“Just what game are you playing, Paige?” Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“Just what game are you playing, Paige?”

“Don’t call me that! It’s not my name.”

“Stop this! You know damn well who you are. And you know damn well that you promised to marry me. Why did you do it? Don’t you know what anguish you caused? To disappear without a word to anyone—and just a week before the wedding!”

“Please, I don’t know you. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“You must stop lying to me, Paige. If you don’t I shall keep on hounding you, following you everywhere, giving you no peace, until you finally admit that you are Paige Chandos—my fiancée....”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to

Everyone has special occasions in their life—times of celebration and excitement. Maybe it’s a romantic event—an engagement or a wedding—or perhaps a wonderful family occasion, such as the birth of a baby. Or even a personal milestone—a thirtieth or fortieth birthday!

These are all important times in our lives, and in THE BIG EVENT! you can see how different couples react to these events. Whatever the occasion, romance and drama are guaranteed!

We’ve been featuring some terrific stories from some of your favorite authors. If you enjoyed this miniseries in Harlequin Romance®, we hope you’ll continue to look out for THE BIG EVENT! in Harlequin Presents®.

This month we’re delighted to bring you Runaway Fiancée by Sally Wentworth. In December we have Mary Lyons’s sassy romance Baby Included! Find out how gorgeous hero Ace Ratcliffe copes when he reaches a milestone birthday!

Happy reading!

The Editors

Runaway Fiancee

Sally Wentworth

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

JEAN-LOUIS had taken over the Eiffel Tower for the party. It was because he had become so famous—almost overnight, it seemed—that so many people had come to celebrate his engagement. Of course the painting was on display, and many of them had come just to see it. It was his finest work; critics all over France had raved about it. Suddenly he was fashionable and everyone wanted to meet him, to be painted by him, especially the women.

Basking in the adulation, and taking full advantage of it, Jean-Louis had invited the cream of Parisian society as well as his more artistic friends, all of whom were happily mingling here in the restaurant. And of course they were all intrigued that he was to marry his model; artists didn’t usually bother to many the women who posed for them, they merely kept them as their mistresses for a while before they moved on to the next face and body that fired their imagination.

The painting was hung in a prominent position, attracting a clamour of people round it, champagne glasses in their hands, their voices raised in knowledgeable praise. Many of them turned their heads and looked towards Angélique, comparing the living woman with the painted image. It had felt strange at first when people did this, when she’d heard them discussing her as if she were just an object, but she had got used to it now, was immune to their open stares and comments.

She overheard one woman, elegant, theatrical, say in a compelling voice, ‘Of course, he was passionately in love with her when he painted it. Anyone can see that. The sexual awareness just screams at you.’

Eyes turned towards her again, some speculative, most knowing. This was Paris. Of course an artist would have an affair with his model. The only surprise would be if he didn’t. Or, as now, if he offered marriage. With a flick of her long, corn-gold hair, Angelique turned her back on them and walked over to where Jean-Louis was the centre of a noisy, laughing group. People made way for her, and he immediately reached out and took her hand, carried it to his lips and kissed it in a flamboyant gesture. He was loving this, she could see. For too long he had hovered on the brink of being regarded as a great painter, but now he had arrived, now he could pick and choose his subjects, his pictures would command huge prices and he would, at last, achieve his ambition to be one of the haute bohème. All he had to do was consolidate his brilliant achievement. Already he had agreed to paint several commissions.

He put a possessive arm round her slim waist and drew her to his side. ‘You are happy, chérie?’

‘Of course. It’s a wonderful party.’ She spoke in fluent French, in which there was just the trace of an indefinable accent.

‘Are you working on another painting of Mademoiselle Castet?’ someone asked him.

The ‘Mademoiselle’ amused her; the guests were treating her with some respect because she was his fiancée, otherwise she would just have been ‘the model’.

‘But of course.’ Jean-Louis opened his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘How can I not paint her? She is so sensational. Her eyes—so beautiful. My palette cannot possibly do justice to them.’

People immediately began to reassure him, and it was true that he had painted her eyes with consummate skill, giving them their true brilliance, a vital glow, so strong that it seemed as if a light burned within her. It was Angélique’s eyes that he had first noticed about her, their fire and their deep amber flecks against the intensely green pupils, and he had pursued her with single-minded determination until she had finally agreed to let him paint her. She had resisted for a long time, though, foreseeing this publicity and wanting no part of it. She had held out, too, against his sexual propositions, until Jean-Louis had become almost as frustrated about that as not being able to paint her. Almost, but not quite. With Jean-Louis his work would always come first. He had never said so, of course, but Angélique had no illusions about it.

A reporter with his camera came up, wanted to take her picture standing by the painting. It was far from being the first time it had happened but Jean-Louis was all enthusiasm. He went down the steps with her to where the picture was placed in the reception area of the restaurant, instructed the reporter on where to place her for the maximum effect, to get the light right. The man took a whole film of shots but by that time Jean-Louis had become bored and gone back to the upper floor. Angélique, though, stayed behind. Momentarily alone, she turned to look once more at her portrait.

Jean-Louis Lenée was an artist of his times; the painting was in the modern idiom but a recognisable likeness despite the richness of the colour and the symbolic background of rising hills and dipping valleys that, on closer inspection, turned out to be the voluptuous figures of women. Angélique’s own, undeniably beautiful figure was tantalisingly hidden by a flowing white windswept gown that revealed parts of her and concealed others, leaving all to the imagination. But it was her eyes that held the viewer, mesmerising, hypnotic, teasing, alight with life and laughter.

She smiled a little. Earlier the woman had said that the picture had been painted with passion; that was true, but it had been the passion of frustration as much as desire. And Jean-Louis had been forced to use his own imagination about her figure because he had never been allowed to see her naked. Maybe that was why the picture had come across with such force, why the tantalising element was so strong. It was extremely erotic and yet at the same time possessed deliberate fragility, working on the viewer’s imagination to create his or her own individual fantasy, to lose themselves in the picture.

A wide shaft of late-evening sunlight shone down on Angélique as she studied the painting, highlighting the profile of her tall, slim figure, turning the golden hair into a halo that melted into the light. She was wearing a white dress that reached down to her ankles, a gown not unlike the one she had worn in the painting—an idea of Jean-Louis’s. The material was thin and with the light behind her became almost translucent, revealing the enticing outline of her shapely legs—legs so long they looked as if they started at her waist. She became a living painting, and far more lovely than the portrait in front of her.

A lift rose to the first floor, and the doors opened noisily. Chattering people came to the door, showed their invitations, walked over to exclaim at the picture and then went to look for Jean-Louis. A deep voice in good French but with an English accent said smoothly, ‘I seem to have forgotten my invitation but...’ The voice tailed off and Angélique could imagine money, a bribe, being handed over. Another gatecrasher; there must have been at least twenty of them there already. Moving away, Angélique ran lightly up the stairs and became lost in the crowd.

A lavish buffet, given as a present by the owner of the gallery where Jean-Louis was to have his next exhibition, was served to the guests. Wine and champagne flowed freely. The noise level grew higher, the atmosphere hot and overpowering. The room was circular, the walls windowed from floor to ceiling so that diners could look out past the metal girders of the structure of the Tower and see the landscape of Paris spread out below them. The sun had dropped low towards the horizon, outlining the surrounding buildings, black against the molten glow. Lights began to come on, piercing the dusk, romanticising the city. Angélique stood in the shadow of one of the metal struts where two windows joined, a drink in her hand, watching the throng. Soon the food and drink would run out and the more fashionable element would start to leave, to go on to other places. Only Jean-Louis’s artist friends, the Bohemian element, would stay on to the bitter end, and then they would all go on to some club, perhaps Au Lapin Agile in Montmartre, and drink the rest of the night away. But not Jean-Louis; tonight he had other ideas in mind.

People came up to her, spoke, tried to draw her back into the party, but went away when she gave them no encouragement. But then a huge cake was wheeled into the centre of the room and Jean-Louis began to look round for her. ‘Angélique. Angélique! Where are you?’

She reluctantly stepped forward, but then eager hands clasped hers, shouted that she was here, that she was coming. They pulled her towards him, the throng parting for her. She glimpsed faces, some that she knew—bearded artists, made-up models, suited men who ran art shops and galleries—but most were strange to her. But they were all smiling, laughing, pushing her towards Jean-Louis and the huge, vulgar cake designed like an artist’s palette, towards the centre of the room where they would be the focus of all eyes.

Jean-Louis came to meet her, put his arm round her. He was a little taller than Angélique, about five feet ten, thin and wiry. His hair reached his collar but was clean and neat, and he had the lean face and thin lips that you saw often on French men. His clothes were good, bought with the large advance the gallery had given him, designed to impress potential clients and convince them that he would make a suitable house guest if he went to stay while he painted their portraits. His eyes gleamed down at her in excitement and anticipation; he was expecting a great deal from tonight—in more ways than one.

The art gallery owner, Jean-Louis’s sponsor, stepped forward and made a speech, congratulating him on his success with the painting, prophesying many more successes in the future, promising his support. It was a long speech but they all listened good-naturedly and applauded loudly at every opportunity. Only at the end did the man remember this was also an engagement party and gallantly compliment Jean-Louis on the beauty of his fiancée and wish them both every happiness. Somebody put a knife in Jean-Louis’s hand, there was a clamour of shouts for him to make a speech, which he cheerfully did. His speech was a little more risqué, and there were some knowing remarks from his friends when he looked deep into Angélique’s eyes. Then, the speech over, he raised the knife to plunge it into the cake.

‘Just one moment!’ The voice was sharp, authoritative, not to be ignored. With an English accent. Angélique recognised it as the voice of the gatecrasher she had heard earlier.

A man stepped forward from the crowd. About thirty-two or three, he was tall and very English, his shoulders in the immaculately cut dark suit broad, his straight figure strong and athletic. His face was cleanly handsome, with the hard, determined jaw that denoted self-confidence and willpower. And he looked completely out of place in this ornate, colourful gathering.

The crowd had fallen silent and there was an air of expectation as the man moved into the cleared space in front of Angélique and Jean-Louis. He was looking at Angélique, his eyes intent, but she returned his gaze with only natural curiosity. The man frowned, and then turned to Jean-Louis and said, ‘I’m afraid this woman is an impostor.’

The artist gave an incredulous laugh. ‘What are you talking about? Angélique is my fiancée. We are to be married.’

‘In that case we have a problem.’ The stranger again looked at Angélique. ‘You see, she is already engaged to me.’

CHAPTER TWO

FOR a moment there was silence, followed by a buzz like that of a swarm of bees as everyone began to question their neighbour in hissing undertones, wanting more information but eager to hear what would happen next, not wanting to miss a word of a possible scandal.

It was Jean-Louis who spoke first. With a suspicious frown he said, ‘Who are you? I don’t know you.’

‘My name is Milo Caine. I’m British.’

‘Do you know him? Is what he says true?’

Jean-Louis had turned to Angélique, and the Englishman also had his eyes on her, his gaze intent, penetrating, as if he was trying to see into her soul.

She gave a small, amused laugh. ‘Of course not. I’ve never seen him before in my life. He’s probably a crank. And he’s definitely a gatecrasher. Why don’t you have him thrown out?’ Taking hold of her fiancé’s arm, she smiled up at him. ‘Everyone’s waiting; let’s cut the cake.’

‘Of course. Of course.’ Turning his back on the man who called himself Milo Caine, he plunged the knife into the gaudy cake. The people nearby cheered and clapped, but with a disappointed air; they felt cheated of a scandal, of some excitement.

After cutting the first slice, he dipped his finger into the icing then playfully lifted it to Angélique’s mouth. She laughed again and, taking hold of his finger, went to lick it off, her eyes on his, teasing, flirtatious.

‘Maybe you ought to look at this.’

It was the Englishman again. Growing angry, Jean-Louis turned to gesture to the waiters to get rid of him, but then came to an abrupt stop as he saw the photograph held out towards him. It was an enlarged shot, in black and white, perhaps a studio portrait, showing two people, a man and a woman. The man had his arm round the woman’s waist and was looking down at her with what appeared to be possessive pride, and the woman was looking towards the camera, smiling, but not with any great happiness; instead there seemed to be nervousness behind the smile. The man was Milo Caine—and the woman was unmistakably Angélique.

‘And then there’s this.’ Before either of them could react Milo Caine showed them a newspaper cutting, again with a photograph. When Jean-Louis didn’t take them, Caine let them drop and they fell on the cake. Then he started to take more photographs from his pocket, ordinary snapshots in colour this time, always of himself and Angélique. He kept dropping them onto the cake, covering its surface.

With a sudden snarl of anger Jean-Louis lifted the knife and stabbed it down hard into the black and white photograph, jabbing cleanly through it into the depth of the cake, and leaving the knife quivering there. ‘What is this?’ he demanded of Angélique.

‘Maybe we could go somewhere more private and discuss it,’ Caine said quickly, before she could answer.

Suddenly becoming very French, Jean-Louis threw his hands wide and said in a low, menacing voice, ‘How dare you come here and say these things at such a time? Do you think I care that Angélique knew you once? She is my fiancée now. You are nothing! Forgotten. It is me that she is to marry. Angélique is—’

‘She is not.’ Caine’s voice, cold and sharp, cut through his anger, momentarily silencing him. ‘She is not Angelique Castet. She is not even entirely French. Her mother is English,’ he said, his grey eyes watching her, ‘and her real name is Paige Chandos.’

Both men had turned towards her, but Angélique was unaware of their gaze. She was staring down at the photographs, a stunned look on her face. Slowly she reached out to pick one up, to look at it more closely. It appeared to have been taken some time ago because her face had a youthful, innocent look, and must have been taken at a classy party because she was wearing a lacy evening dress. Beside her, but not touching her, stood Milo Caine in a dark evening suit. He was smiling easily, completely relaxed, but again she seemed tense.

Suddenly Angélique dropped the photo as if it were red-hot. ‘Jean-Louis!’ She clung to him and, her voice filling with distress, said, ‘I don’t understand. How were those photos taken? I don’t know this man.’

He looked at her, half puzzled, half disbelieving. ‘But you must know him.’

She raised a strained face to his. ‘I don’t, I tell you. It’s some trick. Make him go away. Get rid of him.’

Jean-Louis turned, his chivalry aroused, and prepared to do battle. But the Englishman drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. He was taller, his shoulders broader, and there was a look in his eyes that would have given anyone pause. Suddenly Jean-Louis recollected that there were several reporters present, as well as rich and influential people that he needed in his career. It would hardly do for him to be involved in a brawl in such a public place. Especially if there was any truth in Caine’s claim—and even more especially if he lost the fight and was made to look a fool.

‘Shall we go somewhere more private?’ Caine suggested again. ‘The restaurant manager’s office, perhaps?’

He gestured with his arm and, agog with curiosity, those around them stood back to give them a corridor in which to walk. With an angry gesture, Jean-Louis took hold of Angelique’s hand and began to stride along. Milo Caine followed them, first stopping to pick up all the photographs.

The manager began to protest but then saw the strained looks on their faces, gave a shrug, and left the three of them alone. He didn’t shut the door properly. Caine gave a small smile, closed it and leaned against it for a moment.

‘What is this?’ Jean-Louis demanded angrily. ‘What do you want?’

Caine straightened. ‘I want Paige to admit that we were engaged.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets, his face becoming set and grim as he looked at Angélique. His voice terse, menacing, he said, ‘And I want an explanation. I want to know just why she disappeared. Why she took it into her head to walk out on her family and friends—and on me.’ It was the first time he had betrayed any emotion, and even now he hadn’t raised his voice, but Angélique was aware of deep, implacable rage that seethed beneath the cool hardness of his face.

‘You’re mistaken,’ she said forcefully. ‘I don’t know you. You’re mixing me up with someone else, someone who looks like me.’

Taking a step towards her, Caine said shortly, ‘Anyone who has seen those photographs can be in no doubt that you are one and the same.’

‘No, you’re wrong! That girl is young, much younger than me.’

‘They were taken some time ago, before you ran away. Why did you? Why did you go?’

He had come close to her, his face taut, his jaw thrust forward, and she could see that the hands in his pockets had closed into fists.

The menace in his eyes frightened her and she stepped back. ‘I tell you, you’re wrong. My name is Angélique Castet and I’m French. Ask Jean-Louis; he’ll tell you.’

But her fiancé might just as well not have been in the room because Caine completely ignored him, instead reaching out to catch hold of her arm. ‘Well, it will be easy to prove, one way or another.’

‘What do you mean? How can you prove it?’ Jean-Louis demanded.

‘Paige Chandos had a distinctive scar, the result of a bicycling accident when she was a child. It’s in the shape of a hollow circle about an inch across, on her left shoulder—like this...’ With a sudden jerk he pulled her against him and held her as he tugged down the sleeve of her dress.

Angé1ique gave an outraged cry and Jean-Louis instinctively caught hold of Caine to pull him away from her, but then stopped as they both looked at her shoulder. It was Milo Caine who recovered first; he gave a harsh laugh. ‘Well, well. How—convenient.’ His scathing grey eyes came up to meet hers. ‘A ladybird. A nice fat round ladybird. Now, I wonder when you had that tattoo done?’

It was Jean-Louis who answered. ‘She has always had it. As long as I’ve known her.’

‘And just how long is that?’

‘Several months.’

‘Paige Chandos disappeared just over a year ago.’

Snatching her arm free, Angelique pulled up her sleeve and said vehemently, ‘I am not this woman you knew. You must be mad to think so. I keep telling you that I don’t know you, that I’ve never met you before.’ She swung petulantly away. ‘Why don’t you go away, leave us alone?’

‘Do you deny that you’re Paige Chandos?’ Angélique threw up her arms in exasperation. ‘Haven’t I already said so a dozen times? I’ve told you who I am.’

‘In that case you won’t mind having your fingerprints checked, then, will you?’ Caine said smoothly.

‘My fingerprints?’ Angélique was taken aback.

‘Yes. They can’t be disguised—or covered up.’ Before she could speak there was a knock on the door and the owner of the art gallery came in. His voice impatient, he said, ‘Jean-Louis, the American millionairess is looking for you. She’s decided she wants her portrait painted, but only if you will do it immediately, before she goes back to the States.’

‘Mon Dieu!’ Jean-Louis smote his forehead in annoyance. ‘Tonight of all nights we have to have this problem.’ He swung round on Angelique. ‘Sort this out. I don’t care if you knew him in the past or not. Just settle this.’

He strode towards the door but Angélique grabbed his arm. ‘Wait! You can’t leave me here alone with him.’

He shook her off, impatient himself now. ‘There are over two hundred people on the other side of the door; just scream if you need help.’

‘No, I’m coming with you.’

She went to follow him but Caine took hold of her arm in a grip that was as strong as a vice, as strong as the embrace of a lover. ‘I think not. You still have a lot of explaining to do.’

He pushed the door shut and then leaned against it before he let her go. Angélique rubbed her wrist, looking at him in wary defiance. ‘What game is it you play?’ she demanded.

Caine’s eyebrows rose. ‘Now that we’re alone, I was going to ask you the same question. Just what game are you playing, Paige?’

‘Don’t call me that! It’s not my name.’

He was suddenly angry again, and stepped towards her. ‘Stop this! You know damn well who you are. And you know damn well that you had promised to marry me.’ His voice harsh, he snarled, ‘Why did you do it? Why?’ Angélique lifted her hands to put them over her ears, to shut out his questions, but he caught her wrists and pulled them down. ‘Don’t you know what anguish you caused? To disappear without a word to anyone—and just a week before the wedding! We scoured the country looking for you. But all we found was your car, abandoned. I thought you were—’

‘Stop it!’ Angélique cried out. ‘Don’t shout at me. You’re making my head hurt. My head always hurts when people shout at me.’

He let her go and she put her hands up to her head again, covering her temples, her eyes tightly closed, and leaned back against the wall. Grudgingly, after a few moments, Caine said, ‘Are you all right? Do you want some water?’

‘No. No, thank you. It will go if I’m quiet.’

He was watching her, gazing frowningly at her bent head. ‘Do you often get headaches?’

‘Not so much now. Not during the day, but sometimes at night—’ She broke off, becoming aware that she was confiding in this stranger.

But, “‘Sometimes at night”?’ he prompted. ‘You get them then?’

‘It’s nothing,’ she said stiffly. ‘Just bad dreams.’

He leaned forward, his face intent. ‘What do you dream about?’

She stared at him, then straightened up and gave a scornful laugh. ‘You ask me what I dream about? You are mad, Englishman.’

‘Am I? Perhaps.’ He suddenly switched to English. ‘I have your passport here; do you want to see it?’

Her eyes flicked to his, then away again. ‘I don’t understand you.’

‘Oh, but I think you do.’ Taking a red-backed passport from his pocket, he opened it and showed her the photograph inside. ‘This was taken only a few weeks before you disappeared. You needed it for the honeymoon we planned in America.’

He still spoke in English but she didn’t react to it until he thrust the passport at her. Slowly Angélique took it and looked down at the photo. The girl it portrayed had made no attempt to smile, but seemed to be looking at the camera with some reluctance.

‘You’ll notice that the description fits you exactly—even down to the scar on your shoulder.’

‘I can’t read English.’

‘Rubbish! Damn you, Paige, stop this idiotic pretence.’

He went to catch hold of her but she dropped the passport and backed away. ‘No! Please! I don’t know you. I don’t know you. I’m sorry, but I don’t.’ She held her hands up to ward him off. ‘Please. Please, leave me alone.’

He stopped, holding his anger under control at her obvious distress. His jaw tightening, Caine reverted to French as he said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. But you must stop lying to me, Paige.’

‘I am not lying to you.’

Anger flashed in his grey eyes again, but with an effort he said, ‘All right. So suppose you tell me just who you are.’

‘I already have. You know who I am.’

‘I know the name you’ve given me, yes. But I want you to tell me about your background. Where you were born. How old you are. About your family, your work. Everything.’

She frowned. ‘No, why should I?’

‘To convince me once and for all that I’m wrong.’

‘Why should I have to convince you?’ She flared up. ‘It’s you that is making all these stupid accusations.’ Her mouth set obstinately. ‘I won’t do it. Why should I?’

‘Because if you don’t I shall keep on hounding you, following you everywhere, giving you no peace, until you finally admit that you are Paige Chandos.’

Caine had spoken evenly but there was a distinct threat in his tone. Angélique glared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. ‘Oh, very well. I am twenty-three years old and I am from Normandy.’

‘Oh, really? What part?’

‘Lisieux.’

‘I know it well. Whereabouts do you live?’

‘I don’t live there any more; it’s where I was born.’

‘But you must know it. Where did you live? Near the cathedral?’

He asked the question casually enough but was watching her so intently that she was suspicious of it. But Angélique shook her head. ‘I don’t know. We must have left there when I was very young. I don’t remember it.’

‘You haven’t been back there?’

‘No.’

‘So who do you mean when you say “we”?’

She frowned. ‘My family, I suppose.’

‘You suppose? Don’t you know?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She spoke irritably. ‘My family. My parents.’

‘And where are your parents now?’

A hunted look came into her extraordinary eyes. ‘They are dead. Yes, they are dead.’

‘And do you have any other family? Brothers or sisters? Aunts? Uncles?’

Slowly she shook her head. ‘No, there is no one. I can’t remem—’ She broke off, her head rising. ‘There is Jean-Louis. I am going to marry him.’

‘As you say.’ Caine was watching her, his brows drawn into a frown. ‘Where did you go to school?’

A blank look came into her face. ‘Here and there. I live in Paris now.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘With Jean-Louis?’

‘No. I have a room of my own,’ she said with cool dignity.

His shoulders relaxed a little. ‘Did you go to school here in Paris?’

She seemed to grasp at the suggestion. ‘Yes. Yes, I went to school here.’

‘Which school? Which district?’

‘Different schools.’ She began to move agitatedly about the room.

‘Tell me their names.’

‘I can’t remember the names.’ She turned on him angrily. ‘Get out of the way; I’m going back to the party.’

But he didn’t move from the door. ‘You must remember the names of the schools you went to.’

‘No, I don’t!’ Her voice rose, and Angélique put a hand up to her head again.

‘All right. Tell me about your work, then. What do you do?’

Now there was no hesitation. ‘I work at Le Martin Pêcheur.’

‘What is that?’

‘It’s a big restaurant where you can eat and dance, on the Quai Victor Hugo.’

His face set. ‘You are a dance hostess?’ Angélique looked surprised. ‘No, I’m a waitress. That’s where I met Jean-Louis. He came there to paint.’

‘I see. How long have you worked there?’

She gave a small shrug. ‘Ten—eleven months.’

‘What did you do before that?’

Speaking with less confidence, she said, ‘I was looking for work.’

‘How long for?’

‘I—I’m not sure. Several weeks. After...’ Her voice faded.

‘Yes? After? After what?’

‘After I was ill,’ Angélique said slowly, her hand to her head again.

His voice soft, not much above a whisper, Milo Caine said, ‘You were ill?’

‘Yes. There was—they said there was an accident.’

‘Who said so?’

‘The people at the hospital.’

‘Don’t you remember?’

‘No. No, I don’t remember.’ She suddenly straightened up, said irritably, There, I’ve told you all you wanted to know. Now leave me alone. You have ruined the party for me.’

‘There’s just one thing more.’ He took the newspaper clipping from his pocket. ‘I’d like you to read this.’

Reluctantly Angélique took it from him, glanced at it, then immediately handed it back. ‘It’s in English.’

He made no comment, but took it back and said, ‘Then I’ll translate it for you.’ But he didn’t even glance at the cutting as he went on, ‘Basically it is a report of our engagement. It states that our marriage will set the seal on a business partnership between our two families that has existed for over two centuries. The company of Caine and Chandos has recently been run by Milo Caine, the direct descendant of one of the original founders.’ He glanced at her to make sure she knew he was referring to himself. Her expression was one of wooden boredom, but he seemed satisfied and went on, ‘Half of the business, though, is still owned by the Chandos family, but their shares have passed through the female line since the death of George Chandos in 1983. His daughter married a Frenchman but the marriage was eventually dissolved and the entire shares for the family’s half of the company are now owned by his granddaughter, Miss Paige Chandos.’

Folding the clipping, he looked at her expectantly, but Angélique merely made a moue of disinterest. ‘Why do you tell me this? It seems a strange way to announce an engagement. Your English society pages must be very boring.’

‘It wasn’t in the society pages, it was in the business supplement.’

She laughed and gave him a pitying look. ‘So that was what your engagement was—a business arrangement But that I can understand. They still have those kind of marriages among the wealthy classes here in France.’ Her eyes disparaged him and her voice was taunting. ‘No wonder you are eager to find your fiancée; how annoyed you must be not to have all those shares under your control, the entire power under your command.’

‘Is that what you think?’ he asked, watching her closely.

She gave an eloquent shrug. ‘Why should you care what I think? I am nothing to you.’

‘On the contrary. You mean a great deal to me.’ His voice was warm, forceful.

With a small laugh, Angélique said, ‘How can I when you have never seen me before?’

But Caine ignored her and went on, ‘Is that why you ran away? Did you think that I didn’t care about you, was only interested in the company? You couldn’t be more wrong, Paige. I care about you very deeply.’

Slowly she raised her eyes to look into his, then gave a mocking smile. ‘I always understood that Englishmen were cold fish—now I know why.’

His mouth thinned. ‘I hardly think that the punishment you inflicted fits the crime, especially when the crime existed only in your imagination, Paige.’

Her eyes shadowed. ‘Don’t call me that. You’re wasting your time. I am not the woman you’re looking for. You’ve made a mistake. How many times do I have to tell you?’

Jean-Louis walked into the room. ‘Are you still arguing?’ he demanded exasperatedly.

‘Do you read English, Monsieur Lenée?’ Caine asked, and when he got a nod in reply handed him the cutting.

His eyes widening as he read it, Jean-Louis said, ‘Are you saying that this woman is Angélique?’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘If what he is saying is true then you could be rich, chérie. Is she rich, this—’ he glanced at the clipping ‘—Paige Chandos?’

‘Very.’

They both watched him as he stood silently, thinking it through, then Jean-Louis said, ‘Is it really possible that you could be this woman, Angélique?’

‘No,’ she said positively.

‘I’ve asked her about her background,’ Caine interrupted, ignoring her denial, ‘but she seems very confused. She said that she was in an accident and she doesn’t seem to remember much that happened before that.’

‘That’s true,’ Jean-Louis agreed at once. ‘She has never told me anything about her past, her family. And I have never met anyone who knew her before I met her.’ Going to Angélique, he said in a persuasive tone, ‘If you are this woman, then it is only right that you should claim your inheritance, chérie.’

Her green eyes grew cold. ‘What are you saying?’

He spread his hands. ‘You may be right, he may have made a mistake, but—’

‘He has,’ she interrupted fiercely.

Jean-Louis frowned, then turned to Caine. ‘Please, I wish to speak to my fiancée in private.’

For a moment the Englishman hesitated, but then nodded. ‘Very well.’

When they were alone, Jean-Louis took her hand. ‘I have agreed to paint the American woman’s portrait immediately. Tomorrow I am to go to the château near Montpellier where she is to visit friends and do the painting there. It will take me at least three weeks, probably longer, and I cannot take you with me.’

‘So?’

‘Angélique, it could be that you are not this woman the Englishman is looking for, so then, OK, you have lost nothing. But you have always refused to talk about your childhood, your past before you came to Paris. I’ve often asked you but you’ve never told me anything, except that you were in an accident. So maybe you are this English girl.’ He paused, then said, ‘Caine seems very sure that you are, but even if you are not, what harm would it do to take this fortune he’s offering you?’

‘I don’t want money. I don’t want to be rich. I just want to be your wife, your model.’

‘You will still be that, of course. But it’s better to be rich than poor. And think what we could do with the money; we could pay off the loan from the gallery. I would be free to exhibit my paintings wherever I liked. I could paint what pictures I wanted all the time instead of having to take commissions. And I could—’

Her green eyes glacial, Angélique said acidly, ‘And you could wear Armani suits all the time, and go to parties, and drink champagne all day long. You could have a house in Tahiti and an apartment in New York. You could travel and mix with all these beautiful, rich people you so admire.’

‘And what is wrong with that?’ Jean-Louis demanded, incensed. ‘A great talent should be nurtured. You should be pleased that you could make me free to do the work I want.’

‘Pleased?’ she said derisively. ‘Pleased that you could toss off a painting every now and again just so that the women keep fawning over you?’

He laughed and pulled her to him. ‘Ah, I see what it is, chérie; you are jealous. You think that if we were rich I would flirt with other women. But you know that there has never been anyone but you since the first moment I met you. It was love at first sight, was it not? I am your slave; I am the ground under your pretty feet.’ He was kissing her neck, the corners of her mouth, her eyes. ‘You know I adore you, that I would give my life for you. How could I even look at another woman when I am blinded by your beauty? Every moment away from you will be a lifetime. I hate this American woman for taking me away from you, but I have to do it. I can’t afford not to. You know that.’ He sighed against her lips. ‘But if we had money of our own then I would never have to leave you.’

Angélique had her eyes closed, was listening to his insinuating compliments and comparing them with the Englishman’s quiet ‘I care about you very deeply’. Two such different men—one cold and aloof, holding his emotions under iron control, the other colourful, not afraid to speak or show his feelings. Or to use his charm to make her do what he wanted. Pushing herself away from him, she looked at Jean-Louis’s earnest face and said, ‘To be a great painter you need to work hard.’

‘Have I not been working hard for the last ten years?’ he exclaimed heatedly.

‘Yes, and you’ve found fame at last. On your own. You don’t need someone else’s fortune. You can get everything you want on your own merit. Surely it’s far more satisfying to do it that way?’

He grew angry. ‘It would take me at least five years, maybe more, to get the artistic freedom I want. If you can get this woman’s money I could have it now, at once. Are you so selfish that you would deny me that, deny the world my talent?’

‘I was happy as we were,’ she said bitterly.

‘Having money will only make us happier.’

‘No, it won’t; money only brings trouble. I don’t want to do this, Jean-Louis.’

But he had seen a rosy vision of the future, and having seen, wanted it, the freedom it promised shutting out everything else. ‘If you love me,’ he said forcefully, ‘you will go with Caine and try to get this money for us.’

‘Let me understand you. You want me to take this money if it’s offered to me, even though I know I’m not the person he thinks I am?’

Jean-Louis gave an airy gesture. ‘Why not? If he is so eager to give away a fortune, why not take it?’

Staring at him, her eyes glacial, Angélique said, ‘You are just like all the others, Jean-Louis. I thought you were different, but you’re not. I thought you had integrity, to your art, at least, but you don’t even have that.’

He gave an impatient gesture. ‘You’re being stupid, Angélique. It’s because I want to devote my life to my work that I need this money. Can’t you see that?’

She didn’t answer, just held his eyes with her own. He looked away first, swinging round to go to the door. Opening it, he called, ‘Caine?’ and the Englishman came back into the room.

‘Yes?’

‘We have come to a decision. Angélique has told me that she can remember nothing before her accident, so maybe she is this woman you’re looking for.’

Caine looked at them both for a moment, then said, ‘I would need her to come back to England with me.’

‘Very well, she will go.’

Looking directly at her, Caine said, ‘Are you willing to go?’

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, her face set. ‘Yes.’

‘Having seen your old life, it may be that you will wish to return to it,’ he said carefully.

Her eyes flashed fire. ‘Be engaged to you, do you mean?’

Jean-Louis laughed. ‘Just as soon as the matter is decided Angélique will come back to France to be with me.’ And he put a possessive arm round her shoulders, then bent to nuzzle her neck in a gesture that was all confident defiance. Angélique stiffened a little but she didn’t move away.

Caine’s expression didn’t change. He said, ‘Very well—just so long as you are aware of the possibility. And, naturally, if she did decide to stay you would raise no objection; you would give Paige her freedom.’

With a cool smile Jean-Louis said, ‘Paige can do what she likes, but I assure you that Angélique will hurry back to me.’

It was a definite challenge, a glove being thrown down. Without any effort Caine accepted the challenge with a smooth, ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’ He turned to Angélique. ‘Where do you live?’

She told him and he didn’t bother to write it down. ‘I’ll collect you at ten tomorrow morning. Please be ready to leave for England.’ Then, with a brief nod, he left the room.

Pulling her against him, Jean-Louis gave her an exuberant hug. ‘We’re going to be rich, chérie. And we still have tonight, just as we planned.’

Putting all her strength behind it, Angélique punched him in his midriff. He doubled up with a groan as she said, ‘If you think I’m going to bed with you tonight after this, then you’re crazy!’ And she, too, marched out of the office.

A long, sleek car with British plates drew up outside her door at exactly ten the following morning, having to double-park in the narrow road. When Milo Caine rang the bell Angélique kept him waiting as long as possible, hoping the blue-capped dragon of a traffic warden who patrolled the area would catch him, but when he rang the bell for the third time she had to open the door.

He gave her a wry look but made no comment on her tardiness, merely saying, ‘Are you ready?’

She nodded ungraciously.

‘You have only the one case?’

‘Yes. I don’t intend to be away for long,’ she told him coldly.

He was driving the car himself; she had half expected a chauffeur. Opening the front passenger door for her, he said, ‘Would you like to take off your coat?’

‘All right.’ She shrugged out of the ankle-length coat and handed it to him. Under it she was wearing a sleeveless knitted top that hugged her breasts and a very short skirt. Her legs, long and tanned, were bare. His eyes ran over her and although his expression didn’t change she could sense his disapproval. Giving him a provocative look, she deliberately crossed her legs, lifting the skirt even higher. Caine’s mouth tightened for a moment but he still didn’t speak, instead closing her door and going round to his own side of the car.

Angélique laughed. ‘How stern you look, Englishman. Don’t you like my legs?’

‘You never used to wear clothes like that,’ he commented evenly.

‘It’s not too late,’ she pointed out mockingly. ‘If you disapprove of me so much you can forget all these crazy ideas you have. Forget me. Go and look somewhere else for the woman who ditched you.’

A slight stiffening of Caine’s jaw was the only sign that her jibe had gone home, and his voice was quite unemotional as he said, ‘On the contrary, I’m quite sure you’re the woman I want. And, now that I’ve found you, I don’t intend to let you go.’

Huffily, she turned away and yawned.

‘You’re tired?’

She gave him a sideways glance. ‘Very. I had to say goodbye to Jean-Louis last night. Remember? So, naturally, I am extremely exhausted.’

He probably didn’t know it, but the tightening of his features gave away his inner anger, and she laughed again in ironical amusement.

The Paris traffic was heavy and required his entire concentration so they didn’t speak again until the car was safely stowed on Le Shuttle and the train was carrying them at immense speed across France towards the Channel Tunnel and England. They sat in the passenger compartment in seats across from one another, the only other travellers were at the far end of the carriage, out of earshot.

‘You said that you were involved in an accident,’ he reminded Angélique. ‘What kind of accident?’

Her eyes shadowed. ‘I don’t remember it. I only know what I was told.’

‘And what was that?’

She hesitated, then said slowly, ‘They told me I was on a bus. It was travelling along the Périphérique in a storm when a container truck jackknifed in front of it and they collided. Most of the passengers were rescued but then the bus caught fire and was destroyed. Two people were killed.’ Her voice faltered a little on the last sentence, and then Angélique said, ‘That’s what they told me when I woke up at the hospital.’

‘Were you badly hurt?’

‘No. Just a bruised shoulder and a bad bump on the head.’

‘How did they know your name?’

“There was a piece of paper in my pocket. It gave my name. It said “Angélique Castet. Born Lisieux.” And it gave the date of my birth.’

‘Nothing else?’

She shrugged. ‘A few scribbled numbers and words that didn’t mean anything to me.’

‘Do you still have the paper?’

‘Perhaps. Somewhere.’

‘You didn’t bring it with you?’

‘No. Why should I?’

Leaning forward and looking at her intently, Caine said, ‘Can you remember anything from before you had the accident?’

Her eyes grew troubled. ‘Sometimes at night—when I dream, I see places that I feel I know, but in the morning...’ She threw open her hands and made a blowing shape with her lips ‘...poof! They’re gone.’

‘Never people?’

Her mouth creased in amusement. ‘No, Englishman,’ she said in open mockery. ‘I have never dreamt of you.’

He wasn’t put out, instead smiling rather wryly. ‘I left myself wide open to that one, didn’t I?’ She didn’t return the smile, and after a moment he said, ‘Look, we’re going to see a lot of each other in the near future. I know you’re angry with me and you don’t want to do this, but couldn’t we try to be civil to one another?’

‘You are being civil to me.’

Again his lips twitched. ‘All right, do you think that you could please be civil to me, then?’

‘How?’

‘You could start by calling me by my name instead of “Englishman”,’ he suggested.

‘Very well, Monsieur Caine.’

‘My name is Milo,’ he reminded her.

Tilting her head, she considered the idea. ‘I don’t think I like it.’

‘Nor do I, but I’m afraid I’m stuck with it, and it would upset my mother if I tried to change it.’

‘You have a mother?’

‘Most people do.’

Her face tightened. ‘Do they?’

Reaching across, he took her hand. ‘Sorry. Would you like me to tell you about your family? You do have one, you know, Paige.’

So he was convinced that she was his girlfriend, and seemed convinced, too, that she had lost her memory. With a sigh, she said, ‘Are you always going to call me that?’

‘It’s your name.’

‘And you want me to be civil to you and use yours?’

‘Yes.’

She was suddenly angry. ‘Why should I be civil to someone who has turned my life upside down, who ruined my engagement party, who has taken me away from my fiancé’s side? You’re a fool if you think—’

But he interrupted by saying, ‘No, I’m giving you back the life you had. Filling in your past. You have the right to that. Even if you choose to reject it, you should at least have the right to choose.’

His words took her aback and she stared at him for a long moment before she realised that in his vehemence he had spoken in English.

Milo realised at the same moment and his eyes widened. ‘You understood, didn’t you? Didn’t you?’

Paige didn’t answer directly, but said, in perfect English, ‘How did you know where to look for me?’

‘It was the portrait. It was reproduced in an art magazine that I take. And it even gave the details of your engagement party.’ Sitting back, his eyes on her face, he said, ‘I would have known your eyes anywhere.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘WHY did you lie to me?’ Milo’s face was grim.

Paige shrugged. ‘Because I didn’t want to go back with you, of course.’

‘So you knew who you were all along. This amnesia thing is all a pretence, a ploy. My God, Paige, if you—’

‘No!’ She interrupted his growing anger fiercely. ‘The woman you talk about doesn’t exist for me. But I knew as soon as I saw the photographs you showed us last night that you were telling the truth, that you and I were—connected. I could hardly fail to recognise myself, could I?’ Her face shadowed. ‘But I was—afraid. The life I have is good. Why should I want to find out about a past that is wholly alien to me?’ Her eyes met his. ‘Why should I want to find out about you?’ Looking away, she shrugged. ‘So I pretended that I didn’t speak or read English. I hoped you would think you’d made a mistake. That you’d go away again.’

‘I’m not put off that easily.’

‘No, but I wouldn’t have come back with you if it hadn’t been for Jean-Louis.’

‘For his greed.’

She gave him an angry look. ‘What would you know about needing money, Englishman? You’ve always had more than enough all your life.’

‘How do you know that?’ His eyes were watchful.

She laughed. ‘You told me so yourself, when you quoted from that newspaper cutting. You said that my family had owned half the company and yours the other half. You said that I was very rich, so presumably this company is successful. So, I repeat, what do you know about being poor and hungry? What do you know about having to prostitute your art to make a living as Jean-Louis has had to?’

His voice mild, Milo said, ‘I didn’t think that artists had to starve in garrets nowadays.’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘All right. No, I’ve never been hungry—but neither would I push a woman into doing something she was against just to get money for myself.’

‘No?’ Paige’s eyebrows rose in irony. ‘But isn’t that just what you are doing? Aren’t you using me just as much as Jean-Louis is?’

His eyes grew guarded. ‘In what way?’

‘You say you were engaged to me. If we had married wouldn’t you have got all the shares, all the company?’

‘It wasn’t a financial arrangement,’ Milo replied steadily, holding her gaze. But he could see she didn’t believe him, so he added, ‘And, anyway, the question doesn’t now arise, does it? You will be giving all the money to Jean-Louis.’

‘And what if I do?’ Paige demanded belligerently.

‘It’s your money to do with as you like,’ he said with a shrug.

The train roared into the tunnel and they were silent for a moment, assimilating the change from natural light to that of fluorescence, from travelling on the surface to plunging deep beneath the sea. From openness to mystery, much as her own life had changed in the last twenty-four hours, Paige thought.

As if reading her mind, Milo said, ‘Wouldn’t you like me to tell you about your family?’

She sighed. ‘No, but I can see you’re determined to, so OK, go ahead.’

‘As I told you last night, your mother is English and your father was French. You have dual English and French nationality and passports from both countries. Presumably you travelled on your French passport when you ran away. You were also brought up to be bilingual. Your father insisted on that. But when your parents split up your mother remarried and you were sent to live with your grandmother. She saw to it that you had a good education and—’

‘Why?’ Paige interrupted. ‘Why didn’t I live with my mother or my father?’

Milo paused for a second then said without emphasis, ‘They had each formed new relationships. Your grandmother thought it would be best for you to have an uncomplicated life with her.’

‘And my parents had nothing to say against the arrangement? Neither of them cared enough about me to have me live with them?’

Milo was listening for bitterness in her tone but heard only curiosity. ‘It was—difficult. Your mother married an Argentinian and went to live there. Your father returned to his own country. They couldn’t both have you. And your grandmother is a very strong personality; it’s almost impossible to refuse her anything she sets her mind on.’

‘But they could have, if they’d really wanted to, if they’d cared enough?’

‘It wasn’t that simple, Paige.’

She looked at him for a moment, then gave a slow smile. ‘Life seldom is. Please go on.’

His grey eyes studied her face for a moment, but then Milo said, ‘Your grandmother kept you with her at her home in Lancashire until you finished school, then took you on a long tour of India and Asia that lasted for nearly a year. When you came back to England she brought you down to London to stay, and that was where we began our own relationship.’

‘We had never met before?’ Paige asked in surprise.

‘Yes, we’d met, many times, before your parents split up. But not for some years and not as adult to adult.’

Her eyes widened then grew amused. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’m thirty-two.’

‘And how old am I?’

‘Twenty-one. Nearly twenty-two. Your birthday is next month, on the seventeenth.’

‘And when did this so passionate relationship begin?’

‘You came to London about two years ago.’

With a mocking twist to her lips, Paige shook her head at him. ‘When I was only nineteen? Perhaps I preferred older men—a father figure. Tell me, did I fall head over heels in love with you?’

She was needling him deliberately but he didn’t rise to it, instead saying, ‘Maybe one day you’ll remember.’

Suddenly she was all French again, pouting her lips and crossing her legs as she sat back in her seat. As she did so her legs brushed against Milo’s knees and Paige glanced at him from under her lashes but he didn’t react. ‘Somehow I don’t think so,’ she said shortly. ‘And my loving parents, are they still alive?’

‘Your mother is. She still lives in Argentina.’

‘And does she own part of the company? What did you call it—Chandos and Caine?’

‘Caine and Chandos,’ he corrected her. ‘No, the shares she inherited were all transferred to you when she remarried. Your grandmother insisted on it.’

‘She sounds a formidable old lady.’

‘Yes, she is.’ Milo’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘And not one to whom I would have entrusted the upbringing of a sensitive young girl.’

Paige frowned for a moment, then her eyebrows rose. ‘You mean me? I was a sensitive young girl?’ Her rich laugh rang out, making the other people in the carriage glance round. ‘How quaint.’ Her eyes taunted him. ‘I’m no longer any of those things.’

‘But you are still young.’

She gave a small smile. ‘Oh, no; somehow I think that I’ve become very wise for my years.’ Adding deliberately, ‘And very experienced.’ Seeing his mouth tighten, Paige leaned forward and said on a soft but compelling note, ‘You would do well to forget that girl you talk about, forget her as I have done. Because she no longer exists and you can’t bring her back.’

He met her gaze squarely. ‘I know that. I shall have to get to know you all over again.’

‘But you don’t like what I am.’ It was a positive statement.

‘What makes you think that?’

She sat back, but kept her eyes on his face. ‘You make your disapproval very obvious.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t disapprove of you; I just find the change in you difficult to accept, that’s all.’

‘I expect people change when their circumstances change.’

With a sudden smile, Milo said, ‘Now that is a very wise and experienced remark.’

She gazed at him for a moment, taken aback by the smile, then flicked her eyes away. ‘You didn’t tell me what happened to my father,’ she reminded him.

‘I’m afraid he died. He had a heart attack some years ago.’ Paige merely nodded and he said, ‘It means nothing to you?’

She gave him an irritated look. ‘What do you expect me to do—throw myself down and weep because someone I can’t remember has died? Someone, from what you’ve told me, who more or less abandoned me? Of course it means nothing to me.’

Suddenly they were out of the tunnel and into daylight again. The train slowed for its journey through the Kent countryside and Paige looked out of the window for a few minutes before turning to Milo and saying, ‘Is that it? Is that the sum total of this famous family you were going to tell me about?’

He nodded. ‘That’s about it.’

‘So I’ve a mother, and presumably a stepfather, who live in Argentina. And a grandmother. Is that all?’

‘I believe you have some relations on your father’s side—cousins, that kind of thing—but no one close. And you have aunts and cousins in England on your grandmother’s side of the family. I’m afraid neither of us comes from very productive lines.’

‘When I marry Jean-Louis I intend to have a large family, six children at least,’ she told him provocatively.

‘Have you told him that?’

Smiling, she said, ‘Jean-Louis is a very earthy person. He likes the sun and the open air, he loves light and colour. He’s not like you.’ Her eyes went over him disparagingly. ‘You’re an indoor person, without imagination, grey and colourless.’

To her immense surprise Milo laughed, the first time she’d known him to do so. ‘If you think that then you, too, have got some relearning to do.’

Soon the train pulled into London and they got into the car again. It was only then that Paige asked, ‘Where are we going?’

‘To your flat.’

‘My flat? I have an apartment of my own?’

‘Yes. In Chelsea.’

It turned out to be a garden flat in one of the quiet, tree-lined streets that led down to the River Thames. An old house of dark, weathered brick with a smartly painted black front door. Very respectable, very genteel. As she got out of the car Paige looked at the street and the house with strong distaste. Taking a small bunch of keys from his pocket, Milo unlocked the door.

‘You have a key to my flat?’

He glanced at her. ‘You left your keys behind when you—went away.’

He stood back to let her enter and Paige stepped past him into a hallway. There were two front doors facing her. The one on the left had the letter A and a name-plate holding a card saying ‘Major (Rtd.) and Mrs C.D. Davieson’. The door on the right had the letter B, but the name-plate was empty. After unlocking the latter, Milo again stood back.

Aware that he was watching her, Paige pushed open the door. There was an inner lobby that gave on to a corridor lined with framed nineteenth-century prints. The floor was carpeted and the air was warm. There was no dust on the hall table that stood against the wall, no smell of mustiness, only of beeswax polish. No feeling that the place had been empty and neglected for nearly a year. Slowly she walked to the nearest door and pushed it open. It was a sitting-room, quite large and ornate with an elaborate plasterwork ceiling, and luxuriously decorated in shades of cream and pale green, the carpet thick, the curtains opulently swathed. There was a wooden-framed reproduction three-piece suite, again in pale green, that hardly looked inviting; in fact it looked almost unused. There was a bookcase with leather-backed volumes—they didn’t look interesting enough to be called books—which had probably been chosen for their decorative effect, and a couple of brass lamps with cream shades. A television set hidden away in a cabinet and a music stack concealed in its twin seemed to be the only concession to modern life.

Paige opened the doors of the cabinets, made a face, and walked out of the room to look at the rest of the place. There was a dining room with a pedestal table and six chairs that looked genuine antiques instead of reproduction, a kitchen with pseudo country fitted cupboards and, at the back of the house looking over the garden, a large bedroom. It had a four-poster bed, a dressing table and fitted wardrobes across the whole of one wall. She stood for a long moment looking round the room, then opened the door of one of the wardrobes and looked at the clothes. Pulling some out, Paige saw that they were mostly neat suits with straight, tailored skirts and jackets, and to wear with them there were long-sleeved silk blouses in pale colours. With an angry gesture she tossed them onto the bed and jerked open more doors. Every kind of clothes a girl would need, and all expensively made, but they were all drab, drab, drab!

Turning on Milo, she said vehemently, ‘You have got to have made a mistake. No way could I ever have worn all these dull clothes!’

His lips twitched. ‘I assure you, you did. And you looked extremely good in them.’

‘I don’t believe it. Even a nun wouldn’t look good in these—’ words failed her ‘—these uniforms!’

Milo laughed outright ‘I rather think you’re working up to a good excuse to go shopping.’

Smiling in return, Paige said, ‘I don’t need an excuse to go shopping.’

There was a door in the far wall. Going over to it, she found that it led into a bathroom, the bath white, the walls pale green again.

‘Is this a rented flat?’ she asked in dissatisfaction.

‘No, it belongs to you.’

‘And did I choose the decor?’

‘No, I believe your grandmother hired a firm of decorators to do it while you were still in India. She wanted it to be a surprise for you on your return.’

‘I see.’

‘If you don’t like it you can always change it.’ The suggestion had been put in a mild voice but Paige didn’t miss the implications. With a shrug, she said, ‘What do I care? I shan’t be staying here.’

Milo didn’t argue, just said, ‘I’ll get your suitcase.’

Paige followed him into the corridor just as someone turned a key in the front door and came in. It was an elderly grey-haired woman, thin and very upright, wearing a pale blue woollen suit.

‘Paige, my dear.’ The woman stepped forward with her hands outstretched. ‘How wonderful that you’re back. I was so excited when Milo rang to tell me.’

Milo stood back but Paige caught his sleeve. ‘Who is it? Is it my grandmother?’

A disappointed look came into his eyes. ‘No. This is Mrs Davieson who lives in the flat upstairs.’ He turned to the other woman. ‘As I told you, Paige is suffering from loss of memory. I’m afraid she doesn’t remember you.’

‘How dreadful!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘But you mustn’t worry about a thing. The Major and I will take care of you till your grandmother gets here. We’re old friends of hers, you know; she and I knew each other as children out in India and then we were at school together.’

‘Really?’ Paige looked down at the outstretched hands. ‘I see you have a key to the flat.’

‘Oh, yes, we’ve been looking after the place for you.’

Paige frowned, not being able to imagine it. ‘You’ve been doing the cleaning?’

‘No, not personally, of course.’ Mrs Davieson tittered with amusement at the idea. ‘But making sure the cleaner and the gardener do their work properly, informing Milo here of any maintenance work that needed to be done, that sort of thing. Absolutely essential, of course, when the owner is away.’

Paige held out her hand. ‘Well, I’m back now, so I’ll take the key, please.’

But Mrs Davieson’s hand closed over it firmly. ‘I think I prefer to keep it. Neighbours should always have a key, you know, in case of emergency. And your grandmother likes us to keep an eye on you.’

‘Does she?’ Paige didn’t push it but stepped past her and went into the sitting-room.

She heard the murmur of voices out in the hall, then the front door closed and Milo came into the room. He found her looking through the commercial phone book.

‘Is this phone connected?’ she asked abruptly.

‘I imagine so; I’ve never had it cut off.’

‘Good.’ She found the number she wanted and dialled it. ‘Hello? You’re the locksmith? I’d like the lock on my door changed, please. As soon as possible. It’s urgent. The address?’ She glanced at Milo. ‘What’s the address?’

‘Twenty-two Bardell Street,’ he answered slowly, his frowning eyes on her face.

Paige repeated the address and arranged for the locksmith to be there within the hour.

‘Is that necessary?’ he asked her when she put the phone down.

‘You saw that woman; she wouldn’t give me the key. Do you think I want her walking in here whenever she feels like it? Or her husband?’

‘You could have thanked her for looking after the place for you.’

‘Did you ask her to look after it?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Then you thank her,’ she said ungraciously. ‘Did you pay her?’

‘A nominal sum,’ he admitted.

‘I thought so. That kind never do anything for nothing. Who else has a key and can walk in without bothering to knock?’

‘Your grandmother has one. That’s all, I think.’

‘And you,’ she reminded him.

‘Not really.’ He took the keys from his pocket and handed them to her. ‘I was merely looking after them until you came back.’

‘You didn’t have your own key, even though we were engaged?’

‘No.’ His grey eyes looked into hers, challenging the mockery he expected.

She gave him reason to. ‘So it wasn’t a close enough relationship for you to come here whenever you chose, then?’

‘I think that it’s far too soon, and that you’re in far too belligerent a mood, for us to discuss it.’

Her chin came up and it looked for a moment as if Paige was going to argue with him, but then she shrugged and said, ‘Who else have you told that you’ve brought me back?’

‘Your grandmother, of course. She’s travelling down to London tomorrow and wants you to go back with her to Lancashire for a while.’

‘To stay? For how long?’

‘She didn’t say how long. For as long as you like, I suppose.’

‘I don’t like. Who else?’

‘Your solicitor. He will want to assure himself of your identity, of course, and then I expect you will have lots of papers to sign so that you can take over your inheritance. I’ve told him to be here at three.’

‘He’s coming here?’

‘Yes.’

Paige laughed. ‘How rich I must be, then, if the solicitor comes to me instead of me going to his office.’

‘We thought it would be easier for you if he came here.’ Milo glanced at his watch. ‘Aren’t you hungry? We haven’t had lunch yet. There’s a restaurant not far away that does very good seafood.’

‘I’m not hungry. And anyway the locksmith is coming.’

‘Ah, yes, the locksmith.’

He started to say something but Paige suddenly got to her feet and ran into the bedroom. ‘Come with me,’ she called.

Surprised, Milo followed her, but in the doorway found a pile of clothes thrust into his arms. ‘What on earth...?

‘There must be a charity shop round here. Give them these. And these. And these.’ She was pulling clothes out of the wardrobe, hangers and all, and heaping them onto the pile.

‘Wait! Hey, wait.’ Milo peered at her over the growing pile. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘I couldn’t be more sure. Hateful, dreary clothes. I wouldn’t be seen dead in them. Come on, let’s put them in your car.’ Gleefully she picked up another pile and carried it out into the hall.

‘This is crazy,’ Milo said as they dumped the clothes in the back of the car. But he didn’t seem at all angry, and looked, if anything, amused by it.

They made two more journeys before the clothes cupboards were empty, and Paige looked at them in satisfaction. ‘Good. Now I’ll unpack my case.’

She had just finished doing so when the locksmith arrived. Within ten minutes he’d changed the barrel on the front door and handed her two new keys. When he’d gone, Paige looked down at the two keys and glanced at Milo. ‘One for me, and one for—’ She paused deliberately. ‘And one for Jean-Louis, of course.’

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