Guilty Love
Charlotte Lamb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

‘I‘M AFRAID I have to ask you to work late again tonight, Mrs York.’

Linzi had been so intent on her work that she hadn’t noticed her boss walk into her office, and his deep voice made her jump.

As she looked round at him, her fine silvery hair flicking back from her face, Ritchie Calhoun gave her one of his slow, sardonic smiles. ‘Your nerves are in a bad way! I didn’t mean to frighten you out of your wits!’

She gave him a wry look. Every time he came into a room he made her jump; he made most of the staff jump. He was that sort of man. Even now she knew him quite well she was never able to relax when he was around. The air seemed to crackle with electricity everywhere he went, he was curt and incisive, and those grey eyes seemed to see right through to the backbone, which was disconcerting. But she could hardly tell him any of that, so she simply said, ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away—what did you say, Mr Calhoun?’

‘I want you to work late tonight,’ he repeated, and Linzi’s teeth caught her lower lip, worrying it. Ritchie Calhoun watched the betraying little movement, his eyes shrewd. ‘Is that a problem?’

It was always a problem when he wanted her to work late because it upset Barty every time, but when she’d accepted the job Ritchie Calhoun had laid it on the line that she would have to be prepared to work flexible hours, rather than just nine to five, so how could she complain now? After all, he, himself, worked ferociously hard, putting in a twelve-hour day most days. He was usually there when she arrived in the morning and there when she left, unless he was away on some business trip, or working out in the field with one of his construction teams on a difficult project, when, she gathered, he worked even harder for longer hours. It was said that hardbitten construction workers had been known to turn pale at the sight of him bearing down on them if they weren’t working hard enough, or had made some stupid mistake. Everyone in the firm admired the man, but they all agreed—it was no easy job working for Ritchie Calhoun.

The good side was that she had plenty of free time on days when he didn’t need her and she was earning a lot more money than she ever had before. She and Barty were getting used to having that extra money every month. They had bought new furniture, new linen, curtains, a new dinner set—gradually their little flat was beginning to look the way Linzi wanted it to look and she could never earn this much anywhere else.

That was why Barty didn’t force her to give up the job, much as he resented the hours she had to work.

So Linzi shook her head, suppressing a sigh. ‘No, no problem. I can work tonight—do you have any idea when I shall get away, though? I have to cook my husband’s dinner.’

‘Isn’t it time he learnt to cook his own?’ Ritchie Calhoun drily enquired, his hard mouth twisting. ‘Or he could pick up a Chinese takeaway on his way home from work.’

Involuntarily, Linzi laughed at the idea. ‘Barty isn’t keen on takeaway food, he likes home cooking.’ He liked to find her waiting for him when he came home, too, and, if he didn’t he sometimes went out again, to a bar to drink his supper. Her laughter died; sadness filled her eyes.

Ritchie Calhoun lounged against her desk, watching her changing expressions. She had a mobile face which gave away too much of what was going on inside her. Her features were delicate: a small, finely moulded nose, high cheekbones, wide eyes the colour of the sea on a sunny day, a soft pink mouth which was generously full and yet sensitive, suggesting to Ritchie a sensual nature you would never suspect from anything else about Linzi York, he thought, eyes narrowing. Linzi looked up and caught him staring, and blushed as if picking up on his secret thoughts.

‘And I suppose you do all the housework, too, and wash and iron his clothes for him?’ he asked with a faint sarcasm that indicated disapproval.

‘It’s what Barty’s used to; his mother always did those things for him,’ she began, then stopped, frowning, angry with herself for sounding as if she was apologising for her husband. Her private life was none of Ritchie Calhoun’s business for one thing, and, for another, she loved Barty—it made her happy to take care of him.

‘You both work full-time, though,’ Ritchie Calhoun pointed out.

‘Yes, well...Barty wasn’t brought up to look after himself,’ she defensively said. ‘He was an only child, his mother was middle-aged when he was born, and so thrilled to have a child of her own that I’m afraid she waited on him hand and foot. It made her happy to spoil him.’

‘And you’ve gone on spoiling him?’

She didn’t answer that; he saw the flicker of resentment in her face, and her lids came down like shutters over her eyes, to hide her thoughts from him. Ritchie picked up on them all the same: obviously she wasn’t happy with all these questions, with the implied criticism of her husband; and of course she had every reason to feel that way. He had no right to interfere or even comment. Their marriage was their business. If she wanted to make a doormat of herself, why should he stop her? Doormats were useful—as he had often found. His mouth twitched with sudden amusement, yet he didn’t change the subject. He could never help trying to improve whatever he found and did not approve of.

‘Does his mother live near by? Couldn’t he have dinner with her?’ he suggested, always looking for the practical solution to a problem. That was what made him so good at his business: he knew how to make things work, machinery, money, people.

‘His mother’s dead,’ Linzi said gravely.

Ritchie sobered, pushing back his thick, dark hair with an impatient hand. ‘Oh. Sorry to hear that. I’ve lost both my parents; I know what a gap that makes. Having a family gives you your own support system, doesn’t it? Well, then, couldn’t he take his father out to dinner?’

‘His father died when Barty was a boy.’ There was that look of sadness about her again. It turned her blue eyes a strange colour, like slate in the rain, thought Ritchie Calhoun, observing the phenomenon closely. She was endlessly fascinating to watch: never the same two minutes running. Lately he had found himself watching her all the time, and he frowned suddenly, the admission taking him by surprise. He had spent years trying to stop his secretaries getting too interested in him; it would be stupid to fall into the same trap himself.

Yet he was still curious enough to ask, ‘When did his mother die?’ He moved away from her slightly, however; settled himself on the edge of her desk, his lean body at ease, the long legs crossed and his foot swinging.

‘Two years ago.’ Linzi was rather perplexed—why was he so interested in Barty’s family? She had got used to Ritchie Calhoun’s offhand manner at work, his drive and sarcasm. She had never seen him in a mood like this.

‘So he has no family now, except you?’ Ritchie thought aloud slowly, his eyes thoughtful. Was that why she had gone on spoiling her husband, to comfort him, make up for the loss of his mother?

‘No,’ she said, her voice low and husky. ‘He has nobody but me.’

There was something touching about the way she said it. She had only been working for him for six months and they had never exchanged any personal confidences before. He didn’t know why he was asking questions about her private life now; indeed, one part of him protested about the wisdom of showing so much interest in her. Yet he kept on watching her, his grey eyes glimmering, brilliant with curiosity. What was she thinking? What did that look in her eyes mean?

There was something faintly childlike about her, with her long, straight silvery hair and those wide, large-pupilled blue eyes, yet he had begun to sense that there were secrets buried behind her open gaze, and his curiosity, once aroused, wasn’t easy to smother. Most of the women he met were so obvious, such simple equations; they didn’t hold his interest longer than it took for him to find out what lay behind their smooth, glossy façdes.

At first sight he had thought Linzi York was even simpler than usual; she was as calm as milk, as ordinary as bread and butter. It had taken him months to find out his mistake, and even now he didn’t really have a clue what she was hiding, only that she was hiding something.

Ritchie Calhoun was determined to get to the bottom of her mystery, however long it took.

‘How long have you been married?’ he lazily enquired, and she gave him a faintly exasperated glance.

‘Four years, ten months.’

It was Ritchie’s turn to be startled. ‘I’d no idea you’d been married that long!’ She didn’t look old enough. ‘I assumed you had just got married when you joined us.’ He remembered their first interview suddenly, with a faint surprise because he saw her differently now.

It had been a cold November morning. She had been wearing a carnation-pink dress and had glowed with warmth in the grey light, yet she had seemed so young. All the same, she had had impressive office skills, good references from her last boss, who had only parted with her because he was moving his firm to another part of the country, and, most important of all, she was married. Ritchie’s previous secretary had fallen in love with him, without any encouragement, and had made his life impossible with jealous scenes and weeping in the office. He had had to fire her; it made him shudder just to remember that scene and he hadn’t wanted it to happen again, so he had only short-listed married applicants for the job.

He had intended to choose a safe, middle-aged woman, but then Linzi York had walked into the office, and for some inexplicable reason he had found himself offering her the job.

He had rationalised his decision, afterwards, by telling himself that she had a gentle manner, which he knew he would find restful in the office after the hassle he got out on the construction sites; also she was both very capable, and very young—a combination which meant that he would have no difficulty moulding her into the sort of secretary he wanted. And, then, the fact that she was married made her safe to have around.

In fact he admitted to himself now that he really had not known what crazy impulse had made him offer her the job. He still didn’t. He was glad he had, though.

All the same, he had encouraged her to keep a distance between them, and he didn’t know why he was trying to bridge the gulf now. He would probably regret it tomorrow, but at this moment he found himself intensely curious about her; he wanted to know what sort of life she led, away from the office, what sort of man she had married, and whether the two of them were happy. In the six months they had worked together they had rarely talked about anything but work; he had no idea about her private life.

‘What exactly does your husband do?’ he asked, and saw her faint bewilderment, the blue gleam of her perfectly shaped eyes as she stared at him, frowning.

Obviously she was surprised by his sudden interest. He would have to be careful she didn’t get any wrong ideas and start being afraid he fancied her. He certainly didn’t want that.

He lowered his lids but watched her though his black lashes. She was lovely. No question about it. Except that he didn’t go for the delicate, faintly ethereal type. All that long, pale hair, the big blue eyes...he preferred his women sophisticated, experienced, exciting. Yet he kept on watching her, listening to the cool sound of her voice. What would she look like if that dreamy, cool look dissolved? What did she look like when she made love? he wondered, then frowned at his own wandering thoughts.

What on earth was wrong with him, thinking like that? She was married, for one thing, and, for another, the last thing he needed was any more disruption in the office! Stop it! he told himself.

‘He’s a computer programmer with an electronics firm,’ she slowly said. ‘Matthews and Cuthlow.’

He knew them and nodded, quite impressed. ‘Excellent firm. Computer programming is a job that demands a lot of patience, very complicated stuff usually—does he like it? Is he good at it? I suppose he must be or he wouldn’t be doing it.’

‘He’s always been clever with machines of any kind.’ Actually, Barty found the job boring. He had preferred being a mechanic with a garage that specialised in customising luxury cars and motorbikes. Barty had loved that job, it had broken his heart to give it up, but two years ago he had crashed on his own motorbike and been badly injured. For a while it had looked as if he might die. Linzi had terrible memories of that time. She had been down to hell and back in a few short days; she preferred to forget all about what happened during that week of her life.

Barty had had devoted nursing and good doctors, and he had pulled through, after months of operations and illness, because his body was fit and young and healthy. But the man who came back to her had not been the Barty she had loved and married.

That man had gone forever; perhaps she was the only one in the world who remembered that Barty, now that his mother was dead. He had been full of fun, light-hearted and loving, as much her friend as her lover because they had known each other all their lives. They’d had a few friends, but none of them had ever been very close; and since the accident they hadn’t seen much of any of them. They had come round, at first, to visit him, but they were mostly other mechanics, and Barty hadn’t wanted to see them, and he’d made that plain.

Barty could no longer stand the strain of hard physical work; it was out of the question for him to go back to his job at the garage, but an old family friend was a top executive in an electronics firm, and had suggested he take up a job as a computer programmer.

Computers had been his hobby for years; Barty had only needed to do a specialist course at a technical college for a year to bring his skills up to the right standard, and the pay was certainly very good. But the programming he was doing was often tedious, and he still suffered from headaches and eye-strain, one of the lasting effects of his accident. Barty would so much rather be doing his old job.

‘What are you thinking?’ Ritchie Calhoun abruptly broke into her thoughts and Linzi started visibly, gave him one of her wide-eyed looks.

‘Oh, just that...I’d better ring my husband right away and warn him I’ll be late home. What time do you think I’ll get away?’

‘No idea,’ Ritchie said curtly, turning away with a frown, as if tiring of their conversation. He walked to the door and left without a backward glance, and Linzi watched the back of his dark head with a wry smile.

He was back to normal, was he? She wondered why he had suddenly become so curious, asked all those personal questions. It wasn’t at all like him, but Linzi wasn’t really interested in Ritchie Calhoun. As the door shut behind him she picked up the phone to ring her husband. Her lips were dry, she moistened them with her tongue-tip, swallowing. Please don’t be furious, Barty! she thought as she dialled.

He was, though. ‘Tell him no!’ he snarled at the other end of the line after she had broken the news to him in a soft, placating voice.

‘I can’t very well—’ she began, and Barty interrupted angrily.

‘Oh, yes, you can! Tell him you can’t work late. You’ve been at that office since nine o’clock this morning, for heaven’s sake! Nobody should have to work longer than an eight-hour day! You stop working at five-thirty!’

‘But, Barty—’

He overrode her, his voice loud and aggressive. ‘At five-thirty you just get up and walk out, Linzi! Do you hear me? He can’t make you stay. Just tell him you’re sorry, but you have to get home to cook your husband’s dinner. Tell him to ring me if he wants an argument, and I’ll tell him what he can do with his job.’

‘I can’t do that, Barty,’ she said, pleading with him. ‘You know I agreed to work flexible hours—’

‘You didn’t agree to be a slave!’ Barty’s voice hardened. ‘Or did you?’

She tried to talk him out of his mounting temper. ‘You know, I don’t work that hard, in actual hours. If you average out the time I have off, during the week, and the overtime I work, it comes out more or less right, and the money is good. If I want to keep this job I have to accept odd working hours to fit in with Ritchie—’

‘Ritchie now, is it?’ Barty’s voice snapped like a whip and she tensed, turning paler. This was what she had been afraid of, had been hoping to avoid, arousing his irrational jealousy. ‘How long have you been on first-name terms with him?’

‘I’m not,’ she anxiously denied. ‘I was going to use his surname as usual, but you interrupted!’

‘Don’t try and wriggle out of it! I knew there was something going on, all these late nights, the lame excuses about flexi time and having to fit in with his working hours, not to mention the way you suddenly started earning twice as much as you ever have before—oh, it’s obvious what you’ve been up to, you little—’

‘Barty!’ she broke out, shaking and holding the phone so tightly that her knuckles showed white. ‘Don’t!’

His voice sank into bitterness. ‘The truth hurts, doesn’t it, Lin? I suppose you think you’re justified! I can’t give you what you need so you feel entitled to get it somewhere else!’

‘No,’ she whispered, the tears falling down her face. ‘That isn’t true, Barty, how can you say these things to me? You know I love you, I’ve always loved you, I haven’t changed.’

‘But I have!’ he snarled. ‘Is that what you’re saying? It’s all my fault for having that crash and not dying afterwards.’

‘No, darling! Don’t, please, don’t. I hate it when you talk like that.’

‘You’ve never liked facing facts, Lin,’ he said in a low, harsh voice that was even worse than the angry snarling he had been doing. ‘The truth is I shouldn’t have gone on living. The way I am, I’ve no right to life. I’m just a useless piece of machinery that doesn’t work any more, I belong on the scrap heap.’

She put a hand over her mouth to stifle the sob wrenched out of her, and desperately tried to think of something to say. If only she was there, with him, she could fling her arms round him and hold on, as she had so many times before, when he suffered like this; she wasn’t always able to think of anything to say that he wouldn’t shoot down in flames a second later, it was hard to say anything that he hadn’t heard before and couldn’t dismiss with derisive scorn, but she could always reach him by holding him, convincing him wordlessly that she loved him.

Bleakly, Barty went on, ‘At least if I’d died in that crash I could have been recycled—the bits of me that did work could have saved someone else’s life! I could have been some use to somebody. My kidneys were fine, my heart works OK, and I have pretty good eyesight, even if my liver isn’t up to much any more—’

Her voice trembled as she hurriedly broke in, ‘Barty, you know that’s not true, you aren’t useless, and I’d have wanted to die, too, if you’d died!’

He was silent then for a long moment, and she waited, hardly daring to breathe, praying that she had reached him, calmed him, got to that part buried deep inside him which was still the Barty she had loved all her life.

They had grown up in the same street; he had been literally the boy next door, just a couple of years older than her, and her hero from the minute she could toddle after him calling his name, begging him to wait for her. He had waited, she had caught up with him, they had married very young, and had had such a short time of happiness before tragedy hit them.

Sometimes she thought they had been far too young when they got married, but then if they had waited they might never have married at all. She realised now that Barty wouldn’t have married her after his accident. As it was he had urged her to leave him, to divorce him, but she had refused.

‘I love you, Barty,’ she whispered into the silence, and heard him sigh.

‘It would have been better for you, kid, if I had died, though,’ he said flatly, and she let out a shaky sigh of her own, careful not to let him hear it.

‘No, darling, it wouldn’t, it wouldn’t—I need you,’ she said quickly, and he almost laughed, the sound a low grunt, bitterly humorous.

‘God knows what for!’ Then his voice changed, was offhand but softer. ‘But thanks, honey. You know I need you. Always have, always will. I got the best of the bargain when we made our wedding vows. I’m afraid you didn’t have the same luck. I’m sorry I blew my top, I never mean to, the black dog just bites and...’

‘I know,’ she said gently. ‘I know, Barty. It doesn’t matter.’

‘It damned well does,’ he said in another brief spurt of rage. ‘I hate myself for what I put you through. Look, I’ll work late myself, and eat sandwiches at my bench.’

‘Don’t give yourself a headache. You know it isn’t good for you to spend too long in front of your VDU.’

‘Yes, Mummy, and the same to you,’ he said, trying to be funny. ‘And don’t let that bastard Calhoun keep you slaving in front of a hot computer all evening. See you when you do get home. I’ll be waiting up with some hot cocoa.’

She blew him a kiss, her mouth tremulous. ‘Love you.’

‘I don’t deserve you, but I do love you,’ he said, his voice raw with feeling, then he hung up.

Linzi put the phone down and put her head down on her desk, shaking. That had been a bad moment. For a minute she had thought she wasn’t going to be able to stop him going over the edge.

She would have given notice and left this job if she had thought it would make any difference, but by the time she started to work here she’d already known the score. Barty was seeing various specialists, who had all told Linzi the same thing—nothing she did was really triggering Barty’s abnormal reactions. It wouldn’t help if she stopped working here, except for a day or two. Then he would find something else to blame her for. His dangerous swings of mood were all the result of what had happened to him during the accident, and afterwards. No matter how she tried to please and placate him those mood swings would occur, and during the bad times he would blame her and resent her.

The most she could do to help him was be patient, deal with each moment as it hit her, and if Barty did become violent try to persuade him to take the medication his doctors provided, before he lost control altogether.

So far she had always been able to do that. She hoped to God they never reached that stage. His doctors didn’t seem too sure whether he would improve or deteriorate. Sometimes Linzi felt so tired that she no longer cared, but she had to care. Barty needed her to care. Once he had been the strong one, taking care of her. Now it was her turn to take care of Barty.

She lifted her head and sniffed, fumbled for a tissue from the box she kept in one of the desk drawers, wiped her face, her wet eyes, blew her nose.

The door leading into Ritchie Calhoun’s office opened suddenly, and he strode in, stopping dead as he saw her face before she could avert it and hide the tearstains.

He frowned across the room at her. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, I’m fine. I think I’m starting a cold!’ she evaded, tossing the used tissue into her waste-paper basket.

He stood there watching her, unconvinced; his black brows drawn together over those piercing grey eyes of his which saw too clearly.

‘What did your husband say when you told him you were working late?’ he asked, his tone making it obvious that he had put two and two together very accurately and didn’t like the answer. She wished he would mind his own business—he always had, until now. He had never asked so many questions before. Why was he doing it now?

‘He’s going to get himself a sandwich.’

His mouth twisted. ‘Sure he can manage that?’

‘Don’t be sarcastic!’

He gave her a surprised look and Linzi looked back, bristling, yet surprised by herself. She couldn’t remember ever snapping at him before.

Drily Ritchie Calhoun said, ‘My mother brought me up to take care of myself, and anyone else who happens to come along! She used to say to me that one day my wife would thank her, but as it turned out I never got around to matrimony before she died, so she never got her thank-you. But I suppose that’s why men who expect their wives to wait on them hand and foot annoy me.’

‘Was your mother anything like you?’ Linzi asked curiously, and he gave her a sudden blindingly vivid smile, which astonished her. This really was a day for firsts! He had never given her a smile like that, any more than he had ever asked so many questions about her private life before.

‘I’d like to be able to say yes,’ he murmured with wry amusement. ‘But to be honest I don’t think so. I gather I take after my father’s side of the family. My mother was a small woman, with very straight, fine fair hair and...’ His voice breaking off, he stared at Linzi fixedly for a moment while she stared back, her blue eyes wide in puzzlement.

‘Yes?’ she prompted.

‘She looked something like you,’ Ritchie said slowly. ‘It didn’t dawn on me until just now, but it’s true. She had your build and colouring.’

Maybe that was why had had decided on impulse to pick Linzi for his secretary although his common sense had told him that she was too young and too attractive? he thought. She had fitted some subterranean blueprint in his mind.

Linzi was startled. ‘Really?’ Rather flattered, she smiled, her small face lighting up, and Ritchie blinked.

‘When you smile you look quite different,’ he said and she looked up at him, her blue eyes wide open.

He smiled down at her, the hardness of his features softening into charm, and she said slowly, ‘So do you.’ And then an icy shiver ran down her back.

Ritchie immediately picked up on her abrupt change of mood. ‘What is it now?’ he asked with a touch of his usual impatience.

‘Nothing,’ she said huskily. ‘Just a ghost walking over my grave.’

CHAPTER TWO

AS THE next weeks passed and summer deepened into richness, the gardens full of roses, lavender and the hum of bees, trees in full, green leaf, Linzi’s sense of uneasiness deepened, too.

Since the afternoon when Ritchie Calhoun seemed to become curious about her and asked all those questions, their relationship had changed in an indefinable way. He began calling her Linzi, instead of Mrs York, and told her offhandedly, ‘You might as well call me Ritchie, by the way.’

That had shaken her. When she first began working for him he’d taken care to let her know that he liked a formal boss-secretary relationship, and that had suited her, as well. It still did.

Working every day with a man was an intimate business; you spent hours together, often alone; you couldn’t help getting to know each other well, and there were obvious risks in that, especially if your marriage was unstable and you were lonely or unhappy. She had been relieved that Ritchie Calhoun was so distant.

It seemed to her unwise to drop that formality, but she didn’t quite like to argue over it. That might make it seem too important. So she let him call her Linzi, but when she spoke to him she usually still called him Mr Calhoun, pretending not to notice the dry look he gave her every time she did so.

He was very busy with a project on which he’d been working for weeks. A new road was to be built to bypass a small town half an hour’s drive from Leeds. There were other construction companies competing for the contract but Ritchie felt sure he had the edge on them because it was the sort of job his firm had often handled in the past and he already had a lot of the machinery required, and a very good workforce, so he could keep his estimate low without taking the risk of cutting dangerous corners on the price of materials. If his firm was awarded the contract it would fit in very usefully with other work they had to complete during that period. It would mean, in fact, that he wouldn’t have to lay off any of the casual workers he hired for specific jobs, and Ritchie Calhoun was the sort of employer who liked to be able to offer his employees job stability.

He might be a tough boss who insisted things were done his way, but he was popular with his men. He got his hands dirty, too; he thought nothing of working side by side with them, drinking in the pub with them, and knew all their first names. He could do any job on site and had forgotten more about building than most of them had yet learned. They thought he was a great guy and would work themselves to a standstill for him.

Linzi had learnt to respect, him, too, which was another reason why she didn’t want to change jobs, if she could help it.

July was very hot; nobody wanted to work much, everyone wore as little as possible, and had deep tans; dogs lay about, panting; beaches were crammed with people. Linzi had to work, though. She managed to get time off to go swimming in the local pool some days, but she had to work late every evening for a week, and Barty bitterly resented it.

On the Friday evening Ritchie finally finished the long presentation he had been dictating to her for hours, which she keyed in to the computer while he walked about behind her talking. He came to a halt behind her, massaging the back of his neck.

‘God, I’m tired! That’s it, Linzi. You might as well get off home. You can print that out on Monday morning.’ Then he looked at the clock. ‘Is it that late? And you haven’t had a bite to eat since lunchtime? Why didn’t you say something? We could have had sandwiches brought in.’

‘Never mind, I’ll cook myself something when I get home.’ She had been sitting in one position for so long that when she got up cramp knotted her leg muscles and she staggered slightly.

‘Are you OK?’ Ritchie put an arm round her and for a second she leaned on him and was suddenly aware of his strength: it was like leaning on a rock. She felt intolerably weary at that instant; she wanted to put all her weight on him, cling, like ivy. She hadn’t been able to lean on anyone else for so long. She had had to be the strong one in her marriage ever since Barty’s accident. Oh, she’d told herself she didn’t need to lean; she could stand alone, could cope with whatever life threw at her, and no doubt she had this strange yearning only because she was exhausted and at the end of her tether.

It didn’t mean any more than that, yet she was stricken, shamed by her fleeting weakness. Face burning, she stumbled away from him.

‘Sorry...I’m fine,’ she lied and was conscious of his sardonic, watchful gaze.

‘You don’t look it. You’re as white as a ghost. I’ve never seen you look so frail. I could kick myself for working you so hard, it was damned thoughtless of me. I’m sorry, Linzi—why don’t we go somewhere and have dinner, a bottle of wine to put some colour back in your face?’

‘No!’ she broke out wildly, and saw his brows rise at her tone. She bit her lip. ‘I...thanks, but I must get home.’

‘What are you scared of, Linzi?’ he drily asked. ‘That I’ll make a pass at you? I won’t, I assure you. I don’t make passes at married women. That isn’t my style. You’ll be quite safe with me.’

She couldn’t even meet his eyes. ‘No, of course not, that isn’t...I just have to get home,’ she stammered. ‘My husband will be worried about me.’

He didn’t argue any more; just followed her out to the car park and watched her climb into her red Ford Sierra.

‘I’ll be working out of the office on Monday morning, don’t forget,’ he told her before she drove away, and she nodded. ‘Have a restful weekend,’ he added.

When she got home Barty was out. He didn’t get back until midnight and by then Linzi was asleep. She had tried to stay awake but her body was too weary. She woke up when Barty fell over something in the sitting-room of their small flat. The crash, followed by swearing, shocked her awake; she sat up just as the bedroom door opened and the light blazed on, blinding her.

‘Oh, there you are, you little tramp!’ Barty muttered thickly, glaring at her across the room. She could see at once that he had been drinking heavily; he was unsteady on his feet, his face flushed and blurred with drink, his eyes bloodshot.

Alarm leapt up inside her; she tensed, very pale. When he was this drunk he sometimes became violent and started hitting her. Next day he was always horrified, would cry and beg her to forgive him, and she always did.

You couldn’t stop loving someone because they were going through a very bad period, and she had loved Barty for as long as she could remember. They had both been through so much together; the bonds of pain bound them as strongly as the bonds of passionate love had done long ago.

‘I’m sorry I was late again, Barty,’ she said quietly, hoping to placate him. ‘But it won’t be so bad next week because we won’t be quite so busy. We’ve been preparing a presentation for this new contract...’

His lip curled as he stared at her. ‘Don’t give me that! I know what you’ve been doing with him. I thought this time you were staying with him all night—that’s the next step, isn’t it? You’ll want to spend all night with him, lovers always do. Or has he got a wife who might object?’

Linzi was too tired to cry. Wearily she said, ‘Don’t start that again, Barty. How many times do I have to tell you there’s nothing personal between me and Ritchie Calhoun?’

Barty lurched towards her. ‘Liar!’

‘Stop it, Barty!’

He leaned over her, swaying on his feet. His brown hair was dishevelled, he had lost his tie, and his shirt was open. He still looked so young, she thought, watching him unhappily—there was a lot of the boy left in him. He was too thin, painfully thin, although there was a puffiness around the jaw and eyes that came from drinking, his skin was always sallow and his hazel-brown eyes had heavy shadows under them, but she could still trace the old Barty there.

‘I’m not putting up with it any more!’ he snarled at her. ‘You’re giving him notice on Monday. Do you hear? You’re leaving that job, or leaving me—take your pick!’

Warily she said, ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning.’

‘We’ll talk about it now!’

Linzi could see there was no arguing with him in this state, so she slid out of the bed and picked up her robe from the nearby chair.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Barty demanded.

‘To sleep on the couch,’ she said, suddenly angry.

‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ Barty took hold of her by her long, silky hair, and shook her, making tears start into her eyes.

‘Barty, you’re hurting me!’ she cried out, and he suddenly threw her away from him. She fell heavily across the bed. The edge of the headboard hit her cheekbone and she gave a cry of pain, stumbling up, a hand to her face.

‘Why don’t you just admit it?’ Barty shouted. ‘He’s your lover, isn’t he? Isn’t he?’

‘No, Barty!’ she moaned, her voice rising higher. ‘No, no, no!’

‘Yes,’ he screamed, and hit her hard. She was too shocked to cry. She stumbled backwards again, fell on to the bed, and before she could scramble up again Barty threw himself on top of her, wrenching his clothes off while he held her down with the weight of his body.

‘You’re my wife!’ he muttered hoarsely. He hadn’t tried to make love to her for many months; there had been a time when he’d kept trying, growing more and more humiliated, more and more frustrated. Linzi had tried desperately too, knowing that, physically, it was possible. His doctors had told her that firmly. He would never now be able to father a child, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make love. The blockage was in his mind—not in his body. She didn’t know if they were right or not; but in the end Barty had given up trying. His ego couldn’t take the constant failures.

But now his desire was spurred by jealousy and rage; Linzi shuddered with misery as he tried again, his face set, flushed, more with hatred and a drive to impose his possession of her, she felt, than passion. She felt no desire for him; she hadn’t for a long time, and although she didn’t resist him she couldn’t hide her lack of a response. All she felt for Barty now was a weary compassion and a tenderness which was mostly old affection and kindness.

If Barty wanted her body, she would let him have it, for old times’ sake, because she was his wife and he had been her best friend all her life. But it was useless, he couldn’t do it. Angrily, more and more desperately, he tried—then he slackened and lay still, trembling like a beaten animal on top of her, before rolling off and lying on his face, his body racked by dry sobs.

Linzi put her arms around him and tried to comfort him, wordlessly murmuring, but he pushed her away.

‘Leave me alone! It’s all your fault. How can I make love to a woman who doesn’t want me? Do you think I don’t know you don’t? Do you think I can’t feel you shrinking away from me? You despise me because I can’t give you a baby, I’m not a real man...’

‘No, Barty, no, darling,’ she assured him, stroking his hair, and pulled him back towards her, holding him tightly, cuddling him against her like a frightened child. ‘I love you, I’ve never despised you, and it doesn’t matter about babies, we can always adopt one. Why don’t we do that? We’re young, we should be able to adopt...’

There was a touch of hope in her voice: if they could have a child maybe this would finally end, this nightmare in which they had been lost for two years? They would be a real family again, love would come back, and Barty would be his old self.

But he lifted his head and glowered at her. ‘I don’t want someone else’s baby! I want my own! The one we were going to have when—’

‘Don’t!’ she cried out in agony, as if he had knifed her to the heart. ‘Don’t talk about that.’

She never had, since the day Barty crashed and the news made his mother collapse with a heart attack and die a day later, just hours before Linzi lost the baby she had been carrying. They had all been in the same hospital that week—Barty in a coma, knowing nothing of what was happening to the two women he loved; his mother dying in the heart ward with Linzi at her bedside when she did so, and later that very day Linzi herself going into premature labour and losing her baby. Linzi had discovered how it felt to be in hell that week.

‘You see?’ Barty said bitterly. ‘You can’t even talk about it! That’s why you don’t love me any more. Your great dream was to have children, a family of your own—do you think I don’t remember how happy you were when you discovered you were going to have our baby? It was all going to come true for us, wasn’t it? And then I crashed and Mum died and you lost the baby, and ever since then you’ve hated me.’

‘I’ve never hated you, Barty, I couldn’t do that, I love you, this is all in your own mind...and Ritchie Calhoun, too, none of that is true, there’s nothing between me and him.’

‘Then why won’t you give that job up?’ he muttered, and Linzi gave a long, weary sigh.

‘Yes. We can’t go on like this, Barty—I see that. I’ll resign on Monday, and get another job.’ She didn’t want to do it, but tonight had been the worst so far. She knew she couldn’t bear much more. She was only human and she was being pushed to her limit. Barty’s outbursts were growing more violent; she would have to talk to his specialist. It was very worrying.

Barty subsided. ‘Right...right...you do that,’ he said, and fell asleep shortly afterwards, suddenly, leaving Linzi beside him, wide awake and dark-eyed. She didn’t get back to sleep for hours.

When she woke up, it was broad daylight and she was alone in the bed. For a second she couldn’t remember what had happened the night before. She looked at the clock in alarm—had she overslept? Was she going to be late for work? It was nearly ten o’clock and she jumped up, only to realise it was Saturday and she didn’t have to work.

She heard noises in the kitchen, and began to remember last night, her colour draining away, her eyes darkening. She was going to have to leave her job. She had promised Barty, and she would have to keep her word.

Ritchie wasn’t going to be pleased; it wasn’t going to be easy telling him. Well, once she had she would never see him again, so what did it matter what he thought? But it did. Her lip trembled and she put a hand to her mouth. She didn’t want to go. She would miss him...

Stop that! she angrily told herself. You have no right to miss him—you’re Barty’s wife and he needs you. Forget Ritchie Calhoun, he’s no concern of yours. If you are starting to have feelings about him it’s just as well you’re giving up the job.

A moment later Barty came in, wearing a black and red towelling robe under which he was naked, carrying a tray of tea and toast.

She sat up, pushing back her dishevelled silvery hair, and Barty halted, staring at her. His face stiffened, went white, his eyes ringed with puffy shadow.

‘Oh, Linzi, what have I done to you?’ he whispered. ‘Your poor little face...’

She looked at him uncertainly, not quite sure how his mood would swing.

He carried the tea and toast over to the bedside table, put the tray down and sat beside her, dropping his head into his hands. ‘I didn’t even remember this morning. Can you believe that? I didn’t even remember doing anything to you.’

She could believe it. It wasn’t the first time he had blotted out the events of the night before.

He slowly lifted his head. ‘I am sorry, Linzi, bitterly sorry...I’ll try, I’ll really try, not to let anything like this happen again.’ His hazel eyes seemed so sincere; dark with regret and sadness.

She nodded, her mouth quivering.

Leaning over, he kissed her bruised cheekbone lingeringly. ‘I won’t ask you to forgive me, I know I don’t deserve it...but just say you know I never meant to hurt you like that? You know I love you, don’t you, Linzi?’ There was despair in his eyes. ‘You won’t leave me, will you?’

You didn’t walk out on someone you had loved just because fate had played a dirty trick on them. It wasn’t Barty’s fault that he was no longer the man she had married; he hadn’t asked to be crippled like this, to suffer these black moods, burst out in violent rage without warning. She knew he loved her.

‘I won’t go,’ she promised.

‘I’ll never drink like that again, never,’ he said, and she wished she could believe him. Oh, he meant it, right now, at this minute—he had meant it many times before when he made this same promise, although never before had he been so violent.

At least he was sober enough to listen now, so she repeated, ‘Barty, there is nothing going on between me and Ritchie Calhoun, I swear that to you—but, all the same, I will give notice on Monday.’

‘No, don’t,’ he said, and she looked at him in disbelief, her eyes wide. ‘I believe you, Linzi, of course there’s nothing going on between you and your boss. It’s just my crazy jealousy, but I’m going to be different from now on. I won’t ever let that happen again.’

When she saw herself in the mirror in the bathroom later she was shocked. Her face was badly bruised, along the cheekbone, above the eye, around the mouth—she looked terrible. Last night, she hadn’t realised just how badly Barty had beaten her. No wonder he had looked shaken when he came in with the tea and toast.

Maybe it would finally snap him out of this dangerous cycle of mood swings? Linzi closed her eyes and prayed. Oh, please, let him stop drinking, let him be the Barty I knew and loved and married. Take away this dangerous stranger, who sometimes seems to hate me; and give me back my love.

When she went into work the following Monday everyone stared. ‘Linzi, your face! What on earth happened?’

She had a story ready. ‘I tripped coming downstairs, I was lucky not to break any bones.’

She sounded so casual, laughing, that they all seemed to believe her. Ritchie Calhoun wasn’t there, he was working out of the office that morning, but he walked in later, just before she was due to leave for home.

She had forgotten her bruises and looked up in surprise as her office door opened and he appeared.

He was smiling, but the smile died as he saw her face. ‘Good God!’ he broke out, his brows dragging together.

She remembered then, and put a defensive hand up to her cheek, bit her lip. ‘Oh...I...’ For a second she couldn’t remember the lie she had invented for everyone else who had asked. Stammering, she finally managed to say, ‘I fell downstairs. It isn’t as bad as it looks.’

Ritchie strode over to her desk and she flinched as if he might hit her, and saw the flash of his grey eyes as he observed the betraying little movement.

‘Well, it looks terrible!’ he said and pushed her hand down, touching her cheek with his own hand.

She began to tremble, her body pulsating fiercely. His skin was cool against her hot face; he gently touched the bruise and seemed to draw the pain out of it, then his fingertips slid down her cheek to explore her bruised and swollen mouth.

She drew a long, deep, shaky breath. He touched her so lightly, like the brush of a moth in the night; her skin tingled afterwards. It was hard to believe that so tough a man could be so gentle.

‘Have you seen a doctor?’ Ritchie brusquely demanded, as if accusing her of something, and she was snapped out of her trance-like mood.

‘No, of course not, it isn’t that serious.’

‘I think it is,’ he snapped.

‘It happened two days ago! If I had anything seriously wrong with me I’d have noticed by now!’

‘Two days ago?’ he repeated. ‘On Friday night?’

‘Yes,’ she said, wishing he wouldn’t stare. It was like being under a searchlight; there was nowhere for her to hide, no way of disguising from him what she was feeling.

‘When you got home, after we worked late?’

The question hit her like a bolt from the blue and she went white then red as she realised he had guessed what had really happened.

She invented rapidly, feverishly. ‘On the way home,’ she said. ‘As I got out of the car. I tripped and hit my head on a wall.’

Drily he reminded her, ‘You said you fell over coming downstairs—which was it?’

‘What is this? An interrogation?’ she threw back at him resentfully.

He sat down on the edge of her desk and watched her closely. ‘Isn’t it time you talked about it, Linzi? What’s going on? And don’t insult my intelligence by telling me nothing is...we both know that isn’t true. You aren’t happy, something is very wrong with your marriage, and now you start coming in to work with bruises on your face? It would help to talk about it, you know.’

‘No, it wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t help at all. Please drop the subject, Mr Calhoun. My private life is none of your business.’

‘Maybe I’m making it my business!’ he retorted, his face grim.

‘In that case I’ll have to resign,’ she said in a quiet, cool tone.

The grey eyes flashed; for a second she was afraid he wasn’t going to accept the warning, but then he got up and walked away without another word.

That evening, when she got home, Barty told her that his firm were sending him on a training course to Manchester for a week, and the stimulation of a break in his routine was good for him. He was more cheerful for the rest of the week. He left on Sunday night and Linzi slept well for the first time in months.

The next few days were the most peaceful Linzi had had since the accident. She felt oddly younger, lighter, a sense of freedom in everything she did while she didn’t have to look over her shoulder all the time in case Barty should suddenly turn nasty. It helped that Ritchie was out of the office, too, that week, working on the site of his latest project.

On the Thursday, however, a very hot day in late July, she answered the phone to hear Ritchie’s voice, ‘Linzi, would you check my office and see if I’ve left my black briefcase there? I’ll hang on, but hurry.’

She laid the phone down and hurried into his adjoining office. She knew the briefcase he meant; he carried it everywhere when he was touring his sites or having a business meeting out of the office. It wasn’t on his desk or on the floor, she she checked the wall cupboard where he kept his large maps, site plans, tripods and cameras, and other construction impedimenta, and that was where she found the briefcase, open as if he had been filling it with maps and forgotten to take it with him.

She ran back to the phone with it and told Ritchie, who groaned. ‘Damnation take it! Well, I have to have it, and it would take up too much time for me to come back—you’ll have to bring it to me. You have your own car, don’t you, Linzi?’

‘Yes, but what about the office?’

‘Get Petal in to man the phones while you’re gone, then drive out here, with the briefcase. I’m at the Green Man roundabout, that’s Junction 43 off the motorway—take the Hillheath road; that brings you straight here. I’m here with Ted; he’s going to fly me over the course of the new road in the afternoon, in the helicopter, but I must have those air maps here or Ted and I will just be wasting our time. You can get here by one if you leave straight away.’

He hung up and she did, too, sighing. She had a pile of work to do and she knew Petal wouldn’t be up to coping with any of it.

She turned off her computer and put the confidential documents into a filing cabinet, which she locked, then, picking up the briefcase, she went into an office across the hallway where personnel matters were handled. There was a staff of three, but this morning only one of them was visible; the others were no doubt visiting other offices.

Petal was the one left; she was making coffee while she printed out a sheaf of letters to construction staff on some union matter. Petal ran the personnel office daily routine. She was a large woman in her forties; a brunette who wore too much rouge and had a passion for pink frilly blouses. Her real name was Rose, but she thought it was old-fashioned, and, since her husband, a Yorkshireman with a droll sense of humour, always called her Petal, everyone else did too. ‘Hi, Linzi—want a cup of coffee?’ she cheerfully asked when Linzi came into the room. ‘I’ve got your favourite chocolate biscuits today.’

‘I haven’t got time,’ Linzi regretfully said, and explained that Petal was going to be left in charge of the phones in Ritchie Calhoun’s office.

‘Oh, glory!’ Petal looked aghast. She was helpful and willing, but not exactly quick-witted, and Ritchie Calhoun made her nervous. He expected too much. ‘Must I? I’m bound to get into a muddle, and then he’ll tear me limb from limb,’ she wailed. ‘Couldn’t someone else take over?’

‘Sorry, Petal,’ Linzi said, shaking her head. There were younger girls working in other offices, but Ritchie Calhoun had specified Petal, so that was that.

‘When will you be back?’

‘I’ve no idea, at least a couple of hours, I expect. Just take messages and say I’ll ring back anyone who needs an urgent response.’

Ten minutes later she was heading towards the motorway, Ritchie’s briefcase locked safely in the boot of her car. She was glad to be out of the office: it was such a hot day that it was hard to work indoors. She drove with her window wide open and a cooling breeze blowing her silvery hair around her sunflushed face.

There was quite a bit of traffic, so it took her longer to reach the Green Man roundabout than she had expected.

She only drew into the car park of the public house at ten past one and there was no sign of Ritchie, although she spotted his red Jaguar parked near by. He was presumably in the restaurant, at the back of the building, eating his lunch with Ted, the pilot of the company helicopter.

Linzi found the cloakroom first, looked at herself ruefully in the mirror, and set about making herself look more presentable. She was wearing a neat white shirt and straight navy skirt, her usual office uniform.

So she added a smart red blazer with small gold buttons, which she had only bought the day before but which immediately gave a touch of class to the very ordinary skirt and top. Then she ran a comb through her windblown hair, powdered her nose, put on tiny gold earrings which matched the buttons in her blazer, and clipped a gold chain round her throat.

Two minutes later she paused in the doorway of the restaurant, looking around the room. She spotted Ritchie immediately, seated facing her, at a discreet table in an alcove. He saw her, at the same time, and lifted an imperative hand, beckoning her.

She walked over to join the two men, very conscious of Ritchie Calhoun’s hard grey eyes watching her all the way. He was wearing his site working gear—hard-wearing blue jeans, an open-necked plaid shirt, strong boots. He looked even tougher dressed like that: more obviously a powerful man—with a lot of muscle and very fit—than he ever looked in a suit with a shirt and tie. He could have been any one of his workers, until you looked into his eyes and saw the cold glint of intelligence there, the habit of authority, the look of a man who knew that when he gave an order other men jumped to obey it.

Linzi felt a shudder ripple through her from head to foot. He was a very disturbing man. She wished she weren’t so aware of him, but he radiated a powerful male sexuality that was hard to ignore. Hard for her, anyway. Her mouth had gone dry and there was a terrifying heat inside her.

Ted Hobson gave her a broad grin. ‘Hello, Linzi, love.’ He was a small, wiry man in his thirties, with deft hands, shrewd eyes and thick brown hair.

She had met him in the office several times; he flew Ritchie backwards and forwards, from site to site, if they were too far apart for a car journey to be practicable. She managed a shy smile.

‘Hello, Ted. How’s Megan?’

His eyes lit up. ‘Fine, thanks; the new baby’s due any day now and we’re hoping it will be a girl. Megan won’t let the hospital tell her whether it is or not—she’d rather wait and find out the usual way. I think she’s afraid to let them tell her, in case it’s not a girl.’

‘But Megan will love it whatever it is!’ smiled Linzi, and Ted grinned, nodding.

‘Oh, aye. Once it’s here she’ll be happy whatever it is. My Megan is crazy about babies.’

Megan and Ted had invited Linzi and Barty to a party soon after Linzi began working for the company. It had been fun until Barty had had one drink too many, and turned obstreperous when Linzi tried to persuade him to go home with her. He snarled, pushed her roughly away, and she had been very embarrassed, in front of a room full of people from work. Megan had been wonderful. A large, tranquil woman with glossy brown hair and a warm smile, she had appeared beside them, put an arm around Barty and coaxed, ‘Will you dance with me, Barty?’

He had blinked at her owlishly and stuttered, ‘Sure, Meg...Meg...an! I’d love to d...dance with you.’

She had whirled him round the room, aiming for the door, and Barty had clung on to her, his head only too obviously going round too. Linzi had followed, avoiding the amused or sympathetic glances she was getting from other guests. Outside in the hall Barty was sitting on the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall, his eyes glazed.

‘Here’s Linzi to take you home,’ Megan said softly. ‘Up we come, there’s a good boy.’

Together they had got him to his feet and steered him out of the house and into the car.

‘Can you manage at the other end? Would you like me to come home with you?’ Megan had asked her, and Linzi had shaken her head, very flushed.

‘No, I’ll manage, but thanks, he doesn’t usually drink so much...’

The lie had stuck in her throat and she had repeated huskily, ‘But thanks, Megan, and I’m sorry we spoiled your party.’

‘You didn’t, don’t be silly. These things happen at parties—we understand, forget the whole thing. Now, you drive carefully.’ She had looked into the car and laughed. ‘Look, he’s sleeping like a baby. By the time you get home he’ll be himself again.’

Ever since that night, Linzi had thought of Megan as a friend, and they had met for lunch several times when Ted was flying Ritchie Calhoun to some far-flung corner of Britain.

Megan and Ted had three sons, all at school now. The baby she was expecting would, she said, be her last child and if she didn’t want a little girl so badly she wouldn’t have wanted another child at all, not that she didn’t love her boys.

She was a warm and loving mother and she and Ted were clearly very happy together. Linzi envied Megan; the older woman had everything she wanted and would probably never have now.

Ritchie took the briefcase from her and gestured to a third chair placed at the table. ‘Sit down and have some lunch. We haven’t ordered yet.’

She hesitated. ‘Shouldn’t I get back to the office?’

‘Sit down and don’t argue!’

Ted winked at her. Linzi sat down and picked up the menu just as the waiter came over to the table. The men immediately began ordering their lunch; they both wanted melon followed by steak. Linzi ordered melon too, and a prawn and cottage cheese salad.

‘No wine for me,’ Ritchie said, shaking his head at the wine-list he was offered. ‘What would you like to drink, Linzi?’

She asked for a fizzy mineral water and the waiter left. Ted grinned at her.

‘I have to watch what I drink when I’m flying, especially on a day as hot as this! Aren’t you hot in that jacket, Linzi, love?’

‘No, I’m fine...’

‘Yes, take it off,’ Ritchie said in his curt, determined way, and he got up and came behind her. ‘All this hair!’ he added wryly. ‘Doesn’t it get in the way?’ and he pushed it aside.

Heat rushed up Linzi’s face as she felt his fingertips brush the nape of her neck. Her breathing seemed to stop. She began to shake. It was all over in a flash; he removed her jacket in one deft movement and hung it neatly over the back of her chair, then he went back to his own chair and sat down again. Their eyes met across the table. He was as flushed as she was and his eyes looked dark, smouldering like coals.

‘Doesn’t that feel better?’ asked Ted, seeming oblivious to the atmosphere between them.

Linzi nodded, her pulses drumming. The waiter arrived with her drink and the melon they had all ordered. It was very prettily arranged, thinly sliced, in a fan, with raspberries scattered around it, one slice of star fruit at the upper edge.

‘Isn’t that pretty?’ Linzi said huskily.

‘I don’t like my food pretty,’ Ted complained. ‘It makes me wonder if I’m supposed to eat it or frame it and hang it on the wall!’

Linzi pretended to laugh. She lowered her eyes to her plate, took a raspberry to pop into her mouth and under cover of eating it gave Ritchie a nervous, secret, sideways, look through her lashes. Had he noticed what just happened to her? She’d want to die if he had; oh, God, how humiliating. And she couldn’t even explain, she couldn’t tell him that it didn’t mean anything, it wasn’t personal, any man might have got the same reaction, that drumming pulse, the drowning sensuality which came from long-frustrated need. The heat grew in her face. Well, not any man! she hastily contradicted. It had never happened with any man before, after all; this was the first time in years she had felt that flashpoint of desire.

Why should it have come just now while Ritchie Calhoun was touching her? She didn’t even like him! He disturbed her, made her jumpy.

He had felt something, too—she was sure of that. Her intuition had picked up on the vibrations inside him, she had known when she looked into those darkened eyes of his. He had felt something...

Desire, she thought—why pretend you don’t know he felt it too? It was there between them, throbbing like a dynamo. A desire like nothing she had ever felt in her life before.

You’re married! she fiercely reminded herself, digging her nails into her palms. Whatever Barty has done to you, you are still his wife, and he loves you even when he acts as if he hates you. The pain made it easier to snap out of her mood.

Ritchie was frowning over a map he had got out of his briefcase. He hadn’t touched his food yet. A heavy lock of black hair fell forward over his eyes, and he brushed it impatiently back with one lean, tanned hand.

Linzi looked away, swallowing convulsively. She must stop this! Stop noticing everything he does! she told herself angrily.

Oh, Barty, what has happened to us? she thought in a swell of agony, remembering how passionately they had once made love. How merciful that you could never guess the future, that it was veiled from sight until it hit you.

She pushed her thin slices of melon around the plate, forced herself to eat, the cool fruit sliding down her parched throat, the perfect food for a day as hot as this one. Maybe it was the weather that was making her act so strangely, so unlike herself?

Ritchie began talking to Ted, flung the open map across the table between them, pointing, then picked up his fork and ate his own melon while Ted was studying the map.

‘Have you been up in a chopper yet?’ Ted asked her, and Linzi shook her head. ‘Well, come with us today,’ he suggested.

‘Good idea,’ Ritchie said. ‘It’s time you realised how vital the air dimension is to planning, Linzi. Seeing a site on a map or even on the ground you don’t get the full picture, but fly over it and you realise how much you miss until you’ve seen it from the air.’

‘I ought to get back to the office,’ she demurred.

‘Nonsense. Petal can hold the fort for an afternoon.’

The waiter brought their second course; Linzi ate some of her salad, trying to think of a way out of going up in the helicopter with them, but Ritchie was like a bulldozer once he had made up his mind. He wouldn’t be stopped or turned aside.

Half an hour later Linzi found herself crossing a mown field towards the waiting helicopter.

‘Up you get!’ Ritchie said, seizing her waist and lifting her up. Ted showed her how to belt herself into her seat, and gave her headphones to wear, to shut out the noise. Ritchie clambered in beside them, and the door closed. Linzi stared up at the whirling blades, her eyes blurred by the speed at which they went round. The machine began to lift and she looked down to see their black shadow flying across the ground below.

Ritchie tapped her shoulder, gesticulated downwards, mouthed, ‘Along this ridge, the line of poplars...that’s the route.’

The landscape flowed beneath them; fields, hills, trees in a fascinating pattern of light and shade, colour and contour. Linzi could have flown over it forever. She had never been so absorbed. Ritchie spread the map out on her lap, traced their route with his hand; she looked from the map to the landscape, connecting them, understanding their relationship, and deeply excited.