Lui. And the one beside it, the smaller peak—that’s Ben Ifor.’

Realising that Abby was speaking again, Luke tried to pick up the threads of her conversation. But it was difficult when his mind was filled with questions he was reluctant to voice, and presently she shivered, and suggested they walked back.

On their way up to the house, he said: ‘What do you do all day? There can’t be much work for a girl like you here.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ she smiled. ‘I work at the inn.’

‘The inn!’ Luke was surprised.

‘Why?’ she teased him. ‘You’re not teetotal, are you?’

‘No, but …’

Luke made a helpless gesture, and she chuckled. ‘But you don’t think it’s a suitable occupation for someone who lives in the presbytery, is that it?’

‘I suppose so,’ he agreed ruefully.

She shook her head. ‘You don’t have to concern yourself. I’m not the local barmaid. I look after the Dalrymples’ three children. The Dalrymples keep the inn,’ she explained.

Luke nodded. ‘I see.’

The wind was beginning to rise as they entered the house, and Abby hunched her shoulders expressively. Mrs Tully was in the hall, and she viewed the girl with impatience.

‘You’ll be having pneumonia, miss,’ she announced, with a sharp familiarity. ‘Away upstairs and take a bath before supper.’

The girl took her scolding with an affectionate grimace, and Mrs Tully shook her head at Luke as she ran upstairs. ‘I never thought,’ she exclaimed. ‘Perhaps you would have liked a bath, sir.’

‘A shave will do,’ remarked Luke easily. ‘Er—Father McGregor said I might use his phone …’

‘Yes, sir. The study’s free now. Father Daniel has gone over to the church.’

‘Thank you.’

When Scott came through, his voice was faint and barely distinguishable, and it was impossible for Luke to speak as forcefully as he would have liked.

‘I’ve met the girl,’ he said without preamble. ‘I gather that was why you sent me up here.’

‘Now why should you think that?’

There was faint amusement in Scott’s voice, but Luke found he was not amused. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Arranging for me to stay here! You knew I couldn’t avoid meeting her.’

‘So what did you think of her?’ Scott asked. ‘She’s a beautiful creature, isn’t she?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me Ella had a niece?’

‘Why didn’t I? Why didn’t she?’

‘I don’t know.’ Luke was impatient. ‘Some idea of protecting her image, perhaps. What the hell! The girl’s only her niece. She could have told me.’

‘But she didn’t.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing.’ Scott was annoyingly guileless. ‘Anyway, what of it? Abby isn’t the reason you went up there.’

‘Isn’t she?’

‘What do you think of the place? What do you think of Ardnalui?’

Luke sighed. ‘Exactly what you’d expect me to think, I suppose. You’re right, it is the ideal setting for the series. But something tells me we won’t be filming here.’

Scott laughed. ‘Remote, eh? Yes, I knew that. As a matter of fact, someone’s put forward a suggestion that we should do the filming in Cornwall. There’s a village there that—–’

‘And you let me come up here!’ Luke was getting angry, resentment at the feeling of being manipulated destroying all his earlier enjoyment of the place.

‘You needed the break, Luke. And I’d hazard a guess that Dan made you welcome.’

‘He did. But that’s not the point—–’

‘Cool it, Luke. Okay, I guess I did think it would be amusing for you to meet Abby—–’

‘Amusing!’

‘—but I wasn’t trying to take a rise out of you. You have to believe that, Luke. Abby’s a nice kid. Why should Ella have it all her our way?’

‘All her own way? What’re you talking about?’ ‘Well, Ella could have—helped the girl, contributed to her upbringing. But has she? Not one blind cent!’

Belatedly, Luke remembered what Abby had told him about her parents being dead and Daniel McGregor making himself responsible for her. It hadn’t registered at the time, but now he did wonder why Ella had never cared sufficiently to send money for her own niece’s welfare.

‘Are you sure about that?’ he asked now, loath to relinquish the image he had always held of Ella—as someone warm and generous, someone who cared about people more than possessions. She could be arrogant, he knew that, but then so could he, and he knew the feelings she had for him were not counterfeit. His feelings towards her were less easy to analyse. Since his disastrous first marriage, he had avoided that kind of commitment, and although he liked Ella very much, and was fond of her, he was not yet convinced that their temperaments were compatible to that extent.

‘Ask me that question when you get back to town,’ Scott told him blandly. ‘Now, how long are you staying?’

‘I don’t know yet.’ Luke wanted to go on talking about Ella, but obviously Scott had said as much as he was going to for the moment. ‘The whole trip seems to have been pointless. Have you heard from Ella?’

‘There was a cable for you, so I took the liberty of opening it—–’

‘Thanks.’

‘—and in it she mentions she’ll be back by the end of next week. I have her phone number …’

‘So do I,’ retorted Luke shortly. ‘Okay, Scott. I’ll see you in a few days.’

‘My pleasure.’

The phone went dead as Scott hung up and Luke replace his receiver with suppressed frustration. Why should Scott do this to him? Why send him up here on a wild goose chase? His excuse about him needing a break was not enough. Ella was away, finishing the film in Rome; the coincidence was too great, the opportunity too good to miss. And why? To meet a girl who resembled Ella to the extent that there could be no doubt about their relationship. If only Ella had told him herself. The fact that she hadn’t made the situation that much more difficult, putting an entirely different light on the quality of their relationship. He had been completely honest about the facts of his divorce. Why couldn’t Ella have been the same?

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN Abby came down to breakfast next morning, Daniel McGregor was alone at the table. Noticing the way she raised her eyebrows at the empty place, he smiled.

‘Mr Jordan is not, I think, an early riser, my dear,’ he remarked, helping himself to more toast.

Abby seated herself at the table and reached for the coffee pot. ‘I don’t consider eight o’clock is early,’ she pointed out.

‘No, not for us, perhaps. But we don’t keep the hours they keep in London.’ McGregor paused. ‘Well? What did you think of him?’

‘What did I think of him?’ Abby played for time. ‘That’s an odd question.’

‘But apt, don’t you think?’ The old man shook his head. ‘I’m not a fool, Abby. I know you wanted to meet him.’

Abby’s cheeks burned. ‘Well, that’s not unnatural, is it?’ . ‘No.’ McGregor shook his head. ‘I understand your feelings. But don’t be bitter, child. Life is too short for that.’

Abby bent over her toast, her long dark hair successfully concealing her features from her adopted uncle. Bitter? Yes, she supposed, she was bitter. But it wasn’t that that had made her want to meet Luke Jordan. Other emotions had long since taken over from bitterness, emotions far more destructive if she allowed them free rein.

‘So?’ McGregor was speaking again. ‘What was your impression?’

Abby frowned. What had been her impression of the man her aunt was reputed to be going to marry? Yesterday afternoon he had seemed amiable enough, and certainly attractive in a hard, masculine kind of way, but during and after dinner he had been broodingly morose, only speaking when spoken to and contributing nothing of his own experiences to the conversation. She had hoped he would talk, perhaps about her aunt, but instead he had concentrated on the food on his plate, and only occasionally had she encountered his gaze upon her in frowning meditation.

Now she shrugged her slim shoulders, and said: ‘He—he seemed withdrawn.’

‘Last evening, you mean?’ McGregor nodded. ‘Yes, I noticed that. Perhaps the man was tired.’

‘He didn’t seem so in the afternoon.’

‘Until after he had met you …’ murmured her adopted uncle thoughtfully.

Abby looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you know he didn’t know of your existence, don’t you?’

‘I—yes.’

‘Mmm.’ The priest wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘I wonder why Scott refrained from telling him.’

‘You might say the same of Aunt Ella,’ Abby interposed quickly, before she could stop herself.

McGregor sighed. ‘You are bitter, Abby. I was afraid you might be.’ He leant across the table to imprison one of her hands beneath his gnarled one. ‘My dear, Ella has her own reasons for eschewing her responsibilities towards you, and we both know what they are. Who knows? Perhaps she regrets what happened as much as we do—–’

‘I don’t believe that.’

Abby’s tone was flat, and the priest released her hand and rested back in his chair regarding her disappointedly. ‘Abby, Abby! Things haven’t been so bad for you, have they?’

Abby felt a twinge of shame. ‘Of course not, Uncle Daniel. But—without you …’

‘But there was me,’ he replied quietly. ‘And believe me, Ella will have suffered for her thoughtlessness.’

‘Thoughtlessness!’ Abby pressed her lips tightly together. She could think of other words more apt.

‘Well …’ McGregor pushed back his chair and got to his feet, ‘I must go. Mrs Lewis was taken ill again in the night, and I promised I’d go over this morning. If you see our guest, will you tell him I will have to postpone our tour of the village?’

Abby replaced her coffee cup in its saucer. ‘I—er—I have the morning off,’ she volunteered. ‘I could—show Mr Jordan the village.’

McGregor hesitated. Then he shook his head as if dismissing the problem. ‘Why not?’ he agreed. ‘I’m sure the choice of courier will not cause any dissension.’

Abby felt a momentary pang of remorse, and reached for his hand. ‘You’ve always been like a father to me, Uncle Daniel,’ she mumbled unhappily.

The priest patted her head reassuringly, but there was an anxious expression in his eyes. ‘You said that as if you regretted it, Abby,’ he protested, and she forced a smile and lifted her head.

‘I—as if I could!’ she exclaimed, and then coloured anew as a tall figure darkened the doorway.

‘I’m sorry. Am I late for breakfast?’

Luke Jordan stood regarding them both apologetically, lean and disturbing in black suede pants which hugged the bulging muscles of his thighs and emphasised the length of his legs. A black roll-necked sweater completed the ensemble, throwing the lightness of his hair into sharp relief, a startling contrast to his tanned skin. Tall and powerful, he emanated a sexual attraction that was both unconscious and disruptive.

McGregor released Abby’s hand, and greeted his guest warmly. ‘Of course not, my son,’ he told him firmly. ‘Mrs Tully will provide you with whatever you wish. And …’ he paused, glancing at Abby half doubtfully, ‘… as I have parish matters to attend to this morning, Abby has offered her services as your guide.’

‘Abby?’ Luke’s green eyes turned in her direction, and she could see the guarded expression in their depths. ‘That’s—very kind of her, but it’s not necessary. I can make my own way.’

Abby’s smile felt fixed and artificial, but she insisted she had nothing else to do. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

‘But I understood you looked after some children,’ he interposed smoothly, and she had to compel herself to go on with the charade.

‘I’m free this morning,’ she explained, aware of the old priest’s eyes upon her. She forced a light laugh. ‘If you say much more, I shall think you don’t want my company!’

Luke recognised defeat, but there was a grimness about his mouth which belied her victory. Mrs Tully appeared to see whether their guest required breakfast, and McGregor took his leave, mentioning he would see them both at lunchtime.

Abby finished her meal quickly, and went to change her shoes while Mrs Tully attended to Luke Jordan. She guessed he was not pleased with her offer of companionship, but if she was to go through with this she must not be put off at the first obstacle. Besides, he was aware of her—how could he not be?—and once they got to know one another … She refused to consider her own feelings.

She zipped her slender legs into long boots and added a crimson windcheater to her attire of jeans and denim shirt. Her hair she left loose for once, aware that its silky strands looked well against the brilliant colour of her jacket.

Luke Jordan was still at the breakfast table when she returned, reading the morning newspaper and apparently in no hurry to begin his sightseeing. But he was polite enough to get to his feet when she entered the room, and his gaze flickered briefly over the attractive picture she made.

‘I’m ready,’ she said unnecessarily, and he inclined his head.

‘So I see.’

‘Have you finished breakfast?’

He indicated his empty plate, the dregs in the bottom of his coffee cup. ‘It would appear so.’

Abby sighed. ‘But you don’t want to come out with me?’

Luke regarded her dourly for a few moments, and then he folded his newspaper and laid it beside his plate. ‘I—there’s no urgency, is there?’

‘No.’ Abby wished she could control her colour, but right now she didn’t seem to be having much success at controlling anything.

Luke frowned. ‘Tell me something—how well do you know Scott Anderson?’

‘Scott?’ Abby was glad she was red now. It disguised any further embarrassment she might have exhibited.

‘Yes, Scott. You do know him, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’ Abby lifted her shoulders awkwardly. ‘He—well, he used to live in the village.’

‘I know that.’

‘He was—a friend of my mother’s.’

‘Was he? How close a friend?’

Abby’s eyes sparkled angrily now. ‘What do you mean?’

Luke made a gesture of innocence. ‘Nothing detrimental, I assure you. I’m merely trying to ascertain Scott’s relationship to you.’

‘Well …’ Abby sought for words. ‘When—when my father first left my mother, Scott’s father was still alive and living in Ardnalui. He used to come up to see him, and he used to visit my mother at the same time.’

‘So he and your mother—and your aunt—were much of an age?’

‘No.’ Abby shook her head. ‘Aunt Ella was younger.’

Luke nodded. ‘But Ella—your aunt—she had left the village by this time.’

‘Oh, yes. She went away before I was born.’

‘And she never came back?’

Abby half turned away. ‘To begin with, she used to.’ She shrugged. ‘Do you want to see the village or don’t you?’

‘Do you know why Ella never mentions you?’

His question was direct, and Abby raised her dark eyebrows. ‘Like I told you, I suppose I might have ruined her image.’

Luke regarded her steadily for several seconds, and she was made intensely aware of the strength of her adversary. This was no easy task she had set herself, but already she had made some headway. All she needed was time, and an ability to act, almost as great as Ella’s.

The air was sharp, and the mist still lingered beside the loch. But it was going to be a fine day, and Luke breathed deeply of the clear northern air.

‘Where do you want to begin?’ asked Abby, as they walked away from the presbytery, and Luke glanced down at her wryly.

‘You tell me,’ he suggested, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, and she smiled.

‘All right. We’ll walk to the harbour. It’s small, but you might find it interesting.’

They walked in single file along the narrow village street which the Lamborghini had negotiated the day before, and Abby had a greeting for everyone who passed. Some of the villagers stared openly at Luke, but she failed to satisfy their curiosity. She walked with an easy casual grace that gave elegance to the most informal attire, her long hair clinging in strands to the crimson windcheater, like ropes of black silk.

The jetty was almost deserted, the fishing boats which had nudged its sides the afternoon before all gone. A few old men sat together mending nets and smoking their pipes, and one or two of them called to Abby and she answered them.

‘Do you know everyone in this village?’ Luke asked, as they leaned together on the wall, looking out over the choppy waters of the loch, and she smiled.

‘Of course. I’ve lived here all my life—I told you.’

‘Except for a trip to Madrid. Yes, I know.’ Luke turned to look at her, and she had to look away from the penetration in his eyes. ‘That’s why your hair is so much darker than—–’ He broke off. ‘Don’t you have any relations in Spain?’

She shook her head, and a strand of her hair blew into his face. He put up a hand to brush it away, and his fingers lingered on the silky threads.

‘My father’s two brothers were killed in the civil war,’ she explained. ‘When my grandparents died, there was no one else.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes. So am I.’

Luke frowned. ‘Would you like me to speak to Ella—–’

‘No!’

The vehemence of her denial brought a hardness to his jawline, and his mouth, with its full lower lip, became a thin line.

‘Why not?’

Realising she had been careless, Abby twisted her hands together and turned away. ‘You don’t understand, Mr Jordan,’ she said, in a choked voice. ‘After all these years, I—I couldn’t accept …’

Luke’s expression softened slightly. ‘People change, you know, Abby. And sometimes it’s difficult to show one’s feelings, sometimes one’s afraid they’ll be rebuffed.’

He put a hand on her arm, and beneath that persistent pressure she turned to face him. Deliberately, she looked up into his face, and as she did so she saw his instinctive withdrawal. For some reason, he resented her, and only time would prove whether it was on Ella’s behalf—or his own.

‘Do you know my aunt very well, Mr Jordan?’ she asked innocently, and his hand fell away from her.

‘Reasonably,’ he returned, straightening. ‘Shall we go on?’

As they passed the bakers, the smell of newly baked bread and pastry was irresistible. Abby gave Luke a rather speculative glance before disappearing inside, emerging a few minutes later with a paper bag containing two hot meat pasties. She offered him one, and after a moment’s hesitation he took it, biting into the crumbling pastry as she was doing and savouring the juicy filling.

‘I’ve just had breakfast,’ he protested, when she suggested they seated themselves on the low wall surrounding the church yard to eat them.

‘So have I,’ she replied easily. ‘But I’m sure a man of your size doesn’t need to watch his weight.’

Luke’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that a compliment?’ he inquired dryly, and she coloured, unable to meet his gaze.

‘Naturally,’ she murmured, looking down at the pastry in her hands. ‘Don’t you think this pastry is delicious?’

Luke conceded that it was, and they sat in silence until they were finished. The sun was gaining strength, and its rays beat warmly upon their backs.

Afterwards they walked down to the shore of the loch, and Abby pointed to a small rowing boat pulled high up on the shingle.

‘That’s Uncle Daniel’s,’ she said. ‘Would you like to go out on the loch? You can see the whole village from there.’

Luke was obviously torn between a desire to do as she suggested, and his desire to get this outing over. His reluctance for her company had not diminished, and she wondered what had made him so wary of her. Unless, somehow, he had spoken to her aunt …

That telephone call he had made the previous evening. He had told her uncle that he had spoken to Scott. What if he had spoken to Ella as well? But she was in Rome, Scott had told Abby so. And Luke would have told her uncle if he had made a call to Rome.

Now Luke said: ‘I should very much like to row out on to the loch. But there’s no need for you to come with me. I’m sure you must have better things to do than keeping me company.’

Abby took a deep breath. There it was again—that aloofness, that withdrawal. This wasn’t at all how she had planned it. But how could she penetrate that mask of politeness he was wearing?

She gambled, knowing that if it didn’t come off, she might have destroyed any chance of success. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you like me?’

Luke sighed then. ‘That’s not the point, is it? Good God, I’m old enough to be your father! You can’t possibly enjoy being with me.’

Abby held up her head. ‘And if I do?’

Luke shook his head. ‘I’d rather go alone.’

Abby’s confidence crumbled. ‘Why?’ she demanded, childishly. ‘Because I remind you of my aunt?’

Luke’s brows drew together. ‘That would be silly, wouldn’t it?’

‘Would it?’ Abby knew she had to make a stand. ‘I don’t think you like being reminded of the kind of woman she is!’

That was unforgivable. She knew, as soon as the words were uttered, and Luke looked justifiably furious.

‘What the hell do you mean?’ he snapped, forcing her to go on.

‘I—I know about you—and her.’ Abby fumbled the words. ‘I—I know about your—your relationship …’

‘Indeed?’ His tone was grim.

‘Y—yes.’ Abby swallowed convulsively. ‘I—I know that she—she’s your mistress, that—that you’ve been living together—–’

‘What?’ Luke’s green eyes blazed into hers. ‘Where the hell have you got that from? What do you know about my affairs? What can you know, living here, miles from anywhere, out of touch—–’

‘I can read,’ she reminded him unsteadily. ‘We get newspapers—–’

‘Newspapers!’ Luke’s denigration of the word made her flinch. ‘Don’t you know better than to believe what you read in newspapers!’

Abby’s shoulders quivered. Well, she had certainly succeeded in breaking his politeness, but any association they might have had must surely be doomed from this moment on. With a little gulp she turned away, and walked up the slope towards the road on trembling legs.

‘Abby!’

She heard him call her name, and although she would have preferred to ignore him until she had herself in control again, instinctively she slowed and glanced back. He was still standing near the rowing boat, his hands pushed into his pockets, the breeze from the loch stirring the silvery thickness of his hair. He looked so big and powerful somehow, so remote. She must have been out of her mind to imagine she might be able to influence a man like him, she thought bitterly. Her methods were so gauche, so unsophisticated, so amateurish! Ella would have known how to go about it. She had known. But Abby’s experience of men was limited to the boys from the village and Uncle Daniel.

‘Come back here!’ Luke called to her, but she could sense the irritation still in his voice and remained where she was.

‘What’s the point?’ she called in answer. ‘I’ll—see you later.’

‘Abby!’ Frustration hardening his tone, he strode up the shingle towards her where she stood, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, poised for flight. ‘Abby, you can’t expect to say something like that without arousing some reaction!’ He sighed, his anger controlled. ‘All right, so I do find your resemblance to your aunt—disturbing. But not for the reasons you think.’

‘I was rude,’ she said stiffly. After all, this man was a guest in her uncle’s house and old habits die hard. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Are you?’ Almost against his will it seemed, his hand came out and lifted her chin so that she was forced to look into his face. His fingers were cool against her heated skin, and his thumb probed her jawline involuntarily. ‘Don’t pay lip service to me. I get enough of that back home.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, shivering, and he let her go.

‘Come on,’ he said, as if coming to a decision. ‘We’ll take the boat out.’

Abby caught her breath. ‘But you said you didn’t want me to come with you.’

‘Perhaps I was being unselfish,’ he remarked enigmatically. Then, still unsmiling, he added: ‘If you’re prepared to waste your time with a middle-aged contemporary of your aunt’s, why should I object? Do you want to come or don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she nodded.

‘All right, let’s go.’

It was cooler on the loch, but she insisted on taking a turn at the oars and kept warm that way. He leaned back lazily as she rowed, his long legs stretched at either side of hers, and it was difficult for Abby to prevent herself from staring at his lean muscular body. It was true, she thought, she had never met anyone like him before, but she could quite see why her aunt—or any woman for that matter—would find him attractive. But she had to be objective about it …

Surprisingly, once the first few moments of awkwardness were over, they talked together easily. When he put aside the guard he had adopted, he became an amusing companion, telling her about his family—his brothers and sisters, and the struggle his mother had had to support the children after his father was killed.

‘It was one of those quirks of fate,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘He was in the Merchant Navy and went right through the war without even an injury. He was killed in 1952 when the engine of his coaster exploded on a trip from Liverpool to Newcastle.’

‘How awful!’ Abby’s eyes were wide and sympathetic. ‘Your mother must have been frantic. With eight children to support.’ Eight children, she thought incredulously. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have seven brothers and sisters. Would Luke want a large family? she wondered, and trembled at the thought.

‘I was fourteen at the time,’ he recalled now. ‘I have two brothers older than me, but the rest of the family are younger.’

‘All the same, it must be nice for you belonging to a large family,’ she murmured, half enviously, and he smiled ruefully.

‘It’s expensive,’ he conceded with a dry inflection. ‘So many birthdays.’

‘And—and yet you’ve never had a family of your own?’ she probed, amazed at her own temerity.

Luke shrugged. ‘I was married once. But it didn’t work out. We were divorced twelve years ago.’

Abby hadn’t known that. It surprised her. Although as it was twelve years since his divorce, he must have been very young when he got married. Not so easy now to bring a man like him to the altar.

‘What about you?’ he asked, his eyes narrowed and questioning. ‘Do you want to get married?’

Abby bent over the oars to hide her flushed cheeks. ‘I—I suppose so. When—when the right man asks me.’

Luke drew out a case of cheroots and placed one between his teeth. ‘Ardnalui’s not a big place. If the right man hasn’t asked you yet, surely he can’t be here. Or are you waiting, as your mother did, for someone up from Glas—–”

‘No!’

Abby shipped the oars and let the small boat drift with the current, staring out blindly across the loch. She had no intention of marrying a man like her father—a charming man, but weak, drifting as this boat was doing with the current, only struggling for survival when it was too late …

‘So what will you do?’

Luke’s voice was soft as he applied the flame of his lighter to the cheroot, and she turned to look squarely at him. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered, pushing her hair back from her face with both hands, drawing his eyes to the pointed swell of her breasts surging against the thin nylon material of the windcheater. ‘You tell me.’

CHAPTER THREE

FOR several minutes Luke looked at her, and even in her innocence, she knew he was enjoying the experience. Her heart pounded heavily, the blood thundering in her head, and her palms moistened where they rested against the sides of her neck. Then her pulses steadied when he looked away, taking the cheroot out of his mouth and saying in a curiously flat voice: ‘What do you mean?’

She took a couple of quick breaths. ‘Perhaps—perhaps I should leave Ardnalui. Aunt Ella did, and look how successful she’s been. I could go to London. Maybe I could become an actress.’

Luke’s eyes turned back to her, cooler now and more penetrating. ‘I shouldn’t advise it,’ he told her harshly.

‘Why not?’

Luke shifted restlessly, putting the cheroot back between his teeth, reaching forward to take the oars. ‘It’s time we were getting back.’

Abby stared at him frustratedly. ‘Aren’t you going to answer me?’

Luke dipped the oars into the water. ‘What time is lunch?’

She clenched her fists. ‘I shall do it, you know. Whatever you say.’

Luke heaved a sigh, regarded her tense expression for a moment, and then shipped the oars again. ‘All right, all right. If you want it bluntly, I don’t think you stand a chance of doing what Ella has done.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re not like her. You need to be a certain sort of person to become a successful actress. You have to be—hard, if you like. Dedicated, ambitious! I don’t think you have that kind of ambition. If you had, you’d have done something about it before now.’

‘What could I have done?’

‘Left Ardnalui, for a start. Pushed yourself into Ella’s life, whether she liked it or not.’

Abby bent her head. ‘I don’t think she would have let me.’

‘How could she have stopped you? You’re sufficiently like her to cause quite a bit of an upset, one way and another.’

‘Do you think so?’ Abby hunched her shoulders. ‘Well, there’s still time.’

Luke regarded her compassionately. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘So what am I to do? Look after the Dalrymples’ children until I’m an old maid?’

Luke half smiled. ‘You’ve a long way to go before that happens.’

‘Have I?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I really think it’s time we were going back,’ he said. ‘It must be the air here. I’m feeling decidedly hungry.’

And with that, Abby had to be content. As Luke rowed them back to the shore, she reflected that the morning had proved much more productive than the previous evening, in spite of its doubtful beginnings …

That evening, Abby had a telephone call from Scott Anderson.

Fortunately, Luke and her uncle were out at the time. Daniel McGregor was showing Luke over his church, St Cecilia’s, and Abby had been amusing herself setting out the chess pieces in the study when the phone rang.

Abby lifted the receiver tentatively. She was not wholly convinced that her aunt would not discover where Luke was and try to contact him here, and she had no desire to speak to her—yet. But it was Scott, and Abby sank down weakly into her uncle’s chair, cradling the receiver against her shoulder.

‘Now then, young Abby,’ Scott sounded amused. ‘What have you been getting up to?’

Abby shook her head, realised he couldn’t see her, and said: ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t you?’ Even faraway, the disbelief in Scott’s voice was unmistakable. ‘Did you know I had Luke on the phone again this afternoon? What have you been saying to him?’

Abby straightened her spine. ‘What did he tell you?’

Scott laughed. ‘I’m asking the questions.’

‘Oh, come on, Scott. Why did he ring you?’ She paused. ‘Did he tell you he was coming back?’

‘N—o, I don’t think that was mentioned.’

Abby didn’t realise she had been holding her breath until at his words she felt the tension go out of her. ‘So?’

‘He thinks I sent him up there because you have some latent desire to go on the stage.’

‘And what did you say?’ Abby pressed her lips together.

Scott snorted. ‘What was I supposed to say? You didn’t tell me you were going to use those tactics.’

‘I’m only playing the cards as they’re dealt to me.’

‘Really?’ Scott sounded sceptical. ‘Don’t you think you’ve bitten off more than you can comfortably chew, Abby?’

‘No!’ She was vehement. Then: ‘You didn’t—you didn’t—–’

‘—let you down? No, I won’t do that, honey. But if I think this thing’s getting out of hand, I’ll get Luke back here so fast, you won’t feel the passing.’

Abby’s fingers tightened round the receiver. ‘Don’t be silly, Scott. What could get out of hand?’

‘Luke could!’ retorted Scott dryly. ‘Look, Abby, he’s not like your regular Scottish gentleman, nor is he like those boys you play around with in the village. They have respect for you—and for Dan. You can trust them. Don’t trust Luke Jordan.’

‘I’ve told you, Scott, I—I can handle it.’

‘Can you?’ He sounded less than convinced. ‘Well, I just thought I’d warn you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Huh? Don’t thank me. I’m not at all sure I did the right thing in letting you persuade me to send Luke up there.’

Abby’s teeth caught at the soft inner flesh of her lower lip. ‘I think you owed me a favour, Scott,’ she reminded him quietly, and heard his impatient exclamation.

‘Well, you take care, d’you hear?’ he told her severely, and she assured him she would before replacing the receiver.

When Luke and her uncle came back she learned that they planned to play chess together. Daniel McGregor was going to teach his guest the finer points of the game and her presence was superfluous. With a sense of impotence, she went up to her room, wondering how much longer she had before Luke decided to pack his case literally and return to London.

The following day was Saturday. It meant that Abby was free for two whole days and she wondered if it would be enough. She doubted it. She doubted it very much.

To her surprise, Luke was at the table when she went down for breakfast, and for an awful moment she thought he intended leaving that morning. But Uncle Daniel reassured her.

‘Mr Jordan has decided to stay on for a few more days, Abby,’ he told her. ‘He’s never seen anything of this part of the country, and I’ve persuaded him to do a little sightseeing while he’s here. I’ve suggested he ought to drive up to Keilaig, and Achnaluin Forest. Then there’s Loch Keil, and Lucifer’s Bowl, and the Kyle of Storfar. Any number of places he should visit. Don’t you agree?’

Abby could not bring herself to meet the old priest’s eyes. Why was he doing this? she asked herself in confusion. Did he suspect? No, he couldn’t, or knowing Uncle Daniel as she did, she knew he would never countenance her plans. And yet he had told her he knew that she had wanted to meet Luke Jordan, and he must also know how Ella would feel about that …

She risked a brief glance in Luke’s direction and was disconcerted to find him watching her. His eyes were thickly lashed and enigmatic, and she had no way of knowing what he was thinking.

‘Well, Abby?’

Uncle Daniel was waiting for her reply and she moved her shoulders in a careless, dismissing gesture. ‘It’s a good time of year for driving on these roads,’ she agreed offhandedly. ‘Before they become jammed with holiday traffic.’

‘I don’t believe your—niece—is too enthusiastic about my staying on,’ remarked Luke mildly, and Abby found herself glaring resentfully at him.

‘That’s not true,’ she protested, conscious of Uncle Daniel’s interest. ‘I—maybe you would like me to come with you. To be your—guide.’

Luke regarded her steadily for several seconds and then he inclined his head. ‘Why not?’

Ridiculously, a wave of panic swept over her. ‘It could only be over the weekend,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I have to go back to work on Monday.’

‘I’m sure Mr Jordan appreciates that you have a job of work to do, Abby,’ Daniel McGregor assured her quietly. ‘As for you acting as his guide, I venture to suggest that he might prefer to make his own way to our local beauty spots. They’re not difficult to find. And besides, didn’t you promise to help Mrs Jameson this morning?’

Mrs Jameson was the local police sergeant’s wife, as well as being a keen horsewoman. Abby had completely forgotten her promise to go up to the stables and help Mrs Jameson whitewash the stalls. Panic gave way to irritation at the realisation that she was committed. Without doubt, Uncle Daniel had taken this into consideration.

Luke, who had finished his breakfast, pushed back his chair. ‘Now that’s a shame,’ he observed wryly, and Abby looked infuriatedly up at him.

‘I could ring Mrs Jameson,’ she exclaimed. ‘Explain the situation …’

‘Oh, don’t do that on my account,’ Luke objected calmly. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, hmm?’

‘Mrs Tully will prepare you a picnic lunch, Luke,’ put in Daniel. ‘There are few eating places where you’re going.’

‘Thank you,’ Luke nodded. ‘I’ll have a word with her. See you—both—later.’

The door closed behind him and Abby looked fretfully down at the toast on her plate. Her appetite had evaporated and she could have cried with frustration. It didn’t help when Daniel said: ‘Cheer up, Abby. Think of the horses. You know how much pleasure you get out of exercising them. Mrs Jameson has always been very generous with you. Don’t begrudge the chance to help her when it comes your way.’

Abby hunched her shoulders. ‘I’m not, but—–’

‘—but you’d rather go with Luke. I know.’ For a moment she tensed, expecting a lecture, but it didn’t come. Instead, he said: ‘I have to go. Mrs Lewis is worse. I’ll give her your good wishes, shall I?’

‘Oh, yes. Please.’ Abby felt ungrateful. ‘I’m—I’m sorry if you thought I was selfish.’

The priest shook his head, his eyes gentle. ‘You’re young, Abby, that’s all.’

After he had gone, Abby drank a second cup of coffee before leaving the table. As she opened the dining room door she came face to face with Luke, and she stepped back in surprise.

‘Where does this Mrs Jameson live?’ he asked, and her lips parted in astonishment.

‘Er—at Dun Ifor.’ She made a futile gesture. ‘It’s a tiny village two miles round the loch.’

‘And how do you propose to get there?’

Abby had no time to question this catechism, and she answered automatically: ‘On my bicycle.’

‘A bicycle!’ Luke stared at her, half amused.

‘Yes.’ A trace of resentment coloured her tone now. ‘Why not? Cycling is very good for you.’

‘I’m sure it is. But I was going to suggest I took you—in my car.’

Abby gasped. ‘Why should you do that?’

Luke hesitated. ‘Shall we say I’m prepared to wait until this afternoon to go—sightseeing?’

Abby coloured then. She couldn’t help it. Success was intoxicating. ‘I—but—I might be hours at the Jamesons’.’ She had to say something.

‘Perhaps I can give a hand,’ remarked Luke, and she stared disbelievingly at his cream corded pants and heavy cashmere sweater.

‘In those clothes!’

‘I can change,’ he replied steadily. ‘Well?’

Abby’s hand involuntarily sought the open vee of her cotton shirt. ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘If that’s what you really want to do. Only—–’

‘Only?’

‘—I don’t know what Uncle Daniel would say.’

‘Uncle Daniel won’t know, until it’s too late,’ Luke returned dryly, and Abby felt a tremor of apprehension sweep over her as she turned away.

By the time she had paid an unexpectedly urgent visit to the bathroom, and pulled on the crimson windcheater and Wellington boots, Luke was waiting for her in the hall, lean and workmanlike in faded denims and a waist-length leather battle jacket. He held open the door for her and they emerged into the brisk air, overlaid this morning with the threat of rain. The dark green racing lines of the Lamborghini rested on broad tyres on the cobbled forecourt, much like some hungry predator waiting to spring. Even the prospect of riding in such a monster filled Abby with excitement which intensified when he swung open the door beside the wheel, and said: ‘Would you like to drive?’

‘Me?’ Abby stared into his dark face disbelievingly. ‘I—I couldn’t.’

‘Why not? You have a licence, don’t you?’

‘Well, yes, but …’

‘Don’t you want to drive?’

Abby wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I’d love to.’

‘Come on, then. I’ll show you how it works.’

Behind the wheel, with a seat belt securing her in place, Abby’s hands trembled as they clasped the wheel. Luke walked round the bonnet and levered himself in beside her, smiling at her tense face.

‘Relax. It’s as simple as learning your alphabet. All you’ve got to remember is that you’ve got five forward gears instead of four.’

‘It’s air-conditioned!’ she exclaimed.

‘Yes. And the windows are electrically operated, if you should wish to open them.’

Abby looked at the comprehensive dashboard. ‘It’s like flying an aircraft.’

‘I can assure you it’s much simpler.’

She turned to look at him with wide eyes. ‘Can you fly?’

‘Not without a plane,’ he conceded derisorily, directing her attention back to the dashboard. ‘Now, it’s power steering. Probably lighter than what you’re used to.’

Abby looked at the milometer and caught her breath. ‘That says two hundred and—–’

‘They’re kilometres,’ he corrected her dryly.

‘Even so—–’

‘You’re not likely to take off along two miles of the lake shore.’

‘The loch! The loch shore.’

‘All right, the loch shore, then. Right. Can you get us off this forecourt?’

The powerful engine roared to life, and Abby unknowingly had her tongue jammed between her teeth as she found bottom gear and the car crept forward. Driving through the village, she was intensely conscious of the curious glances cast her way, but she had no time to acknowledge anyone’s greeting this morning. Instead, she concentrated on avoiding the bicycles they passed, and the butcher’s van as it swung carelessly away from the kerb.

At last they emerged on to the open road, and she breathed a sigh of relief, taking the opportunity to rub first one palm and then the other over the knees of her pants.

‘You’re doing fine,’ observed Luke beside her, and she stole a glance at him.

‘Am I?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Am I really? Oh, I nearly died when Mr Smith pulled out in front of us like that.’

Luke relaxed against the curving headrest. ‘Open her up a bit,’ he advised. ‘She’s baulking at this speed. You haven’t even reached top yet.’

Abby depressed the accelerator and allowed the needle on the speedometer to creep upward. The road beside the loch would not allow for much more than fifty, but even at that speed the sensation of latent power was exhilarating. All too soon the gates of the Jamesons’ property came into view, and she had to change down rapidly to negotiate the cattle grid.

Pauline Jameson was a woman in her late forties, whose family had owned this stretch of land for generations. Tall and rangily built, she had been brought up with horses and they were her passion. When she had first met and married Robert Jameson, a Glaswegian police constable, and gone to live in the city, no one had expected the marriage to last. But they had not taken Pauline’s determination into account, and soon she had persuaded her husband to leave the city force and return with her to the Highlands of her birth. Now everyone knew Robert Jameson almost as well as his wife. Their only regret was that they had had no children to carry on the tradition, and consequently Abby, orphaned at quite a young age, had always been welcome there. In the summer months, Pauline hired out ponies for trekking, and Abby had always enjoyed going over there to exercise the animals through the off-season months.

If Pauline considered there was anything unusual in a man of Luke’s evident wealth and ability desiring to help her part-time stable hand in cleaning out the stables, she succeeded in hiding her feelings admirably. Soon they were all wielding brushes of one kind or another while the Jamesons’ two retrievers bounded about excitedly, jumping up and barking, and generally making nuisances of themselves.

The horses had been turned into the field behind the Jamesons’ bungalow and when, halfway through the morning, Pauline called a halt while she went to make some coffee, Abby and Luke strolled over to the fence and leaned on it, talking to the animals. Luke had shed his jacket and with his denim shirt sleeves rolled back to his elbows, and the neck open to reveal the light mat of gold-flecked hair which covered his chest, he looked more disturbingly attractive than she had ever seen him. For the first time, she wondered what it would be like being married to such a man, and something inside her palpitated at the thought. But then, she told herself severely, situations altered cases.

Luke’s bare arm brushed against hers as he reached out to offer a handful of straw to a chestnut gelding and his eyes switched sharply to hers as she flinched away from him.

‘What’s wrong?’ he frowned, and quickly she shook her head.

‘Nothing,’ she denied, and then hurried on ‘That’s Paris, by the way. Mrs Jameson calls all the horses by legendary Greek names. Paris—and Athena, and Clytemnestra. Oh, and that’s Agamemnon over there. Isn’t that a terrible name for a horse?’

Luke was watching her confusion closely and she guessed that her attempt at diversion had not succeeded.

‘Why did you jerk away from me like that when I touched you?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Haven’t you ever touched a man before?’

‘Don’t be silly!’ She refused to argue with him, turning aside to fondle Paris’s muzzle. ‘You’re beautiful, aren’t you?’ she murmured to the animal, but Luke would not let it go.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I understood you were not averse to my company,’ he snapped, and she turned reluctantly to face his annoyance, aware that she was in danger of losing all the ground she had made.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘You—startled me, that’s all.’

‘Did I?’ He sounded unconvinced. ‘So come on—show me you don’t object to touching me.’

Abby’s breathing had quickened. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Like this!’ He grasped her wrist and brought her hand up to his forearm. ‘Go ahead. Take my arm.’

Abby looked up at him a little wildly. ‘I—this is silly,’ she protested, but he was uncompromising, and with a sigh she allowed her fingers to close round the hard muscle.

It was a peculiar sensation, particularly as in grasping her wrist he had brought her closer to him than she had been even in the car. She could smell the heat of his body after the hour of exertion, and the clean male scent of him was disturbing. Her eyes were on a level with the opened buttons of his shirt, and when she dared to look up, she found he was looking down at her. At once, she was conscious of the unbuttoned neckline of her shirt, and the way his eyes left her face to linger on the shadowy hollow just visible between her breasts. She shivered uncontrollably when his free hand slid up over her hip to her waist, his fingers probing the bones of her rib cage. She could feel herself stiffening, but before he could become aware of her resistance, he uttered an oath of self-disgust and turned away, long strides putting some distance between them.

Weakness enveloped her—weakness, and a clammy moistness all over her body which owed nothing to the effort she had expended. Oh God, she thought unsteadily, she had almost ruined everything. If only she had more experience! If only every time he came near her she wasn’t so overwhelmingly aware of his strength and her immaturity. He had been married, and latterly his relationship with Ella left little to the imagination. How could she expect him to understand the fears she nurtured?

Running her hands over the seat of her pants, she saw to her relief that Mrs Jameson had emerged from the bungalow carrying a tray which Luke had gone to take from her. She watched him through averted eyes. Would it have been easier if he had been a less attractive man? Undoubtedly, from her point of view—although the prospect of sleeping with any man would be equally terrifying.

‘You’re looking rather pale, Abby.’

Mrs Jameson voiced an opinion which Abby had no doubt was an honest one. She felt pale—drained! A trembling facsimile of her normal self. But she knew Luke was looking at her, and with admirable nonchalance she indicated the overcast sky.

‘It’s this heavy atmosphere,’ she claimed, accepting the cup of coffee Mrs Jameson handed her. She took a quick sip. ‘Mmm, this is good.’

Mrs Jameson gave Luke a cup and then turned her attention back to Abby. ‘Are you sure, my dear? You haven’t got a headache, or anything? If you have, just say the word—–’

‘I haven’t! Honestly!’ Abby took a deep breath. ‘We’re making quite good progress, aren’t we?’

‘Very good progress,’ Mrs Jameson agreed, smiling at Luke. ‘With your help, Mr Jordan.’

‘Please—call me Luke.’ Luke was perfectly controlled, and Abby wondered if she had imagined his momentary weakness. But then he looked at her, and she knew she had not as the hot colour flamed up her throat to her cheeks.

‘You’re a writer—Luke.’ Pauline Jameson rested against the stable wall. ‘I do very little reading, I’m afraid, but I should like to read one of your books.’

‘I’ll send you one,’ Luke told her easily. ‘If you really mean it.’

‘Oh, I do.’ Pauline laughed. ‘And how do you know Father McGregor?’

Luke finished his coffee and replaced his cup on the tray. ‘I didn’t,’ he amended. ‘But I work with Scott Anderson.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Pauline’s expression grew speculative as it shifted to Abby. ‘So you must know Abby’s aunt—Ella Mackay.’

‘Yes,’ Luke spoke flatly, ‘I know her.’

And how well! thought Abby fiercely.

‘It’s strange.’ Pauline was thoughtful. ‘That two sisters should be so totally different from one another. Abby’s mother seldom if ever left the village, while Ella—–’

‘Oughtn’t we to be getting on, Mrs Jameson?’

Abby didn’t care that she was being rude, or that Luke was staring frowningly at her. She had no desire to get into conversation about her parents, wading into waters that were both treacherous and forbidden.

‘Of course.’ Pauline straightened away from the wall, regarding her sympathetically for a moment. ‘That’s all old history,, isn’t it, Abby? Now, where did I leave that broom?’

It was after twelve when Abby and Luke left the Jamesons’. Pauline had invited them to stay for lunch, but Abby insisted that Uncle Daniel would be expecting them back. This time Luke took the wheel, and there was a tension between them that had not been there before.

Daniel McGregor was surprised to see Luke at the table. He glanced round at Mrs Tully bringing in a tureen of Scotch broth and exclaimed: ‘I thought you were having a picnic lunch today, Luke.’

Luke gave a faint smile. ‘I decided to wait until Abby could accompany me,’ he remarked levelly. ‘I took her over to the Jamesons’ myself.’

‘Indeed?’ Abby sensed that her uncle was not best pleased. ‘And where do you plan to go this afternoon?’

‘Where would you suggest?’

Daniel shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘Well, Keilaig is nearest, I suppose.’

‘Keilaig?’ Luke frowned.

‘There’s an old castle there,’ put in Abby, needing to dispel the strained atmosphere between them. ‘It’s not much more than a ruin now, but it gives a magnificent view over Loch Keil.’

‘You know it well,’ said Luke. ‘Are you sure you still want to come?’

Abby looked down at her plate. ‘I should like to,’ she answered quietly, and sensed that he was no more pleased with her than her uncle.

Luke had changed back into his former attire before lunch, and after the meal was over, Abby hurried upstairs to put on a fresh shirt. She didn’t have a lot of clothes and her jeans would have to do, but at least she could wear a different top. Deciding it might be cold at Keilaig, she wore a somewhat faded purple sweater with a roll neck, which nevertheless was warm and serviceable. Its ribbed lines drew attention to her swelling breasts, and she thought impatiently that it was really too small for her now. Still, her windcheater hid its more obvious limitations.

Mrs Tully encountered her in the hall. ‘Mr Jordan said to tell you he’s waiting in the car,’ she said half disapprovingly. Then: ‘Ach, I don’t know what the Father’s thinking of—letting you go off with a man like that!’ jerking her thumb towards the door.

Abby made an indignant sound. ‘I’m not a child, Mrs Tully. I can go out with whoever I like.’

‘Well, I’d have thought after what your mother suffered, poor thing, and him a friend of your aunt—–’

Abby turned towards the door. ‘I’ll see you later, Mrs Tully.’

‘Well, you watch yourself, miss, that’s what I say,’ Mrs Tully was saying as Abby closed the door with suppressed irritation behind her. As if it wasn’t hard enough, without other people reminding her!

Luke was sitting behind the wheel, and he leant across and pushed open the door from inside for her to climb in. Abby subsided on to the hide upholstery thankfully, glad the uncertainty in her legs was not having to be put to the test.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,’ she murmured, folding her hands in her lap.

Luke made no comment and started the car, driving away from the presbytery with careful deliberation. Then he paused. ‘Right or left?’

‘Oh—right.’ She spoke jerkily. ‘The—the opposite way from the way we went this morning.’

Luke acknowledged this with a slight raising of his eyebrows, and they turned away from the village on the steep incline out of the valley. At the junction with the Achnaluin road, they turned west, following the single-laned track which petered out at Keilaig. A few specks of rain landed on the windscreen and the wipers quickly flicked them away. But they were followed by others that soon had the wipers working full-time.

‘It would rain, wouldn’t it?’ she exclaimed, with enforced casualness, intensely conscious of the limited proportions of their surroundings. With the rain driving relentlessly against the vehicle on all sides, they were entrapped in a square of what seemed to Abby, in her nervous state, almost claustrophobic intimacy. ‘Perhaps it will clear by the time we reach the castle.’

‘Do you really expect it to?’ Luke sounded bored.

‘It might. We get these freak storms in the mountains. In half an hour the sun could be shining.’

Luke cast a disbelieving look her way. ‘Not after the sky has been overcast all morning. I guessed it would rain.’

‘Then why did you come, then?’ Abby sounded a little distraite.

Luke shrugged. ‘It seemed to be expected.’

Abby sighed. ‘Uncle Daniel wouldn’t have minded if you had wanted to stay at the house.’

‘Now that I am sure of.’

Abby frowned. ‘Why?’

Luke made a dry grimace. ‘You know that as well as I do.’

‘Do I?’

‘Abby, don’t play games with me. I’m too old for those kind of tricks. You must know your uncle doesn’t approve of your spending too much time alone with me. No’—this as she would have interrupted him—‘let me finish. I’m not saying he doesn’t—well, like me. He tolerates me, at least. And he has no objections to my staying in his house. But I don’t think he bargained for you wanting to come out with me, do you?’

Abby absorbed this mutinously. ‘Are you saying you agree with him?’

Luke sighed. ‘Not exactly.’

‘Then what are you saying?’

‘What is it with you, Abby? Why did you want to come with me? What is it that attracts you? Me—or the Lamborghini?’

Abby pursed her lips. ‘That’s a rotten thing to suggest!’

‘Why is it? I’ve known women go out with men for the most peculiar reasons. And liking them isn’t always high on the list.’

Abby expelled her breath noisily. ‘Well, I do happen to —to like you.’

‘I see.’ Luke’s acceptance of her statement was ominous. ‘How well do you like me?’

Abby stared out at the driving force of the storm. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ And she didn’t.

‘You didn’t like me touching you this morning.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Abby pushed back her hair with a nervous hand. ‘Must you keep going on about that? I’ve told you, you startled me.’

‘All right.’ To her horror, the car appeared to be slowing, and after a moment he brought it to a standstill, the wipers stilling on the windscreen, completing the illusion of limbo-like isolation. Then he half turned in his seat toward her. ‘Now, tell me again.’

Abby’s throat felt so tight, every breath was an effort. ‘Please,’ she appealed, ‘can’t we go on? Or go back, if you’d rather.’

‘There’s no going back, Abby. Didn’t you know that?’ His arm was resting along the back of her seat. ‘Aren’t you hot wearing a thick sweater and a jacket?’

‘No!’ She shifted jerkily. ‘I—you’re wearing a jacket.’

‘This?’ He fingered the leather battle jacket he had worn that morning. ‘You know, you could be right.’ And withdrawing his arm for a moment, he struggled out of the jerkin, tossing it carelessly into the back of the car.

Abby did feel hot—but it was not just the weight of her clothing. She had the sensation of a non-swimmer thrown into the deep end of a swimming bath. Luke in this mood was wholly unpredictable, and not even the knowledge that she had, inadvertently, subtly altered their relationship could prevent her knees from shaking and panic from rearing its ugly head once more.

‘Come on, Abby,’ he said softly, and taking hold of the zipper of her jacket, he propelled it steadily downwards.

‘Oh, please …’

Eyes mirroring fear stared into his, and he shook his head cynically. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her, continuing to slide the windcheater from her shoulders. ‘Even I would find it difficult to rape you in this vehicle!’

Her cheeks burned. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that!’

‘Why not? That is what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?’

‘No.’ She pulled her arms free of the jacket and he cast it into the back along with his own. She pressed the balled fist of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘I—I don’t think you would do a thing like that.’

‘Don’t you?’ His expression was wry. ‘I’m not sure I like that.’

‘Please! Stop baiting me.’

Driven beyond reason, her eyes were desperate, and his features hardened. ‘What would you have me do with you, then?’

She shook her head, staring down helplessly at her knees, and with a tremor of apprehension she felt his hand slide over and grip her nape under the silky curtain of her hair.

‘You know, I should have had more sense!’ he muttered, and she looped back her hair behind one ear to look at him.

‘Wh-why?’

He regarded her for a long disturbing minute. Then, before she could offer any resistance, he leant forward and kissed the down-soft curve of her cheek. His mouth was warmly compelling, and for an instant she had the craziest urge to tilt back her head so that his lips would encounter hers. It was not a calculated reaction, and its urgency left her strangely weak.

‘Oh, Abby,’ he said, resting his head back against the soft leather. ‘Someone should have warned me about you!’

‘Wh-what about me?’

He chewed impatiently at the inner skin of his lower lip. ‘How old did you say you were? Seventeen? Eighteen?’

‘I’m twenty,’ she asserted hotly. ‘At least, I shall be next month.’

‘Twenty!’ He shook his head, moving it from side to side against the headrest. ‘And did no one ever teach you the facts of life?’

‘Of course!’ She tried to shrug his hand away from her nape, but he didn’t let her go. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He flexed his back muscles. ‘I don’t believe you do.’ He straightened, looking at her through narrowed lids. ‘You know what I think?’ He raised his eyebrows, but she made no reply, so he went on: ‘I think you should try your claws on someone else—someone less likely to take advantage of you.’

‘You’re not—taking advantage of me …’

Luke’s lips twisted. ‘And you don’t think I would?’

‘Would you?’

He flung himself back in his seat, his hands seeking the case of cheroots he always kept in the car. When he had one between his teeth, he nodded savagely. ‘You’re a beautiful girl, Abby. If no one’s ever told you that, let me be the first to reassure you. And I am only human! You’ve been throwing yourself at my head ever since you laid eyes on me, and while I’m perfectly willing to oblige, something tells me that that’s not what you want …’

‘And if it was?’

She spoke breathily, and he took the unlighted cheroot out of his mouth to stare at her disbelievingly. ‘Abby, if it’s a film star you want to be, it’s Scott you should be talking to.’

‘It’s not.’

Unknowingly provocative, her tongue appeared to wet her upper lip, and with a muffled oath he dropped the cheroot on the floor, his hands sliding possessively over her shoulders, compelling her towards him. His mouth on hers moved back and forward insistently, warm and probing, and disruptively sensual. Did he know she had never been kissed before? she fretted anxiously. Did he realise all the knowledge she possessed came from books like his own?

‘Stop fighting me, Abby,’ he spoke against the corner of her mouth, and she moved her head confusedly.

‘I’m not fighting you,’ she protested, the words dying on a gulp when his hand slid beneath her sweater to grip her bare midriff.

‘Come on,’ he breathed, his tongue tracing the curve of her lips. ‘Open your mouth …’

‘Open—oh!’

Her puzzled objection was stifled by the pressure of his mouth, forcing her lips apart to admit the searching penetration of his. No amount of reading, however adult, could have prepared her for the sensations he was arousing inside her, sensations that left her weak and submissive, neither seeking nor repelling the demands he was making on her. She didn’t resist when his hand probed further beneath her sweater, cupping one rounded breast and stroking the nipple with his thumb, but Luke could feel the thrusting urgency of his own body and he could no longer ignore it. For long, lingering seconds, his mouth continued to possess hers, and then he pushed her away from him, shoving open his door violently and getting out, heedless of the falling rain.

CHAPTER FOUR.

The draught of cold air was sobering and Abby caught an incredulous breath, pressing her palms to her burning cheeks, scarcely daring to believe what had occurred. She fumbled her sweater down over the waistband of her jeans and in doing so her wrist accidentally brushed her breast, still tender from the pressure of his fingers. She licked lips gone suddenly dry, and twisted the driving mirror round so that she could examine her face. Her pupils were wide and dilated, her cheeks splashed with hectic colour, her mouth bruised and bare of any make-up. It had happened, it had really happened! Somehow—she didn’t quite know how she had done it—she had aroused Luke Jordan’s interest!

She took a deep breath. He had kissed her. And not in any casual way. He had held her and kissed her until her head swam with the memory of it. She swallowed hard. It hadn’t been so bad, after all. And she hadn’t frozen up on him as she had been afraid she might do. She had let him do what he wanted, and not tried to stop him.

Then she remembered. Luke was outside now, in the pouring rain. She adjusted the mirror and leaned across his seat and said softly: ‘Won’t you come in, Luke? You’re getting soaked to the skin!’

Luke looked down at her broodingly, his face wet, his hair plastered to his head and neck. Then, without comment, he got back inside the vehicle, reaching for his cheroots again and lighting one, still without speaking. His sweater steamed, and the odour of damp wool mingled with the scent of his tobacco. When he stretched out a hand to start the engine, however, she put restraining fingers on his sleeve.

‘I think you ought to take off this—this wet jumper,’ she murmured awkwardly.

‘Do you?’

His voice was cold and cynical as before, and Abby looked at him reluctantly. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘You care about me?’ His lips twisted mockingly.

‘It’s not a question of caring,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s common sense. You’re wet through.’

‘Perhaps I don’t care,’ he remarked.

Abby made an exasperated sound. ‘Don’t say things like that! It’s stupid to risk pneumonia for the sake of a little forethought.’

Luke stared at her grimly for a few moments, and then jabbing his cheroot into the ashtray, he lifted his arms and hauled the sweater over his head. He wore nothing beneath it, and the tanned brown flesh rippled with goose-bumps. With his chest bare, he looked younger, more vulnerable, and Abby was not unaware of the sexual attraction he possessed.

‘Here,’ she said, reaching determinedly into the back of the car, ‘put on your jacket. It’s better than nothing.’

‘Thanks.’ He slid his arms into the sleeves of the battle jacket and fastened the studs. If he was still shivering, she could not see it, his features taut and unyielding in the grey light.

‘I think we ought to go back,’ she ventured, and he cast a scathing look in her direction.

‘You think!’ he echoed. ‘We’re going back, Abby. Whatever you think!’

She regarded him anxiously. ‘Why are you so angry?’

‘For God’s sake!’ He started the engine savagely. ‘After what you just did, how the hell do you expect me to be?’

‘What—what did I do?’

‘Oh, God!’ He swore as in trying to turn on the narrow road, his tyres spun uselessly over the rim of a ditch. ‘I don’t believe even you are that naïve!’

Abby’s lips trembled. ‘You—wanted to make love to me?’

He glared at her. ‘Yes,’ he said aggressively, nodding his head. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

Abby’s tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. ‘I—well, I didn’t—stop you …’

‘No,’ he agreed grimly, grinding his gears as he sought to bring the wheels back on to the track. ‘You didn’t do that.’

‘Then why are you angry with me?’

‘Abby, if I were your uncle, I’d put you across my knee and administer the thrashing you so justly deserve!’

‘Why?’ She couldn’t understand his attitude. He had wanted to kiss her, to fondle her—and she had not objected. So where had she gone wrong? What would Ella have done that she had not? Had her inexperience, her lack of sophistication been so obvious after all? ‘I—I thought you liked—touching me,’ she whispered.

Luke succeeded in bringing the Lamborghini round in a half circle, as much by skidding dangerously on the slippery surface as by any expertise at driving, and then he turned to face her, his expression forbidding.

‘Abby, did no one ever tell you, you don’t go around letting strange men—take advantage of you?’

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