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

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

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

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

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

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

A Secret Rebellion
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

PROLOGUE

ALEX noticed her as soon as she came into the room.

He had been standing in the broad bay of the window, a glass of some obnoxious liquid in his hand, wondering how soon he could decently make his excuses and leave. Gatherings like this were not his scene, and he had only agreed to come because it was his nephew’s birthday, and someone had to represent the family. Or at least that was his father’s excuse. In any other circumstances, he would have refused, but the old man was unwell, and for once Alex had been persuaded to do his bidding.

Consequently, it was not surprising that his restless gaze should alight on the one woman at the party who wasn’t underdressed. For the past hour—was it only an hour?—he had been discouraging the advances of a parade of females, in most cases young enough to be his daughter, all of whom seemed to consider it necessary to wear as little as possible. That was why the newcomer’s appearance, in a plain black dress, was so startling. Among this crowd she stood out like the raven at the feast.

Not that the dress itself was unattractive, he amended, with a critical frown. The neckline was modest, but appealing, and her skirt ended several inches above her knee. Of course, the fact that she was also wearing opaque black tights added to the illusion of propriety. And only the fact that the light was behind her revealed the length and beauty of her legs.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he had ignored her face. In truth, he wasn’t much interested in anything except the unusual mode of her appearance. He’d registered that she was fairly tall, and slim, and that she evidently dressed with some regard for the weather. Outside the apartment, the temperature was dipping to somewhere near freezing point.

Alex propped his shoulder more comfortably against the wall, and looked down into his glass. The drink it contained was a curious greenish colour. His nephew’s girlfriend—what was her name? Christina?—had informed him it was punch, but it didn’t taste like it to him. He must be getting old. He would have much preferred Scotch, or even the spirit he had been weaned on. These designer drinks were all very well, but he had no intention of risking a driving violation.

‘Hi.’

The casual overture arrested the downward spiral of his thoughts, but he had physically to steel himself to face the confrontation civilly. To hell with it, he thought; as soon as he could find Nick, he was getting out of here. He’d shown his face; he’d done his duty. If his nephew didn’t like it, then that was his hard luck.

He lifted his head slowly, preparing himself to face yet another unsubtle come-on, and then felt his focus shifting. The young woman who had issued the friendly greeting was the woman in black, as he had mentally dubbed her, the newcomer, whose appearance had so compulsively drawn his attention.

‘Um—hi,’ he offered politely, realising he had done her an injustice by ignoring her pale features. She was quite startlingly good-looking, and although she might not fit his normal assessment of what made a woman beautiful her face was none the less worthy of approval.

‘You don’t mind if I join you, do you?’ she added, and although Alex had been determined not to get involved in any pointless exchange he found himself shaking his head, as if in acknowledgement of her proposition. ‘I thought you looked lonely,’ she added, her lips parting to display white, white teeth. And, although he had heard that line half a dozen times already that evening, from her it actually sounded sincere.

‘Bored,’ he amended drily, and then, remembering his manners, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’

She smiled, and Alex was struck again by the flawless delicacy of her beauty. She was very fair, of course. Much different from the women of his family. And with pale skin, and deep blue eyes, she could not have displayed a greater contrast to his own swarthy appearance.

But, as he acknowledged the narrow cheekbones, and straight, unblemished nose, the wide, sensual mouth, and small but determined chin, Alex couldn’t help wondering what she was doing with him. With long lashes, several shades darker than her silvery cap of hair, and a slim, yet not unshapely figure, she could have approached any man in the room, and not been repulsed. In fact, he found her comparatively modest style of clothing unexpectedly sexy, among so much exposed flesh. And, judging by the glances she was getting, he wasn’t the only man to think so.

Which brought him back to his original query as to why she should have made a bee-line for him. It wasn’t as if he had encouraged her. Dammit, he hadn’t even looked at her, until she spoke to him. And it couldn’t be his appearance. In worn jeans and a leather jacket, he looked little different from a dozen other males in the room, and decidedly older.

Unless …

‘I must admit I don’t like parties much either,’ she said ruefully, interrupting his train of thought. She indicated the glass she was holding and which contained an identical concoction to his own, and grimaced. ‘What do you think this is? Moonshine?’

Alex found his lips twitching. ‘I wish it were,’ he replied, pulling a similar face. ‘Cat’s you-know-what is my guess. I’d suggest you treat it cautiously.’

‘Oh, I will.’

Her laughter was infectious, and several pairs of eyes turned in their direction. Including his nephew’s, Alex noticed. He hoped Nick didn’t think he had orchestrated this encounter.

‘What’s your name?’

Her question was not unexpected, and Alex dragged his eyes away from her smiling mouth, and endeavoured to give it serious consideration. But he was unwillingly aware of a certain disappointment. If she knew who he was, all his questions would be answered.

‘I—Alex,’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Alex—Th—Thorpe.’

‘Nice name.’ Her response was guileless, as far as he could tell, and there had been no glimmer of suspicion in those wide indigo eyes. ‘I’m Elizabeth Ryan.’ She held out her hand. ‘How do you do?’

Alex took her hand in his much larger one, noticing the contrast between her flesh and his. And he was irritably aware of his own reaction to the contact. Her skin was as smooth and soft as silk, and he wanted to hold on.

Amazingly enough, she seemed to feel the same. Even though he held her hand far longer than was necessary she made no move to pull away. On the contrary, she looked up at him with a curiously satisfied look in her disturbing eyes, and Alex had the distinct impression that she was well aware of his response.

In the event, he broke the contact, thrusting his hand into the back pocket of his jeans, as if to remove it as far as possible from danger. Danger? He took a less than cautious swig of the punch in his glass, and swallowed the oath that sprang unguarded to his lips. God, this stuff must be stronger than he thought, he chided himself harshly. It was years since he had felt so—aroused.

‘So who do you know?’ she asked, sipping her own drink, and then pulling a face, and Alex frowned.

‘I beg your—–?’

‘Nick or Christina,’ she prompted, moving out of the way of a couple, who were performing a rather heavy-footed version of the lambada. ‘I work with Chris, and I don’t believe she’s mentioned you before.’

‘No.’ Alex endeavoured to soften his stiff features. ‘No, I—know Nick. Um—from way back.’

‘I see.’ She nodded, glancing round at the thickening crowd that was filling the living-room of the apartment. ‘I must admit, I didn’t realise Chris had asked so many people. I wonder if they all had an invitation?’ Her lips parted, giving him another tantalising glimpse of her tongue. ‘Probably not. But who’s going to ask if they’re gatecrashers?’

‘Well, not me,’ remarked Alex drily, and she laughed.

‘Me, neither,’ she agreed, and as she moved back again her hip brushed the taut muscles of his thigh.

He could smell her now. The faintly musky fragrance she was wearing filled his senses, and combined with the indefinable femininity of her body. Her hair smelt deliciously of lemon, and where it turned into her nape it was inclined to curl. It was short hair, straight, but expertly cut. It framed her face quite delightfully, and she had a habit of pushing her fingers through it. Alex thought he would like to push his fingers through it too, before he could stifle the impulse. For even though it clung silkily to her fingers it always returned to its original shape.

He was crazy, he told himself severely. It was long past the time when he had intended to get out of here, and he ought to make a move. Before her—Elizabeth’s—arrival, he had been itching to make his excuses and leave. Yet now he was reluctant to do so.

He could imagine what his father would say if he knew why Alex was delaying his departure. The old man had asked him to come here to keep an eye on Nick, for God’s sake. His nephew was known to be reckless, and too impressionable for his own good. And, although the family were prepared to tolerate his relationship with Christina Lennox, no one was in any doubt that he would eventually marry the girl his grandfather had chosen for him.

It didn’t matter that Alex thought his father had rather too much to say where his grandsons were concerned. It was the way things were done in his family, but—please God!—he’d never get like that. Yet with his brother too ineffectual to stand against the old man’s wishes, it was usually left to Alex to play devil’s advocate. It was not a role that lay comfortably on his shoulders, and as far as Tony was concerned he played it far too well. But that was why he was here tonight: to provide a stabilising influence. Not find himself attracted to a woman who was not only unsuitable, but whom he didn’t even know.

‘Have you eaten?’

The words were out before he could prevent them, and the young woman looked up at him with warm enquiring eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, actually, I haven’t. But I expect there’s some food around here somewhere. I think Chris said something about a buffet.’

It was his let-out, but he didn’t take it. ‘I meant, would you like to get out of here, and find some place where we could have supper?’ he explained. He indicated the smoke-laden atmosphere. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could stand some fresh air.’

‘Oh.’ Elizabeth appeared to give his invitation some thought. ‘Well—I’m not sure—–’

‘I’m quite respectable,’ he offered, realising he had never done anything so impulsive in his life. ‘And I do mean supper. It’s not an unsubtle excuse to get you into bed.’

She smiled. ‘Isn’t it?’ And he felt the incredible awareness of heat invading his neck. ‘Oh, well, I’ll have to make do with supper, then, won’t I? Give me a minute, and I’ll go and tell Chris what’s going on.’

His nephew was not unnaturally shocked to hear why he was leaving. ‘You’re taking a strange woman to supper!’ he exclaimed, staring at Alex as if he’d suddenly grown two heads. ‘So—who is she? Tell me. Do I know her? Good God, I can’t believe you’re doing this!’

‘Her name is Elizabeth Ryan, and she’s a friend of Christina’s,’ declared Alex flatly. ‘And I’m only taking her for something to eat. Nothing else.’

‘I should hope not.’ Nick’s dark eyes were frankly amazed. ‘Does she know who you are? Have you told her?’

‘She knows I am a man who has offered to buy her a meal.’ Alex was dismissive. ‘That’s enough.’

‘But if she knows—–’

‘She doesn’t.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I am not offering her marriage, Nico.’ Alex sighed. ‘Do not concern yourself with my morals. You are too young to give advice to someone old enough to be your father!’

‘Hardly that.’ Nick was indignant.

‘Oh, I think so,’ responded Alex lazily. ‘I was a very mature teenager.’ He cuffed his nephew on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy yourself, Nico. With God’s grace I should see you in the morning.’

Elizabeth was waiting for him in the foyer. She had put on a dark green raincoat that almost reached her ankles, and knee-length boots that disappeared beneath the hem. She was certainly prepared for the weather, he reflected. Only her silvery head was uncovered.

She ran her fingers through her hair as he came towards her. It occurred to him that it was a faintly nervous gesture. And why not? he asked himself, zipping up his jacket. She knew even less about him than he did about her.

‘Did you find Christina?’ he asked, leaning past her to open the door, and for a moment her expression was blank.

Then, ‘Chris? Oh—yes.’ He stood back and she hurried into the hall outside. ‘Mmm, it’s chilly. Are you sure you’ll be warm enough without an overcoat?’

Alex closed the door behind them, and pulled a wry face. As he went everywhere by car, he seldom considered the weather. But it was possible she didn’t have a car. That she used the bus or the Underground. And his appearance had evidently not led her to believe he was particularly affluent.

He frowned, as the realisation that she would soon know quite a lot more about him surfaced. It had been easy enough maintaining his anonymity in Nick’s girlfriend’s apartment. At least half the men present had been wearing jeans and casual jackets. But how many of them had come here in a year-old Ferrari?

As they went down the stairs and out into the chill of a March evening, Alex examined his alternatives. He could pretend he had had too much to drink and suggest they hail a cab. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find a cruising taxi on the Embankment, and Christina’s apartment was only a stone’s throw from there. Indeed, Alex had been relieved to find her address was in a reasonably respectable part of the city. There were areas of London where he’d have had some hesitation at leaving his car unattended.

Or, he could suggest they walk along the Strand, where they were bound to find a suitable restaurant. In fact, he knew of an Italian establishment just off William Street, where they served the juiciest pizzas he had ever tasted.

Or, and it was probably the most sensible, whatever his misgivings, he could collect his car, and drive to a decent hotel that provided valet parking. He could always pretend he was looking after the car for a friend—if indeed she knew anything about Italian sports cars.

‘My car’s over here.’

For a moment, he thought he had said the words, but almost immediately he realised he hadn’t. Elizabeth was indicating a dark blue Peugeot, parked precisely in front of a dark green Ferrari, and Alex allowed his breath to escape an a rueful sigh. Evidently, she had chosen to take charge of their transportation, and, while it solved his problem, he felt a fleeting sense of regret at having the decision taken out of his hands.

She unlocked the car as he walked round to the passenger side. He chose to walk round the back of the car, running his fingers regretfully over the Ferrari’s grille. Whatever happened to male domination? he wondered drily. Still, at least it would save him the trouble of taking her home afterwards.

The passenger seat was too far forward, and his knees nudged the dashboard. ‘Make yourself comfortable. That seat’s seldom used,’ she advised him easily. Then, looking through her rear-view mirror, ‘Goodness, why do people park so close to the boot? I’ve hardly got enough room to get out of here.’

Alex deliberately refrained from glancing over his shoulder. He knew exactly how close the Ferrari was. ‘Shortage of space, I guess,’ he volunteered lightly, and she muttered something about power-steering as she manoeuvred out into the traffic.

It was cold in the car, and the windows were misted with their breath, but she seemed to know where she was going. Alex wondered if she was going to ask him where they ought to park, but then decided she probably knew the city better than he did. He was all right in the well-lit streets and main thoroughfares, but when it came to negotiating its one-way system he was soon in trouble.

The heater began working as they drove along the Embankment, and the windows started to clear. It meant he had more light to see the delicate curve of her profile, and the determined way she held her tongue between her teeth when she was concentrating. He still couldn’t get over the fact that he had actually invited her to have dinner with him. Nick was right. It wasn’t like him. Dear God, what kind of a woman was she, to leave the party with a man she had only just met?

He was so busy thinking about his reasons, and hers, that he was paying little attention to their surroundings. He had assumed she knew a short cut to the West End. He knew, because he had done it, that it was possible to run up one of these streets into Whitehall, or Piccadilly. He had expected her to do that. But he suddenly realised they were crossing the river, and that was not the way to reach their destination.

Alarm flickered along his veins, but it was only a momentary thing. He knew he was perfectly capable of overpowering her, any time he chose, and that if this was some crazy attempt at kidnapping she had chosen the wrong man. But what if she had accomplices? What if when she stopped there were a couple of hoodlums waiting for him? He ought to do something now, before he lost the initiative.

But, before he could marshal any defence, Elizabeth braked, and turned the car into a narrow street of tall Victorian houses. ‘Nearly there,’ she said, turning and giving him a winsome smile, and he had the uneasy suspicion that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

‘Nearly where?’ he responded, his tone much less cordial than hers, and she tucked her lower lip between her teeth.

‘My apartment,’ she replied, braking again, as she swung the Peugeot over to the kerb. There was just room for her to squeeze the little saloon between a dust-smeared Renault and an ancient convertible. ‘I thought I’d cook you supper. Do you mind?’

Alex stared at her. ‘You!’

‘Hmm, me,’ she agreed, putting the car into neutral, and turning off the engine. ‘Believe it or not, but I can cook. Nothing fancy, you understand, but good wholesome food.’

Alex didn’t know whether to laugh or give her a piece of his mind. It was his own fault, of course. If he hadn’t been so ambivalent about revealing that he owned a Ferrari, he’d have been in control. As it was, she had taken events into her own hands, and he could either like it or do the other thing.

He shook his head. He could always call a cab, he supposed. But that would definitely seem ungracious. And, after all, it didn’t really matter where they ate. If she was prepared to invite a stranger into her home, why should he grumble?

‘Are you serious?’ he asked, putting his hand on the door-handle, and she nodded.

‘Of course.’ She licked lips that suddenly looked a little uncertain. ‘You’re not a rapist or anything, are you?’

Alex grimaced. ‘Would I tell you, if I were?’

Elizabeth bit her lip. ‘I suppose not.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ said Alex shortly, thrusting open his door. ‘Come on. It’s too cold to sit here discussing my sexual habits.’ He grinned. ‘We can do that much more comfortably inside, hmm?’

Elizabeth got out, but she still looked uncertain. ‘I have neighbours,’ she informed him. ‘If I screamed—–’

‘Oh, please.’ Alex spread his hands. ‘I’m not a rapist. Nor do I prey on lonely women. Now, can we go inside?’

Her apartment was on the third floor, and Alex groaned as they reached the landing. ‘Someone ought to teach the English to install elevators in their apartment buildings!’ he exclaimed, leaning against the wall, as she searched for her keys. ‘This is the seventh flight of stairs I’ve climbed tonight!’

She frowned. ‘You said—the English; aren’t you English?’

Alex could have bitten out his tongue. ‘Half,’ he said, hoping she wouldn’t ask what the other half was. The door opened, and he followed her inside. ‘Hmm, this is—nice.’

‘It’s awful,’ she assured him fervently, closing the door and securing the lock. ‘But—it’s rented. The furniture, too. It’s practically impossible to rent a decent apartment in London without its being furnished.’

‘Hmm.’ Alex pushed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and looked about him, as he followed her into a lamplit living-room. Happily, she seemed to have been diverted from asking about his nationality, and he was more than willing to keep her talking about the apartment if that would do the trick. ‘Do you live here alone?’

She looked at him quickly and then away. ‘I—yes,’ she replied, shedding her raincoat on to a chintz-covered sofa, and stepping into the tiny kitchen, which opened off the living-room. She switched on a track of spotlights. ‘So—what would you like to eat? I’ve got steak, chicken, frozen pizza? Or I could scramble us some eggs.’

Alex propped his hip against the fixture. ‘Frozen pizza sounds good to me,’ he declared, choosing the one that required the least preparation. He had noticed the microwave oven standing at one end of the Formica-topped counter, and he had prepared himself enough frozen meals to know it was a simple matter to defrost and cook the pizza. ‘How about you?’

‘Mmm. That sounds good to me, too,’ she agreed, bending to take the box from the freezer. ‘Er—it’s cheese and tomato. Is that all right?’

‘Whatever.’ Alex turned away from the sight of her neatly rounded buttocks, and the way her skirt rode halfway up her thighs as she bent over. It exposed the fact that she wasn’t wearing tights at all, but black stockings, and the unexpected glimpse of her inner thigh, soft, and smooth, and creamy white, was more disturbing than he wanted it to be. ‘So—–’ he endeavoured to school his racing pulse ‘—what do you do for a living?’

She put the pizza into the microwave before replying, and then came to the end of the counter, and propped her elbows on it. ‘What do you think I do?’

‘I don’t know.’ Alex turned, raking back his dark hair with a slightly impatient hand. He shrugged. ‘Something glamorous, I suppose. Modelling, perhaps.’

She laughed. ‘As in artist’s?’

‘As in fashion,’ amended Alex shortly, not appreciating her humour. ‘I assumed you had a job where looks played a part.’

‘Is that a compliment?’

Alex’s mouth compressed. ‘If you want it to be.’

She hesitated. ‘All right. So I’m—involved in fashion. But not as a model. I—buy clothes.’

‘A fashion buyer?’

‘Mmm.’ She seemed content with that description. ‘Now can I offer you a drink?’

Alex thought about saying no, because he was driving, and then thought better of it. He had only had one glass of that appalling punch at the party, and right now he could use something stronger. Preferably whisky, he thought grimly. At this moment, he was feeling at a decided disadvantage.

‘What have you got?’ he asked, and she turned away to take a bottle of Scotch out of one of the cupboards.

‘Only this, I’m afraid,’ she said, not realising how relieved Alex was feeling. It was much later when he conceived the thought that Chivas Regal was hardly the expected thing to find in a single woman’s apartment.

He took it straight, with ice, and after she had settled him on the sofa she returned to the kitchen. She hardly touched her own drink, he noticed. But that was hardly surprising, considering she had practically drowned the Scotch with water.

‘Do you work in London?’

Her question caught him unawares, and Alex took refuge in his drink before replying. ‘Partly,’ he admitted, at last, realising he didn’t have to lie about his whereabouts. London was pretty big, after all.

‘Partly?’ She left the salad she had been mixing, and came to the end of the counter again. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Oh …’ Alex floundered, realising that instead of concentrating on an answer he was looking at her breasts. She had unusually full breasts, and they had been thrown into prominence by the position of the spotlights. They were probably the reason she wasn’t a model, he reflected. Although she was slim, her breasts and hips were much too generously rounded. ‘I mean—I travel, too. Quite a lot,’ he appended, deciding the whisky was responsible for the thickness of his tongue. ‘You know what travelling salesmen are like—here today and there tomorrow.’

Much to his dismay, she picked up the bottle of Scotch, and came to refill his glass. ‘Really,’ she said, bending over him, and he was intensely aware that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that she really needed one, he conceded, imagining how she would look without the confining fabric of her dress. Which begged the thought of whether she was wearing any underwear at all, and he cradled his glass between his hands in case he was tempted to find out.

The trouble was, he had the distinct suspicion that she wouldn’t object if he did so. God, what kind of woman was she? She looked so innocent, but she was acting like a—a—–

The actual word he wanted to use escaped him. Besides, if he was completely honest with himself he would admit that apart from bringing him here she’d done nothing to incite his sexuality. Except inflame his senses, he thought impatiently. Good God, every move she made set his nerves on edge.

‘So what do you sell?’ she asked, and he breathed a little easier, as she moved back into the kitchen.

But the question still needed answering, and, taking another mouthful of Scotch, he conceived the perfect answer. ‘Oil,’ he replied, feeling pleased with himself. ‘Um—olive oil.’ That was better. ‘We import it from Greece.’ He grinned suddenly, enjoying his own joke. ‘Barrels and barrels of it.’

‘Gosh.’

She sounded really interested, and just for a moment he felt a heel. But, dammit, he didn’t know her from Adam—or Eve; he grimaced. And after this evening there was every chance that he’d never see her again.

The apartment was getting warm now, and looking round he decided it wasn’t as ugly as he had at first thought. The lamps cast a mellow shadow over the worn patches in the carpet, and even the picture of the oriental lady over the fireplace had taken on a hazy luminescence.

Taking off his jacket, he laid it over the back of the sofa, and lounged a little lower on the cushions. It was really rather pleasant, he thought, sitting here, talking to a beautiful woman, smelling the scent of the pizza sizzling in the oven. He relaxed, savouring the flavour of the whisky. He didn’t know why he had been apprehensive.

And, almost inevitably, it seemed, his eyes were drawn back to Elizabeth. He liked watching her. He liked the way she moved. And he liked the way the light reflected off her hair. She looked both innocent and knowing, and he was growing less and less immune to her undoubted sensuality.

He swallowed more of the Chivas, and lifted his foot to rest his ankle across his knee. Think of something else, he ordered himself, resisting the urge to look at her again, but the awareness of her nearness was causing his blood to thicken. It throbbed in his head, with an urgency that brought an actual physical ache, but the core of that ache was centred somewhere else entirely.

‘Have some more whisky,’ she murmured, and he realised she had left the kitchen and was standing beside the couch. Her hand was outstretched, on the point of pouring more of the potent spirit into his glass, and only his swift withdrawal prevented her from achieving her objective.

‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ he demanded harshly, as his brain struggled to come to terms with what was happening. What did she want of him? Why had she brought him here?

She smiled then, setting the whisky aside, and sitting down on the couch beside him. As she did so, she allowed her body to slide against him, and Alex felt the jolt of that contact firing every nerve he possessed.

‘Would you mind if I were?’ she asked, and it took Alex a moment to comprehend what she was talking about.

‘That depends why you’re doing it,’ he said, his eyes drawn to the moistness of her lower lip. ‘I can’t believe it’s because you want my body. A woman like you—you wouldn’t have to get a man drunk to—–’ He broke off, his lips twisting. ‘But you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

‘Do I?’ Her tongue appeared again. ‘Tell me. I like it when you talk dirty.’

Alex grimaced. ‘Lady, I’m not talking dirty, believe me.’

‘Thinking dirty, then,’ she amended, pressing one long finger against her lips. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking. I want to know. You do like me, don’t you?’

Alex swallowed. ‘You’re crazy!’

‘Why?’ She removed her finger from her lips and drew it down his dark-skinned cheek. ‘Because I want to know what you really think about me?’ Her eyes were wide and innocent. ‘Do you want to kiss me?’

Alex’s head felt as if it was about to explode. And not just his head, he admitted grimly. The zip of his jeans felt as if it was in danger of disintegrating, as the smouldering heat in his body spread down into the cradle of his sex.

‘That’s beside the point,’ he said stiffly, struggling to combat his rising passion. God, if she didn’t move away soon, he’d very likely lose the battle, and, aroused as he was, could he be relied on to do the right thing?

‘Is it?’ she persisted, leaning towards him, so that those glorious breasts were pressed against his arm. ‘I think that means you do. So why don’t you?’

Alex caught his breath. ‘I think I heard the microwave switch off,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t you think you ought to take a look at the pizza?’

‘I’d rather look at you,’ she responded, sliding her soft hand along his cheek. ‘Mmm, that’s rough. I bet you need to shave at least twice a day.’

‘Elizabeth—–’

‘Liz.’

‘Liz, then—–’ Her other hand was on his thigh now, cupped over the muscles that stretched above his knee. ‘Let’s not rush things, shall we?’

Her eyes darkened. ‘You don’t like me?’

He stifled an oath. ‘Of course I like you—–’

‘Well, then …’ She looked at him with those deep indigo eyes. ‘So long as we understand one another.’ One finger performed a circular movement against his leg. ‘I think we should have another drink.’

‘No.’ Alex managed to get the word out with an effort. He had drunk far too much whisky as it was. Looking down at her hand, for instance, he knew he should remove it. The trouble was his brain couldn’t formulate the message.

‘I saw you looking at me, you know,’ she murmured, and for a moment his mind was a blank. ‘At the party,’ she added, offering him illumination. ‘I saw you the minute I arrived. You’re quite—noticeable. Big—and dark—and sexy.’

Alex tried for a laugh. ‘Who? Me? With this ugly mug? I think you’ve got the wrong guy.’

‘No, I haven’t.’ She gazed at him intently. ‘You’re not ugly and you know it. I bet you’ve known a lot of women, haven’t you?’

Alex drew an uneven breath. ‘Not as many as you think.’

She frowned. ‘Are you married?’

Not any more. ‘No.’

‘That’s good.’ She seemed to breathe a little more easily, and he wondered why it mattered to her. If she was what he thought she was, whether he was married or not shouldn’t be an issue. ‘Can I kiss you?’

Alex felt like a youth on his first date. For God’s sake, he was too old for this, he thought, so what was he doing here? Whatever she wanted, he would be very unwise to linger. He wasn’t the kind of man who carried protection around as a matter of course.

Her perfume assaulted his senses as her tongue brushed his parted lips. It was a potent mix of some expensive fragrance, combined with the warm, womanly smell of her body. It was a long time since he had been aroused by the mere scent of a woman, but he felt his senses swimming as she rubbed herself against him.

‘Nice,’ she breathed, against his mouth, and Alex knew his actions were slipping out of control. Her hand against his thigh was a constant torment, and, thrusting the whisky glass on the floor, he grasped her shoulders.

Afterwards he couldn’t remember what he had intended to do. He thought perhaps he had tried to push her away, but all he had succeeded in doing was dragging her closer. With his senses running riot, he ground his lips against hers, delivering hard, hungry kisses to her moist, willing mouth.

And her mouth was so amazingly desirable. Hot, and urgent, and deliciously receptive, her lips parting easily to accommodate his possession. He had never kissed anyone who responded so completely, and he thought he might burn in the fire of her touch.

He heard the tremulous little moan she gave as his tongue plunged into her mouth, but it was hardly a protest. With one hand clinging to the back of his neck, and the other trapped between his legs, she was totally aware of what she was doing. It was Alex who had the distinct impression he was being manipulated, but the thunder of his blood made him deaf to any warning.

His hands moved over her back, confirming his belief that she wasn’t wearing a bra. They also found the tab of the zip that ran from the high neck at the back of the dress to her hips. With an effort, he controlled the urge to tear the dress off her, and allowed his fingers to gently part the teeth.

She shivered when his hands invaded the opened back of the dress and, just for a moment, he sensed a certain unwillingness to continue. But, dammit, it was too late for her to be having second thoughts now, he decided grimly. She had asked for this, and she couldn’t blame him for taking her at her word.

Her spine was straight and slender, the skin smooth and soft as silk. When he allowed his fingers to follow its line, she arched automatically against him. And when his exploration found the lacy edge of her panties she sucked in her breath with a gulp.

So, she was wearing underwear, he acknowledged, in some distant corner of his mind, far removed from the immediacy of what he was doing. Not totally shameless, then, and perhaps a little inexperienced. But she didn’t try to stop him, when he inserted his finger and found the tender cleft that quivered beneath.

However, these thoughts only registered at a subconscious level. The actual recklessness of what he was doing, and the realisation that he might be risking life and limb just to get laid, couldn’t seem to penetrate the swirling fog of his passion. Her mouth, her skin, the tantalising delights of her body still to be uncovered, seemed far more important than some possible threat of infection. Whether it was the whisky or not, he was at the mercy of his own needs, and when she took his hand, and got up from the couch, he followed her instinctively.

She didn’t turn a lamp on in the bedroom, but the light from the living-room provided a shadowy illumination. And, when she peeled the black dress down her body, taking her panties with it, exposing herself in only black stockings and suspenders, the luminous quality of her skin was all the light he needed.

He wanted to worship her body. She was so beautiful, so exquisite, that anything less seemed a crime. But when she came to him, and began unbuckling his belt, he knew he had to have her. With or without her participation, he desperately needed to bury himself in her body.

He tore off his shirt and jeans with hands he knew were trembling. God, he chided himself, he was like a callow youth, frantic for his first initiation. What was wrong with him, for pity’s sake? It wasn’t as if he’d never wanted a woman before. But not as much as he wanted this one, a small voice warned him, as she backed up on to the bed, coiling one long leg under her and drawing up her other knee. Every move she made excited him, and his eyes were drawn to the glimpse of blonde curls, just visible behind her updrawn thigh. God, he thought unsteadily, she was good. She knew exactly how to tantalise his senses.

But it was her breasts he caressed first, as he came down on the bed beside her. They were just as glorious as he had imagined, and she let him weigh them in his hands, before carrying the swollen nipples to his lips. He suckled greedily, feeling the ache of his arousal hard against her thigh. Soon, very soon, he promised himself with feeling, aware that he was fast approaching the point of no return.

But he noticed, almost in passing, that she kept her eyes fixed on him, and what he was doing to her body. She never once looked down at his manhood, rearing beside her hip. And he wanted her to. He knew a sudden urgent need for her to do so. He wanted her to touch him, as he was touching her.

It was almost his undoing. When he took her hand, and brought it down to his throbbing heated flesh, he shuddered helplessly. The headlong rush of excitement he felt when her slim cool fingers curled about him was beyond belief. He knew, if he weren’t careful, he’d spill himself into her hands.

‘It’s so big,’ he heard her whisper, and even though his mind was spinning out of his grasp he couldn’t prevent the hoarse laugh that escaped his throat. But not for long, he thought, with grim humour, aware of his own limitations. He couldn’t wait to feel the heat when her tight sheath closed about him.

He tipped her back against the pillows, and buried his face between her breasts. Then, trailing kisses from her throat to her navel, he found the lace-trimmed edge of her suspenders. He propped himself on one elbow, and thought how deliciously sinful she looked wearing only her stockings. To hell with it, he thought, pressing his face to the hollow planes of her stomach. He’d dispose of them later, after he’d eased his aching flesh.

He stroked his hand along the outside of her thigh, and then probed the parting of her legs. Only they weren’t apart, he discovered; they were clamped tightly together; and when he eased his hand between the muscles jerked uncontrollably.

So, not so experienced at all, he realised, feeling the tangible flexing of the flesh. But more appealing than any blatant invitation. And it didn’t take long for him to persuade her to let him have his way.

She was ready for him. However nervous she might outwardly appear, her body was prepared for his invasion. When he probed the moist curls and found the tender nub of her femininity, she jerked helplessly against his fingers, and when he removed his hand, and rubbed himself against her, her breath came quick and fast against his chest.

Alex couldn’t wait any longer. He was not a man who normally satisfied himself at the expense of his partner, but right now he was too aroused to hold back. Nudging her legs apart with one hairy thigh, he positioned himself between them, bringing her hand down to guide him into her moist responsive core.

Her breathing was practically non-existent when she reached for him, and her judgement was little better as she struggled to do what he wanted. In the end, Alex brushed her hand aside and found his own destiny, thrusting himself into her with a gentle, yet forceful motion.

She was tight, so tight it hurt, but it was too late to recognise what he should have recognised sooner. Besides, as soon as he felt her taut muscles close about him, his body convulsed. She was so beautiful, so desirable, and he groaned as his long-awaited release burst from him.

‘You should have told me,’ he muttered, when he was able to talk again, but although he had expected to find tears on her cheeks she looked remarkably composed when he drew back to look down at her.

‘Does it matter?’ she asked, looking up at him, her eyes shadowy in the subdued light, and in the aftermath of such a soul-shattering experience Alex was inclined to be philosophical. Given his quite amazing desire for her, he doubted he could have drawn back anyway, and even lying here, supposedly relaxed, he was still heavily aware of her perfection.

‘That depends,’ he said now, as he had said earlier in the evening, smoothing her cheeks with his thumbs, ‘what you expect of me.’

She smiled then. ‘Just your body,’ she assured him, with staggering confidence. ‘Now, may I get up? I ought to see to the pizza.’

‘Not yet.’

Alex’s lips twisted, as he felt himself growing hard again. Even after the discovery that she had been a virgin—or, perhaps, because of it—he found he had a definite proprietorial interest in her body, and even though her eyes were vaguely anxious now he was loath to let her go.

‘You—can’t,’ she protested, but the awareness she suddenly exhibited, proved that she knew he could.

‘Let’s see, shall we?’ he breathed, his thumb invading her parted lips. ‘Just for the fun of it …’

CHAPTER ONE

SO, SHE was pregnant.

Beth came out of the private clinic, and stood for several minutes on the pavement, letting the warm breeze of the May morning fan her hot temples. Then, after taking a deep breath, she tucked her bag beneath her arm, and started along the quiet street to where she had left her car.

It was curious. She had thought she would feel different somehow. Not triumphant, exactly, but certainly content that her plan had proved fruitful. It was what she had wanted, what she had aimed for. So why did she suddenly feel so hollow?

She needed something to eat, she decided. She’d noticed a distinct increase in her appetite lately, and, although she didn’t believe the old maxim that she was eating for two, she had found that smaller and more frequent intakes of food helped to keep the nausea at bay.

The small Renault was airless, and she wound down all the windows before inserting her key in the ignition. The car had been standing in the sun for over an hour, and the seat was warm beneath the short skirt of her formal suit.

Before starting the engine, she tipped the rear-view mirror towards her, and examined her face rather critically. She didn’t look any different, she thought, but that was hardly surprising. Nothing momentous had happened that morning. The event which had changed her life had occurred more than eight weeks ago, in another time and another place. That was when she might have expected to see some radical alteration in her appearance. That morning, when she had fled from the London apartment, leaving Alex Thorpe still asleep, and totally unaware of the deception she had practised on him.

There was a certain guilty awareness in her eyes now, eyes that in sunlight were more violet than indigo. But, for heaven’s sake, she had taken nothing from him. It was he who had done the taking, and if he had left something in return then that was only fair, wasn’t it?

She expelled a breath, and turned the mirror away from her flushed features. The fact that the becoming blush of colour added a delicate definition to her high cheekbones meant nothing to her. She was used to the unique quality of her beauty, and in her opinion it was not an advantage. Her experiences had convinced her that a beautiful woman was just a pawn in a man’s world, rarely taken seriously, and often abused. Beauty had killed both her mother and her sister, and she had no intention of falling into the same trap.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t want to fulfil herself as a woman. Just because she despised men, and all they stood for, she was not above using one to create her own destiny. She wanted a home, and a family, and after seven years of working to attain her ends she was now within sight of achieving them. So, why was she feeling so uncertain? She didn’t regret what she had done, did she?

Turning the key, she fired the ignition, and after checking her mirror pulled out into the desultory traffic of Victoria Road. It was too late to go back to the university before lunch, and instead of driving into the city she headed west, towards Sullem Banks, and the river.

It was one of her favourite places, in the little north country town. Here the River Swan was flanked by long sloping stretches of turf, and it was possible to drive down and park on the river bank. When Beth first came to live in Sullem Cross, she had used to come here to escape the confines of her lonely bedsitter, and even now that she had a comfortable home of her own she still came here when she wanted to think.

But today her growling stomach drove her to seek some form of sustenance before she reached the Banks. A baker’s, which served take-away sandwiches and polystyrene cups filled with coffee or tea, provided the necessary nourishment, and after finding a suitable spot Beth opened the pack of cheese and tomato toasties.

Munching on the sandwich, she watched a family of ducks making their way along the river bank. It was a popular haunt for families, and the ducks were no doubt hoping to attract a scattering of breadcrumbs, and, although Beth could have eaten both sandwiches and more besides, she yielded to the temptation to offer them a share. Besides, it was delightful to watch the ducklings scrambling over one another in their haste to reach a particular crumb, and her lips tilted at their obvious rivalry.

It also reminded her, if any reminder was necessary, of the confirmation she had received that morning, and her hand probed her still flat stomach, as if doubting the veracity of what she knew to be true. She was going to have a baby; her baby; no one else’s.

But once again she felt that hollow feeling inside her. It wasn’t just her baby, a small voice reminded her. It was just as much Alex Thorpe’s as hers, and, even though he didn’t know about it, it didn’t alter that one inescapable fact.

But what of it? she defended herself. It wasn’t as if she was depriving him of anything he wanted. Good heavens, he didn’t even know of its existence, and even if he did she doubted he’d be overjoyed at the news. It would be a burden, an unwelcome burden, on a man who evidently didn’t welcome responsibility. He had to have been in his late thirties, and by his own admission unmarried. Though, with hindsight, she had to admit, he had told her precious little about himself.

But then, she had been so busy avoiding telling him anything about herself, it hadn’t seemed a disadvantage. On the contrary, everything about him had fitted her image of the man who was to father her child, and, while he could be a pimp or a drug-pusher, she didn’t think he was.

She had known the risk she was taking long before she gatecrashed the party. In this time of AIDS, and other sexually-transmitted diseases, it wasn’t wise to sleep with just anyone. That was why she had chosen Alex. Because he had looked strong and healthy; and reasonably safe.

Of course, she had also wanted a man whom she could seduce. Which in itself was a daunting prospect, considering she had never seduced a man before. But he had looked older than the other men at the party, and he had behaved like a man who was attracted to women. And, when he’d offered to buy her supper, she couldn’t believe her luck.

Of course, taking him to the apartment had been a gamble. And plying him with Chivas Regal might have engineered her own downfall, or so she had read. Too much, and he might not have been able to do her bidding, however much he might have wanted to. Too little, and he might have turned her down.

But, in the event, Alex had proved himself more than equal to her expectations. Which was one of the reasons why she was suffering these pangs of—what? Conscience? Remorse? Guilt? She shivered. In all her calculations, she had never expected to enjoy it, and the fact that he had made her do so had left her with a distinct feeling of regret.

It hadn’t been meant to be that way. Her intention had simply been to entice him into bed, and encourage him to violate her body. She hadn’t expected him to be so—so patient. Or that he would realise she had never been with a man before. She gave a mirthless laugh. She had proved to be some femme fatale, she thought ruefully. She hadn’t even known what to expect.

She blamed her inexperience, of course. All her life, she had kept men at arm’s length, never letting any of them breach the protective shell she had built around herself. Friends she had made had all learned to respect her privacy, and if some of them thought she was weird it was not something that troubled her overmuch.

It was only now she was having to come to terms with the fact that knowledge gleaned from books could only ever be superficial. Her lack of experience had left her hopelessly ignorant of the workings of a man’s body. Men weren’t like animals. They didn’t just mate, and walk away. More than that, they apparently had the capacity to prolong their enjoyment, and, totally without her volition, she had found herself sharing his need.

God!

She tossed the remainder of the sandwich out of the window, watching the antics of the ducklings with rather less enthusiasm now. How had it happened? How had a man she had met less than two hours before been able to cause such a fever in her body? Nothing remotely like it had ever happened to her before. Yet from the minute he’d entered the apartment, she’d had the uneasy feeling she was in over her head.

She should have called it a day there and then. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t given her the opportunity. On the contrary, without the liberal dose of alcohol, she doubted he’d have succumbed to her less than erotic charms. But, having gone so far, she had been unwilling to back off. She’d known she might never get up the courage to do such a thing again.

And, to all intents and purposes, she had been totally successful. Whatever the rights or wrongs of it might be, she had achieved her objective. She had had sex with a man she never intended to see again, a man who couldn’t trace her. She was free and clear and pregnant, just as she’d wanted. And the sooner she stopped thinking about Alex Thorpe the better.

But it was easier said than done. Once again, as it had done numerous times over the last eight weeks, her mind shifted to wondering what had happened after she ran out on him. It was natural that she should be curious, she told herself. He was not the kind of man to take it lightly.

At first, she had gone over her own efforts to erase all trace of her identity, constantly worrying over every small detail she remembered, afraid that she might not have thought of everything. But her plan then, and now, seemed foolproof. The apartment she had used in London had been rented in an assumed name. The same name had been used to rent the small Peugeot, and her appearance at the party had been brief and anonymous. She had only learned of the party by chance. She had heard Tony, one of the students, bewailing the fact that he wouldn’t be able to attend. Christina Lennox just happened to be his cousin’s girlfriend, but there was no reason to connect Tony Thiarchos with the uninvited guest. To connect him with Elizabeth Ryan, she amended pedantically, wondering if she had been a little rash in using her own first name. But no. There must be several thousand Elizabeths in London alone, and ever since she left home she had always referred to herself as Beth—Beth Haley.

But, even after she had assured herself no one could trace her, she still hadn’t been able to get Alex Thorpe out of her mind. She found he had left an indelible impression, and she hoped, now that she had achieved her ambitions, that what had happened would lose its importance.

She ought to be relieved that she had covered her tracks so completely. There seemed no way anyone could link a university lecturer from a small northern town with the kind of woman who’d pick up a man at a party in London. She doubted even her students would have recognised her behaviour—even if her appearance had been impossible to disguise.

So, all that remained was for her to complete the present term. She had already prepared the way for her absence. A year’s sabbatical, ostensibly to write the book about eighteenth-century literature she had been planning, and then back to work the following year, when the baby was old enough to be left with a minder. She expected his—or her—appearance would cause some speculation. At twenty-nine, Miss—she never fudged the issue by calling herself Ms—Haley was regarded as something of an eccentric. She had never had a regular boyfriend, even though certain of her fellow lecturers had endeavoured to share her confidence. But, although she was known to be efficient at work, and popular with the students, she was essentially a private person. There would be questions, but she could handle them. One of the advantages of being reserved was that it discouraged a lot of prying.

Remembering she hadn’t yet had a drink, she peeled off the plastic lid and brought the cup of coffee to her lips. The smell almost overpowered her, and, wishing she had just bought a fruit juice instead, she poured the lukewarm liquid out of the window. The ducks came to see what she was doing, but retired in disgust when they found the coffee had already seeped into the ground. ‘Well, you did have most of the sandwich,’ she informed them drily, smiling at her own foolishness, and, turning the key, she started the car.

She was leaving the English building later that afternoon, when one of her fellow professors hailed her. ‘Beth!’ called Nigel Dorner, hurrying across the quadrangle to intercept her. ‘I’m so glad I’ve caught you. I’m having a little reception tomorrow night, in the Students’ Union, and I wondered if you’d care to come. It’s an informal gathering, pre-finals and all that. A chance for the staff and students to get together before exams and degrees take precedence. What do you think?’

Beth folded her arms around the pile of papers she was carrying, and waited until he had reached her. Nigel was in his forties, and although he made a big thing about his sporting activities he was decidedly overweight. He was panting by the time he came up beside her, and she allowed him to get his breath back before saying, ‘I don’t think so, Nigel. I’ve got these papers to read, and I promised David I’d take his Thursday evening seminar. I’ll have to do some preparation—–’

‘Oh, Beth!’ Nigel expelled his breath on a disappointed sigh, and ran a hand over his thinning hair. ‘I was sure you’d come. It is almost the end of term. Surely you can take one evening off to have a little fun?’

Beth caught her lower lip between her teeth, wondering why Nigel persisted in thinking she needed to have some fun. Ever since she had made it known she wasn’t interested in having a relationship with any of the younger members of the faculty, Nigel Dorner, who was a divorcee, and Andrew Holroyd, who was slightly older than Nigel and a bachelor, had been vying for her company. It was as if they didn’t believe she could live without a man’s attentions, and they had evidently decided she’d prefer an older man.

‘Look, Nigel,’ she said, not wanting to hurt his feelings, ‘college get-togethers aren’t really my thing. I only attend when it’s absolutely necessary, and I do have a lot of work I want to finish before the holidays.’

Nigel hunched his shoulders. They were broad shoulders, she noticed, unwillingly finding herself comparing them to Alex Thorpe’s. It was because he had been so much on her mind today, she thought irritably, but she couldn’t help conceding that that was where the likeness ended. As well as having broad shoulders, Alex had also been tall, whereas Nigel was little more than her own height of five feet eight. And tubby, into the bargain, she added, his bulging belly always reminding her of Mr Pickwick.

She supposed Andrew Holroyd was the better looking of the two, and he was taller, and less weighty. But neither of them attracted her in the slightest.

‘Well, I worry about you, Beth,’ Nigel said now, turning to an approach that had proved successful in the past. Whenever anyone said they were worried about her, Beth usually gave in. Not least because she disliked the thought that her behaviour was a cause for concern. ‘You live alone in that old house, with only the ghosts for company, and if it weren’t for your work here I doubt you’d have any social life.’

Beth stiffened. ‘I really don’t think that’s any concern of yours, Nigel,’ she said coldly. ‘How I choose to spend my time is my affair—–’

‘Of course it is.’ Nigel realised he had gone too far this time and hurriedly retrenched. ‘And I know it’s not for want of an alternative. Good heavens, you could be out every night if you wanted to. I know that. But you know what they say about—about all work and no play.’

He looked so discomfited now, Beth took pity on him. It wasn’t Nigel’s fault that she had such a poor opinion of his sex, and once she left the faculty, albeit temporarily, she would be cut off from her normal round of acquaintances.

Taking a breath, she allowed a smile to lift her lips for a moment, and then said, ‘All right. What time does this get-together start?’

Nigel couldn’t believe his luck. ‘Oh—um—half-past eight,’ he offered, almost dropping the books he was carrying in his haste to show his enthusiasm. ‘I say, will you come? I’d be awfully flattered.’

‘Not too flattered, I hope,’ murmured Beth drily, starting towards the car park. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

‘Until tomorrow,’ echoed Nigel eagerly. ‘Would you like me to—to pick you up?’

‘Oh, I think I can find my own way to the Students’ Union,’ Beth assured him lightly. ‘Goodbye. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She was aware of him watching her as she strode to where the Renault was waiting, and she wondered if she had made a mistake by accepting his invitation. She wouldn’t like him to get the wrong idea, not with the summer break looming. As far as she knew, Nigel was staying on campus, and it could prove difficult if he started to get the wrong idea.

Still, she consoled herself, unloading her burden of essays on to the back seat, she could always deal with that contingency if it arose. For the present, she had quite enough to think about, not least what she was going to wear tomorrow evening.

Her house, the house she had bought four years ago, and which had considerably increased in value since that time, stood in a row of similar Victorian houses, overlooking Albert Square. The cul-de-sac was called Albert Terrace, and had evidently been named with the then Prince Consort in mind. During the past four years, Beth had steadily improved its appearance, and without losing its character at all she had had new wiring, and an adequate heating system installed. She knew it was too big for one person, but she had never intended to live there alone. And if the ghosts Nigel had taunted her with were sometimes more real than he imagined, they were not ghosts that Albert Terrace knew anything about.

The phone was ringing as she entered the long narrow hall that ran from front to back of the building, and she frowned. She had hoped to be free of complications for the rest of the evening, and she nudged the door closed with her foot, before picking up the receiver.

‘Beth!’

It was Justine Sawyer, wife of one of the maths lecturers, and the closest thing she had to a friend on campus. Justine was the one person Beth still had to deal with in her calculations. In her early thirties, and a social worker, Justine had been married to Mike for more than ten years, without having a family. Justine didn’t want children. She didn’t like them, and she had begun to assume that Beth felt the same. How she would react to the news she had to deliver, Beth didn’t know. Right now, she didn’t even want to think about it.

‘Hi, Justine.’ Beth wedged her pile of papers on to the hall table, as she responded to the call, absently scanning the letters her cleaner, Mrs Lamb, had left there for her. ‘You just caught me. I’ve just come in the door.’

‘Yes, I gathered that. I was beginning to think one of the students had delayed you,’ remarked Justine tersely. ‘You have heard the news, I suppose. It’s terrible, isn’t it? He was such a pleasant boy.’

Beth frowned, putting the bills that had been distracting her aside. ‘What boy, Justine?’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you talking about? Nigel intercepted me as I was leaving the English building. That’s why I’m late. He wanted to ask me to some reception he’s having tomorrow evening.’

‘Well, there may not be a reception now,’ declared Justine, sounding a little impatient. ‘Beth, Tony Thiarchos is dead. Mike thinks he may have committed suicide.’

‘Oh, no!’

Beth suddenly found she was a little weak at the knees. Groping for the banister, she lowered herself on to the second stair and took a steadying breath. It wasn’t that she had known Tony Thiarchos very well. He wasn’t even one of her students. But his girlfriend was, and that was how she’d got to know him. How she’d heard about the party in London.

‘I thought you’d be upset,’ said Justine, sounding slightly mollified now. ‘His girlfriend—what was her name? Linda something-or-other—is one of your third years, isn’t she?’

‘Mmm.’

Beth was finding it very difficult to respond at all. It was always a tragedy when a young person was killed, and Tony Thiarchos had seemed to have everything to live for. He was young, good-looking, popular with his contemporaries. She couldn’t believe he was dead. Much less that he had deliberately taken his own life.

‘Mike thinks he was worried about his finals,’ went on Justine. ‘He said he thought there was a lot of pressure on him from his family to do well. They’re going to be pretty shattered when they hear the news. I wonder if they’ll try to keep it out of the papers?’

Beth blinked, struggling to escape from the sudden cloud that seemed to have engulfed her. She was letting herself get too involved, she thought. Tony Thiarchos had meant nothing to her. Just because she had used something he said in passing for her own ends was no reason to feel any sense of guilt now.

‘I—why would they?’ she managed, gripping the stair carpet beside her with tense fingers, and Justine gave a short laugh.

‘Well, if they can’t, no one can,’ she retorted grimly. ‘He’s a Thiarchos, Beth. Surely even you’ve heard of Constantine Thiarchos! As in oil—and shipping, and God knows what else!’

Beth pulled herself together. ‘I—didn’t think,’ she mumbled, not altogether truthfully. But she hadn’t put the two names together. ‘How—how did it happen?’

‘His car hit a tree.’

Beth frowned. ‘Well, why would you think—–?’

‘He was the only person in the car, Beth.’ Justine was sounding impatient again. ‘And it was broad daylight, for heaven’s sake! He was a good driver. From what Mike says, he could handle that sports car of his like a professional.’

‘Even so—–’

‘Oh, I know. It will probably be treated as an accident. These things usually are. But Mike saw what happened, and he doesn’t—–’

‘Mike saw it!’

‘Yes.’ Justine sighed. ‘It only happened an hour ago. Near Founder’s Hall. That’s why I thought—Beth, are you all right? You sound—well, funny.’

‘I’m fine.’ Beth was relieved to hear that her voice sounded almost normal. She tried to think coherently. ‘So—what happens now?’

‘Well, there’ll have to be an inquest, of course. And his family will have to be informed. I believe his father lives in London. I imagine he’ll be coming to arrange everything.’

Beth nodded. ‘Poor Linda.’

‘Yes. I expect it’s pretty awful for her. They say they were really close. Not that his family would approve. People like the Thiarchoses don’t marry girls like her.’

‘Why?’

Beth tried to focus on the least horrifying aspect of the affair, and Justine made a scornful sound. ‘Darling, we’re too old to believe in all that romantic stuff. Let’s face it, it was just a college infatuation. He’d have left this summer, and they’d have never seen one another again.’

Beth pushed herself somewhat wearily to her feet. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘You know I am.’ Justine sounded irritatingly smug. ‘Now, how about you joining Mike and me for supper? I know it’s short notice, but I think we could all use a little company tonight.’

Beth hesitated, but the thought of preparing a lonely meal for one had lost some of its appeal. She didn’t want to be alone tonight. She didn’t want to think about Tony Thiarchos. She didn’t want to remember that without his grumbling about not being able to attend his cousin’s birthday party she’d never have conceived the idea of gatecrashing the event. He’d been inadvertently responsible for her present condition; for her meeting Alex Thorpe—and that was something else she didn’t want to think about …

CHAPTER TWO

ALEX’S fingers felt numb.

They shouldn’t have felt numb, he thought irritably, wondering how he could feel so cold on such a warm day. It was absurdly warm for May in England. But the chill he was feeling came from deep within himself.

He wanted to put his hands in his pockets, but standing beside his son’s grave with his hands in his pockets seemed disrespectful somehow. Not that Tony would have reproached him. His son had always been complaining about his father’s concern for doing the right thing.

Well, he wasn’t doing the right thing now, Alex thought bitterly, watching his son’s casket being lowered into a grave in an English churchyard. Tony’s grandfather had wanted—had demanded—that Alex bring Anthony’s body back to Greece for burial. Constantine had wanted his grandson laid to rest beside his wife and his mother, but Alex had ignored him. It was a small thing, a small rebellion, but Tony would defeat his grandfather in death as he had never done in life.

Besides, there was the girl to deal with. Tony’s wife, if that incredible scrap of paper was to be believed. Was she the reason his son had crashed his car? Because Tony had been afraid to tell his father and his grandfather he’d married without their consent?

Alex’s jaw hardened. He couldn’t believe that was so. It was too easy. Too simple a solution for something that surely had a deeper significance. But what? He had racked his brain trying to come up with an answer. He had hoped the girl could tell him. Linda. He tried out the name on his tongue. Linda Daniels—no, Linda Thiarchos. His lips twisted. His daughter-in-law!

The service was ending. Bending to scatter a handful of soil over the mahogany casket, Alex felt a crippling sense of pain. God, he wished he had someone he could turn to right at this moment. Even Lucia—though she was far away in South America, too wrapped up with her new life, and her new family, to spare the time to attend her eldest son’s funeral.

Besides, it was a maudlin wish. He and Lucia had never had anything in common—except their son—and their marriage had ended, as it had begun, in acrimony. Something else he had to thank his father for, he thought wearily. And if he thought Constantine had had a hand in this …

He straightened and, as he did so, his eyes were riveted by the sight of a tall slim woman, standing behind, and to one side, of his son’s wife. He blinked once, twice, and then shook his head, as if the tumult of his emotions had caused some blurring of his vision. But no. She was still there. Across the grave. Her hand resting lightly on the girl’s shoulder, as if offering silent support.

He looked down at the ground, incapable of believing that she was actually there. That Elizabeth Ryan was standing at the other side of the grave. And now, conversely, he hoped she hadn’t recognised him. It was obvious his name meant nothing to her. Alexander Thiarchos was a far cry from plain old Alex Thorpe.

But his fear that she might recognise him had nothing to do with who he was. On the contrary, in the past three months, he had used all the means at his disposal to try and find her. And that had meant employing the whole weight of the Thiarchos name to get a result. But it had been for nothing. As of this morning, he had been no nearer to discovering where she was or why she’d disappeared.

No, his fear now was that she might recognise him, and disappear again. And he wanted to know where she had been hiding. Needed to know, with an intensity that had bordered on the insane sometimes. It wasn’t just that such a thing had never happened to him before— though it hadn’t. No, he was furious that she had treated him like a fool.

He chanced another glance in her direction, keeping his head lowered, looking at her through the dark veil of his lashes. Yes, that was Elizabeth Ryan all right, if indeed that was her name. Good God, after all the money he had spent on private investigators, that she should turn up at his son’s funeral. Who the hell was she? What was she doing here?

The ironic thing was, he’d never once thought of calling his son and asking him if he knew her. It would have been difficult anyway, and it hadn’t occurred to him that Tony might know who she was. Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps she was just a friend of Linda’s. After all, both Nick and Christina had denied they’d ever invited her to the party.

‘Mr Thiarchos …’

The priest was at his shoulder, offering him his condolences, and Alex was obliged to lift his head to give his thanks. But he turned, so that the priest stood between him and the two women, as he exchanged a few words with the mourners, before they all trooped to their cars.

His brother, George, was there, of course, with his wife, Simone, and their two sons, Nick and George Junior. There were uncles and aunts, a whole army of cousins, and numerous other relatives and friends, who regarded any ceremony, happy or sad, as a reason for getting together.

Only his father was absent. Ostensibly, Constantine was recovering from a cold, but Alex knew the old man had stayed away, in the hope that he would change his mind. But, in this, Alex had been determined to have his own way. Besides, if Tony did have a widow, he defended himself, it would be easier for her to visit his grave if it was here, in London.

He hunched his shoulders. What ought he to do now? In other circumstances, he would have been expected to join his daughter-in-law, and escort her back to the house. But these were not normal circumstances on two counts, and the one conversation he had had with the girl had not been a comfortable affair.

But what the hell? he thought tersely. How was he supposed to react to the news that his twenty-year-old son had been a married man for almost six months? Tony had been wrong. He should have told him. And now Tony was dead, with no chance of conciliation on either side.

Squaring his shoulders, preparing himself to face not only his new daughter-in-law, but also the woman who had haunted his dreams for the past ten weeks, he turned round—and then felt a dizzying sense of disorientation. They’d gone. Linda, and Elizabeth Ryan. While he had been observing the proprieties, they had both disappeared. Lord, he thought, as his stomach hollowed, was he going mad?

‘Something wrong, Uncle Alex?’

It was Nick, and Alex gazed at his nephew with blank unseeing eyes. For a moment, it was beyond his capabilities to get any words past his lips, but then the world around him steadied, and he expelled a nervous breath.

‘I—Linda—she appears to have gone,’ he said, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt, and Nick nodded.

‘I noticed.’

‘You noticed?’ Alex repeated his words harshly, and then, getting himself under control again said, ‘So, perhaps you noticed where they—where she went. I need to speak with her.’

Nick frowned, pushing his hands into the pockets of his dark suit. ‘Is that wise?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘Perhaps you should just let her come to you, if she wants to.’ He paused. ‘Dad thinks you’ve been more than generous letting her come here.’

‘Does he?’ Alex was curt. He didn’t much care what George thought. The fact was, his brother found it a damn sight easier being tough with a woman than he ever did with a man. ‘Well, if you’ve heard that she and I exchanged a few words at the college a week ago, forget it. We both said a lot of things we probably shouldn’t have. And, if she is Tony’s wife—widow—–’

‘Dad says the marriage certificate is authentic.’

‘—then I guess I have to find out what she intends to do, don’t I?’

Nick nodded again. ‘I guess so.’

‘And—whether she had any idea what Tony—–’

Nick shrugged. ‘Do you think she’d tell you? Even if she knew?’

‘She has to talk to someone,’ said Alex flatly, as the image of a slim, startlingly beautiful woman, with silvery blonde hair, flashed across his mind. ‘Come on, Nico, do you know where she’s gone or don’t you?’

‘They might know,’ answered Nick obliquely, gesturing towards a group of young people who were just dispersing from the graveside. ‘They’re students—from the university. They all came down from Yorkshire this morning.’

Alex brought the Mercedes to a halt at the kerb, but although he switched off the engine he didn’t immediately get out of the car. He was tired, he thought wearily, gazing at the lace-curtained windows of the small semi. Bone-tired, and in no mood to conduct any kind of interview. But it had to be done. From what he could gather, Linda was planning on going back to the university in a couple of days. To take her exams, if the students he had spoken to could be believed. How she could think of taking exams in the present circumstances was beyond his comprehension. But if that was what she intended to do, the sooner he spoke to her the better, before time, and his resentment, got in the way.

Not that that was the only reason he had come here tonight, he conceded, hunching his shoulders against an unwilling tide of emotion. He hadn’t left his brother to make his excuses to the rest of the family just because he needed to speak to his daughter-in-law. It was the woman who had accompanied her he needed to see. Forgive me, Tony, he prayed, but his confrontation with Elizabeth Ryan was long overdue.

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly half-past six, but he was surprised to find it was still so early. A whole lifetime seemed to have passed since he’d seen her in the churchyard earlier that afternoon. Since then, he had had only one objective. To see her, and tell her what he thought of her.

He knew his family and friends, his business acquaintances, and the members of his household staff, all thought grief was responsible for the unnatural air of optimism he had adopted throughout the reception that had followed the burial. And perhaps it was. Conversely, during the past week, he had thought of little else but Tony, and the guilt he felt at not being there when his son might have needed him most. He had gone around in a daze, hardly aware of what he was doing. All through the police enquiries, and the inquest that followed, he had felt as if he was living some awful nightmare. Only when he’d spoken to Linda had he let his feelings show.

But now his mind felt active again. Ever since he’d seen Elizabeth Ryan in the churchyard, it had had a new focus. For a period, at least, he could use his anger towards her to blot out the pain of his son’s death. Thinking of her could keep him sane; give his mind time to heal.

Pulling the keys out of the ignition, he thrust open his door and got out of the car. He was still wearing the dark suit and black tie he had worn to the funeral, and his sombre clothes stood out in the quiet street, where most men were in their shirt-sleeves. The warm day had given way to an even warmer evening, and the usual activities of trimming hedges and mowing lawns were much in evidence here.

But not at Number Seventeen, he noticed, locking the car, and approaching the gate. Apart from an upstairs window being open, and a curtain billowing in the gap, the house looked deserted. They were probably all in the back, he decided. Linda, her parents, and—Elizabeth Ryan.

There was no bell, so he knocked on the panels, which were interleaved with strips of fluted glass. An encouragement for thieves, he thought, imagining how easy it would be to break the glass and unlock the door. Would he go that far, if they refused to speak to him?

Deciding his mind was wandering again, he rested one hand against the wall beside the door and knocked again. He should have let Spiro come with him, as George had wanted him to do, he thought. His burly chauffeur could be relied upon to handle most situations. It was only because he hadn’t wanted to intimidate the girl that he had insisted on coming here alone.

At last, when he was seriously considering all alternatives, he heard someone coming along the hall to the door. He could see a shadow through the glass panels, and his stomach clenched in sudden anticipation. What if it was Elizabeth Ryan? he thought, aware that he was not as in control as he’d imagined. God, why did the woman do this to him? He was as apprehensive now as he had been on his first date.

A key turned, the door opened—and his daughter-in-law was standing there, looking at him. ‘Why—Mr Thiarchos!’ she exclaimed, briefly too shocked to show any hostility. And then, less hospitably, ‘What do you want?’

She had been crying, Alex noticed. Her eyes were red, the lids white and puffy. In normal circumstances, he supposed she was a pretty girl. Attractive, anyway, with her wide, mobile mouth, and short brown curly hair. She wasn’t tall, and she was inclined to carry a little weight, but in something other than an oversized T-shirt and worn jeans he guessed she could look quite presentable.

‘I—we need to talk,’ Alex replied at last, looking beyond her into the narrow hall of the house. ‘May I come in?’

Her breath escaped in a rush. ‘Why?’

‘Because I’d prefer not to discuss my private affairs on the doorstep,’ declared Alex evenly, and she raised a protesting hand.

‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean—why do you want to talk to me? I—I don’t think we have anything to say to one another.’

‘Don’t you?’ Alex endeavoured to hold on to his patience. He had to remember that this had to have been almost as hard for her as it had been for him, and he couldn’t rush her. ‘Well, trust me, we do.’

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