Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

Copyright

“Will you kiss me?”

Paris lifted a hand to touch his face gently. Will froze, then raised a cynical eyebrow. “For old times’ sake?”

“No.” She shook her head. “For now. For the me I am now.”

For a long moment Will didn’t move and she thought that he was going to deny her, but his grip tightened on her arm and he drew her slowly toward him, his eyes holding hers. He lowered his head to hers, touched her lips with his mouth. For an instant it was as if time had stood still and he was kissing her for the very first time all over again.

SALLY WENTWORTH was born and raised in Hertfordshire, England, where she still lives, and started writing after attending an evening class course. She is married and has one son. There is always a novel on the bedside table, but she also does craftwork, plays bridge, and is the president of a National Trust group. They go to the ballet and theater regularly and to open-air concerts in the summer. Sometimes she doesn’t know how she finds the time to write!

Christmas Nights
Sally Wentworth

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

PARIS had been home for less than an hour when the police came. The flat was cold and unwelcoming. When she’d left to go to Budapest six weeks ago the weather had been mild and autumnal and it hadn’t seemed worthwhile leaving the heating on. Now, a week before Christmas, it was freezing outside and the flat was not much warmer.

She’d turned the heating up as high as it would go, drawn the curtains across the frosted windows, fixed herself a drink, and kicked off her shoes as she sat on the settee and began to go through the piles of letters, Christmas cards and junk mail that she had found on the doormat.

When the buzzer sounded Paris frowned, of half a mind to ignore it, but it rang imperatively for a second time, and with a sigh she went over to the entry phone. The faces of two men she didn’t know looked at her from the screen.

‘Yes?’

‘Miss Paris Reid?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re policemen, Miss Reid.’ The nearest man held up an identity card. ‘May we talk to you, please?’

‘Has there been an accident?’ Paris asked, immediately fearful for her parents.

‘No, it’s nothing like that, but we need to talk to you urgently.’

‘You’d better come up, then.’

She waited by the open door for the lift to arrive at her floor. The flat, in the northern suburbs of London, was her own, the mortgage paid for out of her quite considerable earnings. There was only one bedroom, but that suited Paris fine; she had no intention of ever sharing it with a female flatmate—or anyone else, if it came to that.

The policemen had said that there hadn’t been an accident but Paris was still uneasy as she greeted them and led the way into her sitting-room. ‘It isn’t one of my parents?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No, Miss Reid. It’s about Noel Ramsay.’

For a moment it didn’t mean anything, then she grew still. ‘Noel Ramsay?’ she repeated, to give herself time.

‘Yes. You must remember that you were on the jury when he was tried for murder, nearly four years ago now.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She dredged her memory. ‘He escaped, didn’t he? I seem to remember reading about it in the papers some months ago.’

‘That’s right.’ The policeman who’d introduced himself as a detective inspector gave her a pleased smile, as if she were a bright pupil in a classroom.

‘But why on earth should you come to me about him? You did catch him again, didn’t you?’

‘No, I’m afraid we didn’t,’ the inspector admitted ruefully. He paused, then said, ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but you may remember that at the trial Ramsay swore to be revenged on everyone who put him away.’

For a brief, horrible moment the vision of Ramsay’s face, twisted by hate, shouting threats and abuse as he was dragged away, came sharply back into Paris’s mind. ‘Yes, I remember,’ she said tightly.

‘Yes. Well—I’m afraid it’s beginning to look as if he’s carrying out his threat.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Haven’t you been reading the papers lately? The barrister who prosecuted Ramsay was killed by a hit-andrun driver about three months ago, and then one of the policemen who arrested him was very badly injured when the brakes on his car failed—a newish car that had always been well maintained.’

‘Couldn’t those things have been coincidental?’

‘Possibly.’ The inspector shrugged. ‘But a month ago one of the prosecution witnesses just disappeared, and then a member of the jury was found dead in suspicious circumstances. Two incidents could possibly be coincidence, but hardly four. And so we—’ He broke off. ‘Are you all right, Miss Reid?’

Every last vestige of colour had fled from Paris’s face and her throat didn’t seem to work. Her whole being felt suspended in time, too frozen to breathe, but by a tremendous effort of will-power she somehow forced herself to say, ‘Which—which member of the jury?’

‘A Mrs Sheila Rayner. She was the foreman of the jury, if you remember,’ he answered, looking at her curiously.

‘Yes, of course.’ Paris’s heart started to beat again, relief to flow through her veins and bring the colour back to her cheeks. ‘That—that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.’ Getting to her feet, she turned away. ‘Would you like a drink?’ Both men refused but she topped up her own glass and took a long swallow before she faced them again. ‘I didn’t know any of this. I’ve been away, in Hungary, and it wasn’t easy to get English papers.’

‘We know,’ the inspector said with a small smile. ‘We’ve been calling here hoping to find you for a week or so.’

‘To warn me?’

‘Partly that, but also because we’re taking everyone who was involved in the trial to a place of safety. We don’t want anyone else being hurt while we catch Ramsay again.’

Paris’s eyes widened. ‘You’re taking everyone involved? Even the jurors?’

‘Everyone,’ he confirmed. ‘The judge, barristers, witnesses, jurors, even the clerk of the court.’

‘But surely the jurors’ names were never stated in court; how could Ramsay possibly know who we are?’

A grim look came into the policeman’s eyes. ‘Unfortunately the records of the case have disappeared from the archives; we can only assume that Ramsay or an accomplice must have taken them. And if he has—’ he shrugged expressively ‘—then Ramsay knows the names and addresses of everyone connected with the trial.’

‘Don’t you have any leads?’

‘We’re pursuing the matter with the utmost urgency, of course,’ he told her, in what was plainly a stock police phrase for saying that they didn’t have a clue. ‘But he’s already got one of you jurors and I’m not taking any chances. So if you’ll pack a suitcase we’ll get you to a place of safety tonight.’

Paris stared at him unseeingly, her mind whirling as she tried to take in the implications, decide what to do. ‘Are all the people being taken to the same place or are you splitting them up?’

‘No, you’ll all be together. It makes it easier to protect you that way.’

That, of course, made her mind up fast. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said firmly, ‘but I can’t possibly go. Please don’t worry about me. I shall be quite safe here and I—’

‘You will not be safe.’

He spoke sharply but Paris didn’t hesitate before saying, ‘But of course I will. My old address may be on the records but I’ve moved three times since then. And I’m ex-directory. No one could possibly trace me.’

‘We did,’ the second policeman, a sergeant, pointed out with some irony.

‘Yes, but you’re the police; with all the resources you have you’re supposed to find people.’

‘You’re on the electoral roll for this district. Anyone can walk into a library, look at it, and find your address. With a Christian name like yours it was simple.’

Paris bit her lip, not for the first time blaming her parents for giving her such a distinctive name. But she persisted, saying, ‘I’m sorry, but I refuse to go. You can’t make me.’

‘No, we can’t,’ the inspector agreed. ‘Is it because you’ve made plans for Christmas, or are you having guests to stay?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ve already been away for over a month; there’s loads I have to catch up on, at work as well as here.’

‘I’ve already spoken to your employers and they quite understand the situation. They told me to tell you that they don’t expect to see you again until Ramsay is caught.’

She gasped, amazed that the police had gone to those lengths before they’d even talked to her. ‘I’ve been invited to several parties,’ she said doggedly. ‘If I didn’t go to them my friends would worry and—’

‘In that case you can phone and tell them you’ve changed your plans. Tell them you’ve had an unexpected invitation and that you’ll be going away for Christmas instead.’

‘But…’ She sought for a convincing argument. ‘But it could take weeks, months even, before you catch him. I can’t possibly be away for that length of time.’

‘We don’t anticipate it taking anything like that long, miss.’

‘Are you saying that you’re close to catching Ramsay?’

‘I don’t want to commit myself, but just take my word for it that it won’t be for very long.’

Paris didn’t believe him but there was no point in saying so. Finishing her drink, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket so that the men couldn’t see the way they tightened into fists. ‘Look,’ she began, then stopped, not wanting to say this. But there was no help for it—the policemen were so very determined. ‘There are reasons—very personal reasons—why I can’t possibly go with you.’

‘What reasons?’

‘They needn’t concern you,’ she snapped. ‘But I am not going.’

The middle-aged inspector, who looked as if he wouldn’t be sorry when retirement came along, gave her a tight-lipped look. ‘Very well, Miss Reid. In that case you leave me no choice.’

‘What do you mean?’ Paris asked warily.

‘If you won’t let us take you to a place of safety, then I shall have to give you police protection.’

To Paris that didn’t sound at all bad but his voice had had a threatening note in it, so she said, ‘Which means?’

‘A woman police officer will have to be with you at all times, day and night, and there will also be a male constable at your door. We will turn this place into a fortress,’ he threatened determinedly.

‘But my neighbours would hate that—and besides, there isn’t enough room here for two people to live,’ Paris protested.

‘No help for it, I’m afraid—if you’re going to be obstinate.’

He had deliberately made the conditions impossible to accept, she realised, and burst out on a desperate note, ‘Don’t people’s personal feelings matter to you?’

‘Not when their lives are in danger, no. I can’t let them matter,’ the inspector answered emphatically.

She was cornered, and hesitated, wondering whether to throw herself on his mercy and explain just why it was impossible for her to go. But a glance at the inspector’s set face, wearily patient but determined, made her decide it would be no use. He was too stolid to understand the trauma of seeing again an ex-lover, a man who had, quite literally, thrown her out of his life.

Clenching her fists till it hurt, Paris said, ‘Are the other people already at this safe place?’

‘Yes.’

‘All of them? All the jurors?’

His assessing eyes met hers. ‘All except the lady who was murdered, yes.’

Murdered. Such a dreadful word. It brought home to Paris for the first time the danger she was in. But she still said, ‘Please, I can’t go with—with all the others. I’ll go somewhere else, if you like, but not with them.’

He nodded, in no way surprised. ‘I see.’

She caught her breath, realising that there had been no need for any soul-searching; he already knew it all. ‘Yes, very likely you do,’ Paris said bitterly.

The inspector glanced at his colleague, hesitated, then said with a degree of sympathy that she hadn’t expected, and which confirmed his knowledge, ‘It probably won’t be for long, perhaps just a week or so, and then you’ll be able to come home. There will be a lot of people there, enough so you won’t be thrown together with anyone you don’t want to be with. You’ll have your own room and be as private as you like. But I’m sorry, I can’t arrange for somewhere else for you at this short notice. If it goes on for longer I might be able to arrange for you to go somewhere else after Christmas, though.’

When it would be a complete waste of time, Paris thought despondently. Her nightmare of the last three years had been that she might chance to meet the man she’d been so in love with, have to face him again and see the contempt in his eyes. Now it looked as if she was not only going to see him, but would have to spend an indefinite period in his proximity.

With a sigh, Paris said dully, ‘If you’ll promise to find me somewhere else as soon as possible, then, all right, I’ll come. Where are we going?’

‘I’m afraid we’re not allowed to tell you that.’

She gave him a look that spoke volumes. ‘I am going to wash my hair,’ she said forcefully. ‘And then I’m going to have something to eat, unpack, and make several phone calls. Then I’ll get ready to go. Is that all right by you?’ Her hands were on her hips and the last sentence was said in a dangerous tone that dared him to argue.

The inspector, having got his own way by forceful coercion, could have been magnanimous, but all he said was, ‘So long as you can do all that within the next two hours, yes.’

They took her in a car and drove for quite some way, but then, to Paris’s surprise, the car stopped and they hurried her into a station and onto a train where she was to share a sleeping compartment with a policewoman. The blinds were pulled down across the windows on both sides and she couldn’t see out. The door was locked and the light turned low.

Paris’s thoughts were far too full for her to want to sit and chat with the policewoman, so she said that she was tired, took off her shoes and coat and climbed into the upper bunk, firmly closing her eyes.

Her heart was filled with a dread so deep that it was almost like a physical fear. How would she bear it if Will openly showed his hatred of her? Even now, after so long, it was still sometimes hard to understand how it had all gone so wrong—so horribly, humiliatingly wrong. Maybe it was because of the circumstances in which they’d met: at a murder trial, of all things. But there had been such radiant happiness, too, at the beginning…

The train journeyed on through the night, swaying, clanking along the rails, the rushing air loud outside, and Paris’s mind went back to the very beginning, when she had been sitting at breakfast with Emma, one morning in late spring.

‘Jury service!’ Paris gazed at the letter in her hand in consternation. ‘But I can’t possibly do it. I don’t have the time.’

‘When are you supposed to go?’ Emma, her flatmate, reached over and took the letter from her. ‘The seventh. That’s only three weeks away. And at the Old Bailey, too; that’s where they have the longest cases, isn’t it?’

Paris’s frown deepened into gloom. ‘I know—and I’m supposed to be going to the conference in Brussels that week.’

‘Perhaps you can get out of it,’ Emma suggested languidly as she handed the letter back. ‘Tell them you’re going on holiday or something.’

Paris hesitated. ‘Wouldn’t that be against the law? Couldn’t you be fined or something if you were found out?’

Emma gave an astonished laugh. ‘For heaven’s sake! Who’s going to find out? People do it all the time.’

‘Well, I can try, I suppose,’ Paris said, still rather dubious, but she reflected that Emma, who was more than ten years older and worked for the same company, usually knew what she was talking about.

Later that morning, as soon as she arrived at her office at the cable network company for which she worked as a sales representative, Paris called the clerk of the court’s office and asked to be released from doing the jury service. He asked for proof that she had booked a holiday, and when she lamely admitted that she had none he refused point-blank to let her off.

‘Isn’t it possible to postpone it indefinitely?’ she begged.

‘No, madam, it is not,’ the man said shortly.

So there was no getting out of it. Paris had to go and see her boss, who arranged for Emma to attend the Brussels conference in her place. Paris was furious at her bad luck; she’d had this job for less than a year since leaving university and was putting everything she had into it. Representing the company at conferences, going abroad to promote their network strategies, being always available to visit potential clients constituted a big part of the job.

Paris had passed the training course with flying colours, was one of the brightest young reps, and knew that a good career lay ahead of her. Which she certainly intended to achieve. She was ambitious and wanted to get to the top just as soon as she possibly could. But there were always others with the same ambitions, the same aims. Having to sit through some criminal case for weeks on end, or even months, she thought with a groan, wouldn’t do her career any good at all.

Angrily reluctant to serve as she was, Paris had to admit to a feeling of awe when she arrived at the Central Criminal Court—the Old Bailey as the building was commonly known—in the heart of the City of London. The courtroom was so old, the polished wooden benches and the judge’s throne-like seat high on a dais so reminiscent of all the trial films she’d ever seen that she couldn’t help but feel the solemnity and power of the place. Looking at the dock, she thought of all the-people who had been tried there—murderers, rapists; she gave a shiver, her anger momentarily chastened.

Her fellow jurors seemed to have similar feelings. Earlier, they’d had to stand one by one and give their name and age and take the oath. Paris hated that, considering her age to be her own business. When it was her turn, her voice had a strong note of defiance as she said, ‘Paris Reid. I’m twenty-two.’

A couple of the younger barristers smiled, as did one of the male jurors, she noticed. He was sitting on the end of the row and hadn’t yet been called—a dark-haired man with a strong jaw and clean-cut features adding up to a good-looking face. He was the last to take the oath and did so in a firm voice.

‘William Alexander Brydon. Twenty-nine. I swear by Almighty God that I will faithfully try the defendant and true verdict give according to the evidence.’

The oath, which Paris had hardly taken in, sounded very impressive when spoken in his deep, attractive tone, making her realise again the solemnity of the court. The judge must have been impressed too, because when he asked them to choose a foreman from amongst themselves he looked straight at William Brydon. But before the latter could speak a middle-aged woman stood up purposefully and volunteered herself, which pleased Paris; she was all for women sticking up for their rights. The judge merely raised his eyebrows slightly.

The case they were to hear was one of aggravated assault and murder. The prisoner, a man in his early forties named Noel Ramsay, was accused of beating up several people, one of whom—a man who had tried to steal Ramsay’s girlfriend—had later died. The man in the dock was smartly dressed, had a boyishly good-looking face and a figure that was only just beginning to run to fat.

Paris found it difficult to imagine him hurting anyone. Perhaps it was the engaging, crinkly-eyed smile that he flashed at them all, the look of surprised innocence in his eyes, as if he still couldn’t believe that he was there, that it was all happening to him.

That first morning it seemed to be all technical stuff. They broke for lunch, most of which time Paris spent on the phone, first to her office, trying to keep up with everything that was happening, and then to customers. She had just a few minutes left in which to grab a couple of bites from a sandwich before it was time to go back into the courtroom.

The jurors automatically sat in the same places as before. That afternoon they listened to a pathologist and had to look at photographs that made Paris’s stomach turn over. If she hadn’t really been aware of the seriousness of the case before, she certainly was after that.

At the end of the day. Paris rushed out of the building and drove to her office in a town to the north of London. There she spent three hours at her desk before driving home to a scratch supper and bed. She was young and healthy and could keep up the hectic pace for a while, but during the second week she began to feel the pressure. To add to everything the unpredictable English weather decided to have an early heatwave.

Paris overslept one morning and arrived just as the jurors were filing into their places. She gave a hasty apology to the clerk of the court, a man moved up for her, and she slipped in at the end of the row. Because she’d been so busy she had hardly talked to her fellow jurors and it took her a minute before she remembered that her neighbour’s name was William Brydon. He gave her an amused smile which she met with a small shrug.

The evidence that morning was again technical. There was no air-conditioning in the court and it was very hot. The barristers were sweltering under their white wigs and several members of the jury took off their jackets.

Paris tried to concentrate but found her eyes drooping. She straightened in her seat, licked dry lips and wished she could have a drink. The police witness droned onsomething about makes of cars that the accused had owned and sold. William Brydon’s shoulder was invitingly close. Paris’s head rested gently on it and she fell asleep.

‘She seems to have fainted, my lord.’

The words, spoken loudly close by in a man’s voice, woke her.

Paris blinked, came to guiltily, and would have jerked upright, but William Brydon was gently slapping at her cheeks, leaning over her so that she was hidden from everyone else. ‘You fainted,’ he murmured so that only she could hear. ‘You don’t want them to restart the whole trial, do you?’ he added insistently.

Realising what he was doing, Paris gratefully fell in with the act. She gave a realistic moan and let him put her head down between her knees—none too gently, she noticed. The clerk and the woman foreman of the jury came over, the latter with some smelling salts which she insisted on holding under Paris’s nose, making her sneeze.

‘Perhaps if she could have some fresh air?’ William Brydon suggested.

‘We’ll adjourn the court for lunch,’ the judge decided.

Putting a strong arm round her, her neighbour escorted her out of the court, down the long corridor and out into the street. Not far away there was a small green oasis of trees surrounding the remains of a ruined church. When they reached its screening shade he immediately withdrew his arm. ‘A heavy date last night?’ he asked sardonically.

‘No, I was working,’ she retorted indignantly.

‘After a day here? Are you self-employed or something?’

‘No, I work for a cable network company. I’m a sales rep.’

Again his mouth, the lower lip fuller than the other, twisted with irony. ‘Can’t they manage without you?’

Paris’s face hardened. ‘I want to make sure they don’t find out that they can,’ she said shortly, adding, in a voice as scathing as his had been, ‘You obviously don’t have to worry about your job—if you have one.’

He looked amused. ‘Oh, I have one. I’m a financial consultant, here in the City.’

Paris said moodily, ‘Right now I should be in Brussels, representing my company at a medical conference, trying to persuade television and telephone companies to use our networks. It was to be my first time alone. And instead I’m stuck with this case. It’s all so slow. And it could go on for weeks.’

‘It might at that,’ he agreed. ‘So we’ll just have to make the best of it, won’t we?’

There was something in his voice, a note that immediately made her realise he was aware of her as a woman. Glancing quickly up at him, Paris saw that he was looking her over, from her short red-gold hair, down her slim figure, to her legs beneath the fashionably short skirt. ‘Seen enough?’ she said with a tilt of her chin, but not at all displeased.

He grinned. ‘For now. My name’s Will, by the way. Will Brydon.’

She smiled and shook the hand he held out to her. ‘Mine’s Paris Reid.’

‘Yes, I know. An unusual name.’

‘My parents went to Paris for a holiday; I was the result.’ They began to stroll under the shade of the trees and she said, ‘Thanks for helping me back there. I suppose I would have got into terrible trouble if they’d found out I’d fallen asleep. It’s rather like being back at school with the teacher watching you all the time.’

They came to an ice-cream cart and Will bought her a cornet—one with a chocolate flake stuck into it. Paris ate it delicately, trailing her tongue along the chocolate, scooping a little of the ice cream and raising it to her mouth.

Will slowed as he openly watched her. ‘You know,’ he said with a sigh, ‘you have the sexiest way of eating an ice.’

She laughed, her face lighting up. Glancing at him, she liked what she saw. His eyes were grey, clear and intelligent, under dark brows, the left one of which had a slight quirk, as if he raised it more than the other. His bone structure was good, his cheekbones high above the clean jawline, and there was a humorous look to his mouth.

He was tall, too—a definite plus in Paris’s eyes because she was tall herself. Walking with him, she had to look up at him, which put him at about six feet two or three, she guessed. Perhaps it was his height that gave him such physical self-assurance, but there was an irresistible magnetism about him, as if he was full of energy that he could hardly contain.

‘Don’t you find having to do this jury service a bind?’ she asked him.

‘In some ways, of course, but I find the whole process of the law fascinating to watch; there’s so much history behind it all. It’s something that I’ll probably have to do only once in a lifetime so I want to do it to the best of my ability. And I suppose we should be grateful that we don’t live in a police state where there is no jury system.’

Paris wrinkled her nose at him. ‘That sounds terribly po-faced. Is that really what you think?’

Will laughed. ‘I think it’s a damn nuisance, but I may as well get it over and done with.’

‘That’s better. I’m not looking forward to having to reach a verdict, are you? Suppose we don’t all agree and have to stay in a hotel or something for days.’ She looked at him from under her lashes. ‘Your wife—or partnerwould probably hate that.’

Will’s lips curled in amusement. ‘Fortunately I have neither, so there’s no problem. But maybe you do?’

Paris shook her head. ‘No, I’m single and unattached.’ She added, ‘At the moment,’ to let him know that she wasn’t hard up for boyfriends.

‘Well, I’m glad that I’ve met you “at the moment”,’ Will remarked, and they both laughed. His eyes on her, he said, ‘Maybe you’d better sit next to me when we go back in the court-room. Just to make sure you don’t go to sleep again, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Paris agreed demurely. And as they walked back to the court they both knew that this could be the start of a very interesting friendship.

Emma came back from Brussels and told her off for trying to fit in her job with the trial. ‘You can’t possibly go on like this,’ she remonstrated. ‘Look, give me your customer list and I’ll look after them for you until you’re back at the office,’ she offered.

‘Oh, Emma, would you? It is rather getting me down,’ Paris said gratefully.

Emma’s kindness made Paris once again think herself extremely lucky that the older woman had taken a liking to her and more or less taken her under her wing. Her own parents had split up many years ago and both had remarried, but Paris didn’t really feel at home with either of them, although they both always made her welcome and tried to include her in their new families.

When she’d first joined the company she’d lived in a bedsit quite nearby, but then Emma had become friendly with her and finally asked her if she’d like to share her flat. ‘It’s in the suburbs of London, mind,’ Emma warned her. ‘You’d have to drive into the office every day.’

But Paris hadn’t minded that at all; the company had given her a car and the thought of living in London excited her.

At first, because of the difference in their ages, she’d been surprised that Emma had been so friendly, but she’d also been flattered by it too. Emma had quite a senior position in the sales department; it was her job to oversee and train the new recruits and to stand in when an emergency occurred, as in the case of the Brussels conference.

Because she was mostly based at head office, Emma was no longer entitled to a company car, and it didn’t take Paris long to work out that one of the reasons why Emma had offered to let her share the flat was so that she could get a lift to and from work every day. But Paris was so grateful to her that she didn’t mind in the least. And she was grateful to her again, now, for taking on her workload, especially now that she’d met Will and realised how pleasantly her lunch-hours could be if spent in his company instead of on the phone.

The heatwave continued and she and Will got into the habit of taking their sandwiches out to the old churchyard, where they sat on the grass beneath the trees to eat and talk. They talked as strangers do, telling each other about themselves, their likes and dislikes, asking questions, getting to know one another, until they weren’t strangers any longer.

Instead of being reluctant to go to the court, Paris became eager to get there. She took care with her appearance and felt a thrill of pleasure when Will’s grey eyes went over her admiringly. And he was so good-looking himself that she enjoyed being seen with him, liked walking along with him beside her, so tall and broad that he made her feel delicately feminine in comparison. From having lunch together, it took very little time before Will asked her to stay behind in town one evening and have dinner with him.

They went to see a film first, and afterwards had dinner at Topo Gigio— ‘The best Italian restaurant in Soho,’ Will declared. He seemed very familiar with London—had lived there all his life, he told her, except for his years at university.

Paris envied him that; she had fallen in love with the city, with its pace and constant change, with its shops, cinemas and theatres. In London you got everything first—the new films and new fashions—and met people who were as ambitious as she was herself, and men who were eager to take out a pretty girl like Paris.

So there had been a lot of dates, but Will was the first man—the first real man, not someone of her own agethat Paris felt strongly attracted to.

After that first dinner date he insisted on taking her home in a cab, which must have cost the earth, and kept it waiting when he walked her to her door where he leant her against the wall, put his hands on her shoulders, and bent to kiss her. He merely touched her lips gently with his at first—small kisses that explored her mouth.

Paris, who wasn’t that experienced, had been brainwashed by a thousand films and books and some equally inexperienced boyfriends into thinking that passionate clinches and devouring kisses were the bee’s knees. But she found this light exploration, the soft, teasing kisses, both tantalising and sensuous. His breath was warm and she could smell the faint tang of aftershave that still clung to his skin.

It came to her that he was a very masculine kind of man, with a powerful aura of sensuality that excited her. He was the kind of man who knew what he wanted. And right now he wanted her.

Resting her hands against his chest, Paris closed her eyes. Opening her mouth, she felt him touch the tip of her tongue—a brief touch that she found incredibly erotic. She gave an involuntary sound of pleasure and Will’s hands tightened a little on her shoulders.

Raising her hand, she caressed the back of his neck, his hair silky under her fingers, and she felt him give a small sigh as his hand came down to her waist and drew her against him. His kiss deepened, taking all her mouth, but it was still gentle, and she responded willingly.

It was a while before Will straightened. Pushing back his thick dark hair, he looked down at her with the heaviness of desire in his eyes, but then he gave a crooked grin. ‘I think maybe I’d better go.’

‘Mmm. Your taxi is waiting.’

But he bent to kiss her again before he drew away for a second time and said, ‘See you in court.’

Then he waved and was gone, leaving Paris with an overwhelming feeling of physical excitement and a longing for him to kiss her again.

That kiss marked a new awareness of each other and was the start of an inevitable closeness between them. But just as Will had been in no hurry with that first kiss so they were in no hurry to become even closer, both of them recognising that this was something special and wanting to anticipate each phase of their relationship. Maybe Paris would have been more eager, but it was Will who set the pace, he who had the dominant role.

They didn’t go out every night; Will worked out at a gym two nights a week and also spent time in his own office, but they were together with increasing frequency.

The trial lasted over a month and was drawing to its close. Although they talked a lot to each other, they seldom discussed the trial. It was bad enough having to listen to all the terrible details during the day without thinking about it during their time alone together. They wanted to put it out of their minds, to escape from it. But at last, on a Thursday, it came to the judge’s summing-up, which lasted nearly a whole day. The judge was eminently fair, pointing out facts that they should remember, think about, but emphasising that they had heard everything and it was up to them to make up their minds now.

Leaving the court and going into the jury-room felt strange. They had used the room so many times before, but now they had come to make the decision, to give their verdict, to condemn a man to prison or to set him free. All twelve of them, without exception, felt the burden heavy on their shoulders.

They didn’t all agree on all the counts the first time, which meant that they all had to spend the night in a hotel, closed off from their homes and families—twelve special people with an enormous responsibility.

A table had been set aside for them in the hotel restaurant and they ate together, but afterwards they were free, within limits, to do as they liked. Four of them began to play cards, others went to their rooms, and some to the bar. Paris and Will were among the latter, but they sat in a corner, apart from the others, who gave them indulgent looks.

The kisses they had exchanged had got hotter over the past weeks, and both of them were experiencing deep frustration, which was heightened by sitting next to each other every day in court and having to pretend that there was nothing between them. Their hands, hidden by the bench in front of them, had often touched, their knees brushed and not always by accident, but they hadn’t dared to look directly at one another in case they gave themselves away to the beady-eyed judge. This secretiveness had added spice to their romance, but now it was coming to an end.

Nothing had been said, but both of them were awaiting the end of the court case with eager, excited anticipation. It was as if they had tacitly agreed that a man’s trial was an entirely wrong background against which to form a relationship, and that they couldn’t take their affair further until it was over, until they were free of it. And now that time was almost here.

‘Hopefully we’ll reach a verdict tomorrow and we won’t have to stay here over the weekend,’ Will remarked. His eyes, darkening a little, rested on her face. ‘So, if we’re free, will you come away with me for the weekend?’

‘Away?’ Paris felt her colour heighten. ‘Where—where to?’

Will gave a sudden, almost rueful grin. ‘I haven’t really thought that far. All I can think of is being with you,’ he admitted. ‘Where would you like to go?’

Her blush deepened at his admission, but Paris said, ‘I don’t know. In the country somewhere, I suppose. You said you could ride a horse; how about teaching me?’

‘Definitely not,’ Will said positively.

‘Why not?’

‘You might get bruised and stiff. I think we should do something very, very gentle—during the day.’ His eyes met hers, smiling and suggestive, promising so much.

Her voice strangely husky, and somehow knowing that he would make a good lover, Paris said, ‘So what do you recommend?’

‘Painting, archery. Or why don’t we just play it by ear?’

‘All right.’ Her voice shook a little. ‘We’ll do that, then.’

Reaching out, Will took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Thank you, my darling.’

It was quite late on Friday afternoon before the jury finally reached a verdict. Paris gave an inner sigh of relief when it was decided at last. All day she had been on tenterhooks in case they lost their weekend together. Will, she knew, had felt the same. Their eyes had often met in exasperation and impatience; to them the verdict was cut and dried and it had been frustrating, to say the least, waiting for everyone else to agree.

They filed back into court, the judge came in and they were asked if they had reached a verdict. The foreman replied that they had and the prisoner stood up. He was a little pale, Paris saw, but there was still a jauntiness in his shoulders, the charming smile clung to his lips, and it came to her that he had the inescapable belief that they would acquit him.

When the verdicts were read out Ramsay changed completely. For a few moments he just stared as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Then he shouted, ‘No!’ and grasped the front of the box.

The policemen on either side of him quietened him as the judge gave sentence. ‘You are an evil and sadistic man, entirely unable to control your emotions, and your vindictiveness finally led to murder. I sentence you to life imprisonment.’

‘No!’ the prisoner shouted again. His face convulsed with fury. The boyish charm disappeared and his inherent cruelty was plain to see as he shouted, ‘I’ll get you for this. All of you!’ His frenzied eyes swept round the court. ‘Every last one of you.’ His finger stabbed out like a stiletto blade at the judge, the officials and then the jury. ‘Curse you, you filthy swine. I’ll make you pay. I’ll cut your throats. I’ll make you beg to die.’

He went on swearing and screaming insults as the guards tried to overpower him and eventually managed to drag him out of the dock and down out of the court. When they’d gone and the door had banged after him, there was a terrible silence, everyone too shocked by Ramsay’s hatred and venom to move or speak. It was the judge who broke it.

Wryly, speaking from long experience, he said, ‘You must take no notice of his threats. You have done your duty and I will make it my concern to see that you are all exempted from further jury service for the next ten years. Thank you for your services. You may now leave the court.’

They did so numbly, as did everyone else: the judge, the barristers and clerks, the public up in the gallery, their ears still ringing with the curses that had been hurled at them.

Will collected his car from a nearby car park and drove Paris to her flat where she packed some clothes for the weekend, then to his place where he threw some things into a bag. Within an hour they were on the road and heading out of London, away from the court and the evils they’d had to listen to for the past month or so, away from the threats and curses that had shattered their peace.

It was quite late before they reached the country hotel where Will had booked a room for the weekend. There was no time even to look around; they were shown to their room and Paris took the bathroom first, showering and changing quickly. Then it was Will’s turn, and immediately he was ready they went down to the dining-room for dinner.

Here, at last, they were able to relax, to enjoy a meal after having had little to eat all day, to drink a bottle of wine which helped to dispel the slight embarrassment that had been forced on them when they’d had to rush to change in each other’s presence but when they weren’t intimate enough for that yet. The meal also helped to ease the tension that Noel Ramsay’s outburst had caused. As Will said, they had more pleasant things to think about.

Looking into his eyes, so warm and expressive, Paris felt her heart miss a beat then fill with the excitement of anticipation, an emotion mirrored in his gaze. ‘What things?’ she asked, being deliberately provocative.

He gave a slow smile. ‘Do you really want me to tell you here and now?’

Again her heart leaped. ‘Yes,’ she said on an unsteady note.

‘All right.’ Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips and kissed her fingers one by one. ‘We could think of how I’m going to very slowly take off all your clothes and look at you and then tell you how beautiful you are. And about the way I’m going to carry on kissing you like this until there won’t be a part of your body that I haven’t touched and loved. And of how—’

Paris hastily reached out and put her fingers against his lips, silencing him. ‘Don’t,’ she breathed, her eyes wide with awareness, her cheeks flushed. ‘You mustn’t.’

‘Oh, but I must tell you how lovely you are, my darling.’

‘No, I meant…’

‘What? What did you mean?’

Her colour deepened and she looked suddenly shy. ‘I meant that you mustn’t make me feel this way—not here, in public.’

His grip on her hand tightened a little. ‘Tell me how I make you feel.’

She hesitated, then said, ‘So—wanton.’

Will smiled, the pleasure at her answer deep in his eyes. But he said warmly, ‘And wanted too, my lovely one. You know that.’

‘Yes.’ Not trying to hide the desire she felt, she said, ‘I feel that way too.’ And, lowering her free hand below the table, she placed it on his thigh.

He gave a small gasp, her gesture completely unexpected, but then he laughed softly. ‘Now who’s turning who on?’ Putting his hand over hers, he pressed it against himself, then said on a note of strong urgency, ‘Let’s go to bed.’

Paris gave him a demure look. ‘You haven’t finished your coffee.’

‘To hell with the coffee,’ he said emphatically.

His vehemence increased Paris’s excitement; for someone who had been content to take things slowly up to now, he was showing a gratifying eagerness. Slipping her hand from under his, she picked up her own coffeecup. ‘Really? I’m quite thirsty,’ she said teasingly. And she took a deliberately casual drink.

An answering gleam came into Will’s eyes and he looked around as if searching for a waiter. ‘You’ll probably want another cup, then. And perhaps a liqueur. And then we might as well have—’

He broke off as Paris put her hand on his arm. She looked at him for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No,’ she said softly but with firmness. ‘I want you to take me to bed.’

Will’s grey eyes filled with warmth and desire. He didn’t ask if she was sure, didn’t fuss; he merely stood up and drew her to her feet with him. They said goodnight to the waiter and he tucked her arm in his, keeping hold of her hand as they walked across to the stairs and up to their room.

He had said what he wanted to do, what he intended to do, and he did start by undressing her slowly, murmuring words of pleasure at her beauty, his lips caressing her skin as he did so. But Paris was shaking with awareness, her breath coming in unsteady gasps that caught in her throat, her hands gripping his shoulders as he bent before her to take off her stockings.

Her pleasure and anticipation were an aphrodisiac too powerful for him to resist; Will’s own breathing quickened and he stood to kiss her fiercely, saying her name over and over against her lips. ‘Paris. Oh, Paris. I want you! Oh, God, I want you.’

The rest of her clothes came off fast, Will’s soon joining the scattered heap on the floor. And then she was lying in the bed and there was no time to look, no time for endearments. She was reaching out to him, her body opening for him eagerly.

The next moment he was over her, taking her with overwhelming passion, lifting her towards the thrust of his body, and groaning out his climactic pleasure. He carried her with him, lifting her to spiralling excitement, to gasping, crying physical fulfilment, and then into the long aftermath of exhausted peace.

Earlier Will had ordered a bottle of champagne to be sent up to the room. It stood resplendent in its ice-bucket, but they hadn’t even noticed it. When they’d recovered a little, when Will had kissed her lingeringly and told her how wonderful she was, he noticed the wine and laughed ruefully. ‘The champagne was supposed to come before, not after.’

‘Were you going to seduce me with it?’ Paris asked, kissing his shoulder.

‘It was in case we needed it,’ he admitted.

‘Idiot.’ She licked his tiny nipple and was amazed to see it harden.

‘Hey,’ he said, bending to kiss her eyes. ‘Have mercy.’

She laughed and reached up to caress his cheek with the back of her fingers. ‘I’m glad we didn’t have a big seduction scene. It was so good as it was.’

‘And will be again, I hope.’

‘Oh, I know it will,’ she said, so emphatically that Will laughed.

‘You’re an amazing girl, you know that?’

‘Why, thank you, kind sir.’ She sat up and pulled the sheet up over her breasts. ‘Why don’t you open the champagne now?’

‘Not if you’re going to cover yourself like that,’ Will said positively. Reaching over, he jerked the sheet from her hold and pulled it down again. ‘This, my darling, is no time for prudery. And besides,’ he added, his voice thickening, ‘you’re much too gorgeous to hide yourself away.’

Kneeling up, he cupped her breasts in his hands, his mouth slowly parting with concentration and growing concupiscence as he watched the rose hue of the areolae darken and the nipples thrust against his exploring fingers. ‘Look how beautiful you are,’ he murmured thickly, his eyes wide with reawakened desire. ‘Can you wonder that I can’t resist you? Look. Look for yourself.’

Slowly, with almost reluctant shyness, Paris lowered her eyes to look at her breasts. His hands, his skin dark against the whiteness of hers, held her tenderly. Her breasts had the firm elasticity of youth, were still small and perfect, and yet they seemed to fill his hands, to fit them perfectly.

As she watched, fascinated now, he moved his thumbs to circle gently the tender area around her nipples, touching nerve-ends, sending fires of frustration deep into her body. She had heard of eroticism, knew that these were among the most sensitive parts of her womanhood, but she had never known such sensual delight as she felt now.

To watch him toying with her, to feel the growing need inside her, to let her panting breath become a long groan of frustration, and to know from the tension in his hands and the sweat on his skin that Will felt the same way was the most exquisitely sexy moment she had ever known.

Still kneeling, as if in adoration, Will bent to kiss her breasts, sending shock waves of sensuality pulsing through her. Throwing back her head, Paris let out a low, animal moan of tormented pleasure. Coming up on her own knees, she held his head against her, crying out with the wonder of it.

Will at last lifted his head and looked at her, his breath an unsteady, panting groan of almost uncontrolled expectation. Paris’s face was flushed with heat, her mouth parted and her lips trembling, her eyes great green pools of eager desire.

‘Paris.’

He said her name again on a note of wonder but she mistook it for a question and said, ‘Yes. Oh, yes, yes!’

Putting his hands on her hips, he drew her towards him, onto his lap, onto his manhood. She let out a great cry and put her arms round him, wanting to be closer and yet closer still, wanting to be a part of him, to take the intense pleasure he gave her and to give in return.

Afterwards they slept exhaustedly, tangled in the sheets, their arms around one another. During the night Will woke her with kisses and they made love again, so that it wasn’t until the morning that they finally got round to opening the champagne and had it with breakfast instead.

CHAPTER TWO

PARIS and Will returned to London on Sunday evening, parting reluctantly outside her flat. Their weekend of love, of satiated sexuality was still in the glow in her eyes, in her flushed cheeks. Emma saw it and recognised it at once.

Her finely arched brows rose. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been considering your verdict all this time?’

‘No, we reached a decision on Friday. I’ve—er—been away.’

‘With a man, obviously.’

‘Yes,’ Paris admitted, unable to keep from smiling.

Emma looked amused. ‘So what was the verdict?’

‘Guilty on all counts.’

‘I meant on the man.’

‘Oh.’ Paris glowed. ‘Marvellous! Fantastic! Incredible.’

‘Good heavens! This man I’ve got to meet.’

There was a slight edge to Emma’s voice, but Paris was too happy to notice it. ‘And I want you to meet him; I’m sure you’ll like each other,’ she said with happy optimism.

She was still happy the next day when she went back to the office, eager to resume her interrupted career. Will was due to work out at the gym that evening and she had lots of chores to catch up on, so they’d agreed not to meet, but they might just as well have done because they spent ages on the phone, already missing each other, whispering words of intimacy that tantalised them both.

The next evening Will came to collect her and she introduced him to Emma, confident that they would like each other. Emma was friendly enough—very friendly really, making Will welcome and telling him, with that amused little smile she had, how Paris had described him. ‘So of course I’ve been really looking forward to meeting a man with all these incredible attributes,’ she finished.

But Will only gave her a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes, refused a drink and asked Paris if she was ready to leave.

‘What did you tell her about me?’ he asked as soon as they were outside.

‘Only that I thought you were wonderful,’ Paris admitted. ‘I didn’t go into details, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘She certainly made it sound as if you had.’

‘Emma was probably teasing you. I wouldn’t tell anyone. You should know that.’ She put her arm through his and lifted a glowing face. ‘It’s very, very special to me.’

Will smiled at that and kissed her, so she knew it was all right, but it was obvious that he didn’t like Emma.

They didn’t go out, instead spending the evening at his flat. Even though they had spent most of the previous weekend making love, it was still novel, still overwhelmingly exciting. Paris felt no shyness now as she undressed Will, doing it slowly, touching and kissing him, running her hands over his broad, smooth chest, along the muscles in his upper arms, so powerful, so male.

His waist was slim and his stomach had the tautness of an athlete’s even when relaxed. But it tightened even more under her exploring fingers; she could feel the tension running through his body, the slow dew of expectation on his skin, hear the quickened beat of his heart. Paris let her hands move on in their exploration, stroking, caressing, until his arousal was complete and Will groaned with pleasure.

He would have taken her in his arms then, but she made him sit on a chair and watch as she took off her own clothes, doing so as coquettishly as she could imagine, watching with growing excitement as he gripped the edge of the chair until his knuckles showed white and he strove to control his need for her, then giving a cry of delight when he could stand it no longer and surged up to grab her and carry her to the bed in one long, eager stride.

Later, Will dragged himself from the bed, dressed, and went out for a Chinese take-away, which took a long time to eat because they kept stopping to kiss and, as Paris was wearing only a bathrobe, quite a lot of caressing went on as well. So it was inevitable that they just pushed the plates away and made love all over again.

Paris was on cloud nine hundred and ninety-nine, but they became rain clouds only a few days later. It was at work that things started to go wrong. During her time with the company Paris had worked hard to find new markets for their products and there were three new accounts that she was particularly proud to have won, having spent a great deal of time and effort in acquiring them.

They were, of course, among the accounts that Emma had been watching over for her during the trial, but when Paris went to contact the companies to tell them that she was back she was informed that they preferred to deal with Emma in future.

When Paris questioned her, Emma was most apologetic. ‘Oh, dear, did they really say that? I kept in contact with them as you asked and I was able to help them over some queries they had. In fact I had to visit all three of the companies to sort out the problems.’

‘Problems? There weren’t any problems.’

‘Well, they must have cropped up recently,’ Emma said with a vague wave of her hand. ‘But luckily I knew everything about the network systems involved so I was able to reassure them quickly. I thought that was what you would have wanted, Paris.’

‘Well, yes, of course, but—’

‘Maybe they realised I was more experienced,’ Emma suggested. ‘They’re new accounts; perhaps it gave them more confidence to deal with someone older. Why don’t you talk to the people involved, explain the situation?’ she suggested. ‘Although, of course, buyers do like to deal with just one person, not be messed around.’ She gave a worried frown. ‘We don’t want to lose the accounts, do we? If we did, the sales director would definitely want to know why. But you must go ahead and explain things to them, of course.’

‘No, as you said, we don’t want to lose them,’ Paris said slowly, reluctantly. ‘As long as it isn’t too much extra work for you.’

‘Oh, I can cope,’ Emma said with a smile. ‘But what a disappointment for you. Still, maybe you won’t care so much now you’re dating Will; you’ll be able to spend more time with him.’

There was that, of course, but Paris went back to her office feeling unhappy and frustrated. Not only were those three accounts the most prestigious that she had won, they were also the most lucrative, and as she was paid only a small basic salary and depended on bonuses to make up her money it meant a considerable drop in income.

If she had been able to go to the Brussels conference she might have generated some more work, but that too had gone to Emma, who, it seemed, had flown the company flag with some success. Paris tried not to be envious, but it was hard not to feel anger at a loss that was no fault of her own. That damn trial! But then she remembered that if it hadn’t been for that she would never have met Will.

Her love affair, at least, was still going strongly. She and Will saw each other as often as possible and she often stayed overnight at his flat. The sex was just as good—better. He didn’t seem as if he would ever have enough of her and delighted in her body, just as she gloried in giving him pleasure.

It wasn’t only the sexual side of the relationship that was good; Will was terrific company and Paris loved just being with him. He had a great sense of the ridiculous, often making her laugh—sometimes even when she was trying to be serious. Life with Will was not only exciting but fun as well.

When they were apart her thoughts were full of him, and she would turn small things that happened to her into amusing anecdotes, anticipating with pleasure the way his eyes would fill with amusement as he laughed at them. Her feelings for him were growing ever deeper, far more so than anything she had ever experienced before, and she knew that she was in love.

Paris felt pretty confident that Will felt the same way about her, and she was staying with him so often that she thought he might ask her to move in with him. But they hadn’t known each other very long yet so perhaps he felt it was too soon for that kind of commitment, because he didn’t ask her.

Emma was still trying to be friendly with Will, even inviting him round to the flat to dinner, but Will still behaved distantly, maybe because Emma had coerced him into doing a few odd jobs around the place. She was pretty good at using people like that, putting on a ‘helpless little woman’ act to get people to do things for her, and would have used Paris the same way if Paris hadn’t seen through the act and resisted, pointing out that they were supposed to share the chores.

A couple of months after the trial Paris went to a conference in Manchester for a few days. When she got back Emma regretfully told her that the rent on the flat had been increased quite substantially so she would, in turn, have to put Paris’s share up, naming a much higher sum.

Paris looked at her with some dismay. ‘But I can’t possibly afford that much at the moment, Emma.’ Worriedly, she pushed her hair back from her head. She had managed to find one new customer but the income no way made up for what she had lost.

‘Well, I’m sorry, Paris. I wish I didn’t have to ask you, but this is quite a luxurious flat, you know.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll—I’ll look round for somewhere else, then.’

‘All right. I’ll give you a month,’ Emma offered.

Paris was taken aback; she hadn’t expected to have to leave so soon, and for a moment felt a surge of resentment; it surely wouldn’t have hurt Emma to let her take her time to find somewhere else? But Paris immediately felt ashamed; she had no idea of Emma’s financial circumstances or what the total rent of the flat was. Maybe Emma had been subsidising her all this while, although she, Paris, had always paid her share of the rent promptly, as well as half the bills, which hadn’t left a lot for herself.

That evening she developed a headache—a really bad one—and had to cancel her date with Will.

‘You poor darling,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Would you like me to come round and stroke your brow?’

‘Would that be all you would stroke?’

‘Possibly not,’ he admitted.

She chuckled but said, ‘Maybe you’d better not, then.’

The headache got worse and, the following morning, was so bad that Emma had to drive them to work, and the elder girl advised her to see her doctor.

‘Oh, no, I’m sure it will soon go,’ Paris replied. ‘I don’t usually get headaches.’

‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ Emma asked, giving her a swift glance.

‘No, definitely not.’

‘OK. OK. I only asked.’

‘Sorry, Emma,’ Paris said contritely. ‘But I am on the Pill; you know that.’

The headache went away eventually but a few days later she had another that was even worse. ‘It sounds like a migraine to me,’ someone told her, and so she went to the chemist and got some pills to try and relieve it, and they helped.

Out with Will one evening, he asked her to go to see a new film with him the following night, but she said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tomorrow.’

‘Got another date?’ he asked, raising his eyebrow. He was teasing; he was supremely confident that she wasn’t interested in anyone else, as he had the right to be.

So he looked really surprised when she said, ‘Sort of. I’ve arranged to go and look at a bedsit.’

His eyes settled on her face. ‘Is Emma throwing you out?’

‘No, but her rent has been put up and I can’t afford my share any more, not after losing those three accounts. She’s given me a month to find somewhere.’

‘Generous of her,’ Will commented wryly. He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Maybe it will be better if you do leave; I don’t like you living with Emma.’

She always liked to think that her friends would get on well together and Paris felt a little disappointed. But the animosity seemed to be mutual because only recently Emma had commented rather acidly, ‘Will may be incredible in bed, but his manners leave much to be desired. Still, if he suits you…’ And she had given an eloquent shrug.

Paris had wanted to jump to Will’s defence, but held her tongue; the two of them had taken a dislike to each other and that was that.

Looking at her now, Will gave a crooked smile—the one he used when he was teasing her. ‘As a matter of fact I know of someone who’s looking for a flatmate.’

Her heart skipped a beat, but she said, ‘Really? Is it a nice flat?’

‘Pretty good. All mod cons. Only, you might have to share a room.’

‘I don’t think I’d like that very much. How much is the rent?’

‘Oh, I think you’d be able to afford the rent.’

‘Well, I don’t know. Who is this girl?’

‘Girl?’

‘The one who wants a flatmate.’

Leaning on his elbow, Will reached to take her hand, his grey eyes warm and mischievous. ‘Who says it’s a girl?’

Her eyes widened in mock innocence. ‘You want me to share a room with some man?’

‘Yes, please.’

She laughed, abandoning the demure look. ‘When can I move in?’

‘Would tomorrow do?’

Paris kissed the hand that held hers, her eyes alight with laughter and happiness. ‘Tomorrow would be fine.’ But then she felt compelled to add, ‘So long as you’re sure.’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘I wouldn’t want you to feel pushed into it just because I can’t afford to stay on with Emma.’

‘Paris?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t be silly.’ And he leaned to kiss her on the mouth.

Moving in with Will was one of the most exciting times in Paris’s life—having pretend arguments about wardrobe space, having him groan that he expected the bathroom to be festooned with drying underwear.

‘I can dry it at the launderette,’ she offered.

‘Hell, no! I’m not going to have other men looking at that sexy black underwear of yours going round in the machine. I want to fantasise about it all by myself.’

She flung her arms round him, and kissed him exuberantly. ‘God, I’m crazy about you, Will Brydon.’

‘The feeling’s mutual, ma’am.’

For the next couple of months everything was perfect, except that the wretched migraine attacks returned with painful frequency. But Paris was too happy to take much notice; she just pumped in headache pills until they went away.

She had to go to Europe a few times, once to a big convention in Prague where she was lucky enough to find two new accounts which put her more or less back on the income level she’d been on before. So she was able to insist on paying for all the food bills at the flat, although Will protested. But she felt happier paying her share.

She still saw Emma at work, of course, and they went out to lunch together on a regular basis, remaining friends but tacitly not discussing Will.

He and Paris were sharing their lives almost completely; Paris had taken him to meet each of her parents and their families, and both visits had been successful. In return Will took her to meet his elder brother, Mark, his only close relative since his parents had died some time ago. Mark, with his wife and two young children, lived in a village near Cambridge, where they invited Paris and Will to spend the weekend with them.

They set out from London around mid-morning; the day was fine and they were both in high spirits, Paris in particular looking forward to the trip. She wasn’t at all nervous about meeting Will’s relations; he’d told her a little about them, that they both had careers centred on Cambridge, and they sounded her kind of people.

The couple lived in an old, detached house, all stuccoed walls outside and beamed ceilings within, with an inglenook fireplace framed with a garland of dried hops. The walls of the downstairs sitting-room were ragpainted and then stencilled with an intricate flower design, as were all the cupboards in the traditional farmhouse kitchen. The house looked like something out of a country-living-style magazine and Paris fell for the place at once.

Mark was seven years older than Will, and his wife, Annabel, looked to be about thirty. Their greeting was friendly enough, but both of them seemed a bit distracted. Mark, who was dressed in old jeans and a greasestained T-shirt, gave them each a drink and said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me a minute; I was in the middle of cutting the grass when the damn mower broke down. Perhaps you could come and take a look at it, Will; you’re better at mechanical things than I am.’

Will caught Paris’s eye, gave a slight wink, and the two men went into the garden.

Annabel, dressed similarly to her husband, was kneeling before a four-oven Aga, almost in an attitude of worship, an anxious frown on her face as she looked at some cakes she was cooking. There seemed to be a lot of small cakes around, either cooling or waiting in trays to be cooked.

‘Are you fond of cakes?’ Paris asked curiously.

‘What?’ Annabel laughed and stood up. ‘No, the village is having an open day tomorrow and I offered to make some cakes to sell with the teas. I think it’s so important when you live in the country to take an active part in village life. Don’t you?’

Paris had never thought about it, but it seemed that the question was merely rhetorical because Annabel glanced at her watch, gave an annoyed sigh, and said, ‘Oh, Lord, I was supposed to pick up the girls from their dancing class ten minutes ago. And then I have to dash into town so that Olivia can buy a present for a friend’s birthday. The party is this afternoon and she insists on choosing the present herself. Which is good, of course, don’t you think? Children should have the right of choice. We were supposed to buy the present some time last week but somehow there was just too much happening.’

She knelt again at the Aga, took a batch of cakes out and put another lot in.

When she straightened, Paris knew what was coming but didn’t volunteer. Annabel said, ‘I know it’s an awful cheek, but would you be an absolute angel and cook the rest of these cakes for me while I get the girls? I’m sorry to land it on you but it’s one of those days.’

‘I’m not very good at cooking and I’ve never used one of those cookers before,’ Paris warned her.

‘Oh, good heavens, you don’t need any skill. Just have a look now and again to see if they’re done. Thanks a million; I must fly.’

Annabel dashed upstairs, came down again ten minutes later wearing a smart town outfit, and ran outside to her car.

Those first few minutes seemed to set the tone for the whole weekend. Annabel rang on her personal phone about an hour later, full of apologies and asked Paris to start lunch for her. By the time she rushed in with her two daughters the lunch was ready and waiting; Will, having found out what was the matter with the mower and bought a new part from the local garden centre to fix it, was now mowing the large area of grass, and Mark was watering the plants in the greenhouse.

Paris thought that they’d relax over lunch but it seemed that the girls had to go to their violin lessons, arranged at an earlier time than usual because of the friend’s birthday party, and they were already late.

‘I’m sorry, I’ll just have to rush,’ Annabel said, and then, remembering, added, ‘Oh, dear, I haven’t shown you your room yet, have I? Never mind; Will knows where it is.’

It was a nice room, with views looking out on two sides over the garden and meadows beyond. But the bed hadn’t yet been made up and they had to search for sheets and things and do it themselves. The walls were marked out for another stencil effect but were only partly done and there were no curtains on the windows.

‘How long have they lived here?’ Paris asked.

‘About six years,’ Will said laconically.

Paris was surprised; she’d have thought that Annabel would have finished the decorating by now.

When Annabel and her daughters hurried home an hour or so later, Olivia went up to have a bath and change into her party clothes and Charlotte, the younger child, immediately began to make a big fuss because she hadn’t been invited.

‘Never mind, darling. We’ll do something really special together instead,’ Annabel soothed.

‘What? What will we do?’ Charlotte naturally wanted to know.

‘I’ll think of something,’ Annabel said, almost curtly, and she went to the stairs to yell at Olivia to hurry up. But when she took Olivia to the party, Annabel must have got sidetracked because she didn’t come back, so it was left to Paris to try and amuse the younger child, but as Paris had no experience and Charlotte was grumpy it didn’t work too well. Charlotte kept going to the window to look for her mother and when she didn’t come went up to her room, locked herself in, and wouldn’t come out or answer when Paris spoke to her.

Will, meanwhile was helping Mark to unblock some gutters; or, at least, Will was up the ladder doing so while Mark, who was supposed to be holding it, kept wandering off to dig his overgrown vegetable patch or to answer the phone, although most of the callers seemed to want Annabel.

That evening some friends had been invited to dinner, which Annabel cooked herself. She wasn’t a bad cook, but, by the time she’d given the girls their pizzas, put them to bed, done the preparations for the meal, made half a dozen phone calls and got herself ready, it was very late before they sat down to eat, and almost three in the morning before the other guests left.

Curling tiredly up to Will, Paris said, ‘Is it always like this?’

‘Always,’ he said resignedly.

The next day they were both roped in to help with the village open day, Paris helping Annabel in the tea tent and Will directing cars into the field being used as a car park, so they hardly saw one another. The main Sunday meal, to which Annabel liberally invited several neighbours, wasn’t ready until eight in the evening, and Paris found herself doing most of the clearing up, as she had that morning because Annabel had been too tired to do it the night before.

It was midnight before they were able to drive back to London, Paris feeling more exhausted than she had when they’d arrived, and afraid that one of the blinding migraines was about to take over her head.

‘Are you all right?’ Will asked her when she grew silent. And when she admitted that her head ached he said angrily, ‘I’m hardly surprised after the last two days. They don’t have to live like that. They could well afford for Annabel not to work, but she insists on combining the roles of wife, mother, career woman and active villager. And tries to be perfect at everything but with the result that everything suffers.

‘She’s forever torn between her job, her home and her family, and most of the time the job comes first. After school and in the holidays the girls are looked after by a child-minder or are farmed out to various friends. And when Annabel is home she’s always trying to decorate the place in the latest fashion, or she’s out at some village organisation committee meeting.’

There was disgust in his voice as well as anger, but Paris felt compelled to stand up for her sex and say, ‘I’m sure she’s doing everything for the best.’

‘That’s just it; her intentions might be good but she doesn’t have the sense to see that she’s achieving nothing. Her family is suffering and so is she. She just cannot manage that lifestyle.’

‘What does Mark think about it?’ Paris asked guardedly.

Will shrugged. ‘He’s tried to persuade her to give up her job but she won’t. She says she won’t be fulfilled if she does.’ The disgust was heavy again in his voice. ‘If she was so wrapped up in her career she shouldn’t have gone in for a family in the first place.’

‘Rubbish!’ Pans said shortly. ‘A woman has every right to have both a family and a career. Men do, don’t they? And thousands of women have children and have to go out to work. Annabel isn’t very organised, that’s all.’

Will gave a sarcastic snort. ‘She tries to be all things to all people and it doesn’t work. You saw that for yourself. And, the way I see it, bringing up children should be a full-time job; they need all the help, education and training they can to get to face today’s problems.

‘There wouldn’t be half the juvenile crime and adolescents with psychological problems if they’d got more attention at home. Most of them are thrust in front of the television screen to keep them quiet when they’re babies and can work a video before they can talk. They become latchkey kids as soon as they go to school, and live off junk food for the rest of their lives.’

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