Escape Me Never
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ENDPAGE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

IT had begun to rain. Cassie felt the first icy drops, as she waited on the edge of the pavement, and grimaced inwardly with irritation. She’d left the flat so hurriedly that morning that she’d failed to bring either an umbrella or even a scarf, and a heavy shower on her newly washed, carefully blow-dried and disciplined hair was likely to restore it to its usual riot of tumbling waves.

Clearly, it was going to be one of those days. Her radio alarm had gone off early, tempting her to the luxury of ‘just a few more minutes’, with the result that she’d fallen deeply asleep again.

And Jodie, usually the most amenable of children, had suddenly exhibited disturbing signs of a reversion to the panicky, hysterical tempers of a few years previously.

‘You haven’t forgotten it’s open afternoon at school, Mummy,’ she said, as Cassie dashed between toaster and kettle. ‘Miss Willard asked specially if you were going to be there.’

Cassie concealed her dismay at the reminder. Yes, it had slipped her mind, like so many other things did these days, she thought glumly, resentment rising within her at Jodie’s reference to her headmistress. Her school was well-run, and briskly geared to learning, but Miss Willard whose old-fashioned values oiled the wheels, had what amounted to an obsession with working mothers, holding them, Cassie often thought, responsible for most of the ills plaguing modern society.

And the fact that Cassie was a widow and needed to support herself and her child apparently made no difference to her views. She had never made the slightest allowance for women who worked, scheduling most school functions during normal job hours, and taking careful note, Cassie thought ruefully, of those who coped with awkwardness and inconvenience to be there. It was moral blackmail, and although Cassie, and others in the same boat as herself might grumble at it, none of them would have dreamed of removing their children from the school itself.

Now, with Jodie, Cassie sought to temporise. ‘I’ll try, darling,’ she promised. ‘But it’s a very big day at the office. But Mrs Barrett will be there,’ she added reassuringly.

Besides the stability of school, Mrs Barrett was the other blessing in their lives. A comfortable, motherly soul whose family had grown up, and who was happy to fill in the years before one of her own brood made her a grandmother by looking after Jodie on a more or less full-time basis.

It couldn’t have been more convenient. She lived in the flat below, and took Jodie to school each morning, as well as bringing her home in the afternoons, giving her tea, and playing with her until Cassie arrived home. She was well-paid, of course, but she never treated Jodie as if she was a source of income.

Now, to Cassie’s horror, she saw her daughter’s lip bulge ominously. ‘I don’t want Mrs Barrett,’ she said tremulously. ‘I want you to be there like the other mummies. You didn’t come to the carol concert, and I was the only one in our class,’ she added, her voice rising perilously.

She was beginning to stiffen. Cassie, biting her lip, knelt beside her, putting her arms round the rigid little body. ‘Sweetheart,’ she said gently. ‘It isn’t that easy. We’ve discussed all this before. I have to work to earn money for us to live on, you know that.’

‘We could have a Daddy to do that,’ Jodie said sullenly. ‘Proper families have daddies.’ And her eyes met Cassie’s, suddenly, shockingly Brett’s eyes.

Cassie bit her lip hard. Thank you, Miss Willard, she thought grimly. The school had a lot to its credit, but on the debit side was this constant reinforcement of the traditional stereotyped roles for the sexes, the insistence of the nuclear family as the norm, isolating those children whose lives did not conform to the cosy pattern. Making them aware that they were somehow different.

She had never felt less humorous in her life, but she tried to make a joke of it. ‘Well, daddies don’t grow on trees, I’m afraid, and neither does money.’ She got up. ‘I’ll do my very best to be there this afternoon. What time does it start—three o’clock, as usual?’

Jodie nodded slowly, her eyes wide and anxious fixed on her mother’s face, but that alarming stiffness was beginning to subside. And in a way, Cass thought, it might even be a hopeful sign, after all that had happened, that she could talk about fathers, although in general terms. It was one of those moments she ought to pursue, to build on, and she knew it both for Jodie’s sake and her own, and for a moment she was tempted to ’phone in to the office and tell them she wouldn’t be in.

But she couldn’t do it, she told herself reluctantly. Today was too important for the agency. They hadn’t exactly been in the doldrums recently, but the Eve cosmetics account would be a magnificent boost—a real feather in their caps if its board liked the advertising campaign they had designed, and which would get its initial presentation that morning.

There shouldn’t be any snags. The ideas were there, and they were good. Even Barney, their boss, thought so. Now, all they had to do was sell it to the clients. That, thankfully, wasn’t her job. Roger was always the front man on these occasions, enthusiastic, persuasive, a born salesman. They made a good team.

And if they secured the Eve cosmetics account, there’d been broad hints that other goodies from Grant International might be coming their way. The sky, in fact, was the limit.

If things went well, it could all be over by lunchtime, she told herself optimistically. And Roger would let her leave early. In the general euphoria, Barney might not even notice her absence. In his way, he was a male Miss Willard, also prepared to make no concessions, as he’d warned Cass when he hired her.

‘Women with small children are generally bad news,’ he’d told her brusquely. ‘Here,—er Ms Linton—the job comes first.’ He gave her a faint glare. ‘Not measles, or half term, or whatever. I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding. There’ll be no special favours.’

Well, there hadn’t been, nor had she ever asked for any. But in spite of Mrs Barrett’s unfailing willingness to be her substitute, Cass had not always found it easy.

And being late, as she was bound to be today of all days, wouldn’t do her cause any particular good.

But her lateness wasn’t actually noticed. The agency was buzzing, nobody in their offices and studios. Sylvie, with whom Cass shared an office, was on the ’phone talking agitatedly as Cass came in, and she waved a hand at her, rolling her eyes to heaven as she did so.

‘Phew.’ She almost slung the receiver back on its rest, and leaned back in her chair. ‘Which do you want first—the bad news or the bad news?’

‘Oh, God.’ Cass sat down at her desk. ‘Don’t tell me—they’re not coming.’

‘They’re coming all right, but they’ll be delayed.’

Cass’s heart sank. ‘But why?’

‘They’re waiting for the new chairman to fly in from Paris. It seems he likes to be in on every act, and they don’t know what’s hit them.’ Sylvie paused. ‘And Roger’s wife’s been on the ’phone. He’s in bed with ‘flu—temperature up in the hundreds, and the doctor’s forbidden him to move.’

‘Oh, I don’t believe it,’ Cass said limply. ‘He was complaining of a headache last night, but I thought—well, you know what I thought …’

Sylvie nodded. Apart from his job and his family, Roger’s other prevailing interest was his health. He enjoyed a mild but persistent hypochondria which his colleagues either tolerated or fumed over, according to temperament.

‘One of his little Wednesday moans,’ she agreed. ‘But this time it’s for real. And Barney’s bellowing like a wounded bull,’ she added grimly. ‘And that’s nothing to the way he’ll react when he sees what you’re wearing. Hell, Cassie, you know how he feels about women wearing trousers to work.’

Cass flushed. ‘And you know how I feel about his stupid chauvinist prejudices about clothes,’ she retorted with energy. ‘Besides what does it matter. I’m the backroom girl.’

‘Not today, sweetie,’ Sylvie reminded her acidly. ‘Roger’s demolishing the nation’s stock of soluble aspirin—remember? So you’ll have to do the presentation.’

‘What?’ Cass’s face was appalled. ‘Sylvie—I can’t.’

‘You’re going to have to,’ Sylvie said unsympathetically. ‘For heaven’s sake, ninety per cent of the ideas in the campaign are yours, anyway. And you’ve heard Roger do presentations dozens of times. Just sock it to them, like he does.’

Cass said flatly, ‘It’s impossible. I’m not Roger, and you know it.’

‘You’re certainly healthier,’ Sylvie agreed cheerfully. ‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t speak up for yourself for once. Old Roger may have the gift of the gab, but you do most of the work, and everyone knows it. You carry him, Cass.’

Cass’s lips parted in further protest, but before she could utter another word, the door of the office burst open and Barney erupted into the room, calling something to someone over his shoulder as he came.

His glance flashed to Cass. ‘So you finally got here,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Cass said non-committally, reflecting bitterly that there wasn’t a lot that ever got past Barney.

‘Damn Roger,’ he went on forcefully. ‘Three hundred and sixty four other days he could have had ‘flu, but he has to pick this one. The presentation—you can cope.’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘Well, you’ll have to. I’ll back you up, of course, but the thing’s your pigeon.’ He gave her a long assessing look, and sighed. ‘And for God’s sake do something to yourself before they get here.’

Cass straightened, and her eyes flashed fire. ‘What’s the matter with the way I look?’

‘Nothing—if sludge and leaf-mould are your favourite colours,’ Barney said disagreeably. ‘And you’re trying to sell a cosmetics campaign, not promote the well-scrubbed look. Don’t you think it might have been tactful to have worn some of their stuff?’

Sylvie said, ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ and slid out of the room. Neither of them saw her go.

Cass almost bounced out of her chair. ‘I thought you’d hired me for my brains. If you wanted a glamour girl, you should have gone elsewhere,’ she flared.

‘I would have—no danger,’ Barney threw back at her. He discovered a new bone of contention. ‘Trousers,’ he howled. ‘Christ, today of all days couldn’t you have sacrificed your bloody feminist principles and worn a skirt?’

It had nothing to do with feminist principles, but was the result of laddering her last pair of tights during that maddening early rush, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him so.

‘I’ll wear what I want, and if you don’t like it you can fire me,’ she hurled at him recklessly. ‘You took me on for what was inside my head, not for any half inch of muck plastered on my face.’ She banged a fist on the table. ‘This is how I am, and you can take it or leave it.’

There was a silence, then slowly she saw his face crinkle into a reluctant smile, like the sun emerging from behind a thunder-cloud. ‘I’ll take you, Cass,’ he said. ‘Warts and all. You’re the best ideas girl this agency’s had in years. If we get this account, it will be down to you basically, and I won’t forget it. It’s just …’ He paused. ‘Hell, the clients expect an image from you, as well as the campaign. Usually, you have Roger to hide behind, but you won’t today and—well, it is important.’

Cass looked back at him with the beginnings of ruefulness. ‘I know it,’ she acknowledged quietly. ‘And—I promise I’ll do my best, but I can’t change the kind of person I am.’

‘No-one’s asking you to,’ Barney assured her. ‘But—look, Cass, they’re going to be late as it is, waiting for their latest big shot to join them You’ve got time to pop out—get yourself something else to wear. The agency will pay, naturally.’

Cass sighed. ‘What do you suggest?’ she asked bitterly. ‘Something short and see-through? I’m sorry, Barney, but I just can’t. It would be false to everything I’ve come to believe in.’ She bit her lip. ‘After all, if I was Roger, you wouldn’t be in here criticising the tie I’d chosen, or my aftershave. Why should it be different, just because I happen to be a woman?’

Barney gave her one of his deliberately disarming looks, usually saved for clients with grievances. ‘That’s the million dollar question, Cass, but there is a difference, and it will take a few more generations of women’s liberation to remove it. Well, have it your own way,’ he added briskly. ‘And at least your hair looks better for once,’ he added as he headed for the door again. ‘What have you done to it.’

Cass said without rancour, ‘I got it caught in the rain.’

When she was alone, she sat down slowly, resting her elbows on the desk, and cupping her chin reflectively in her hands. What Barney and everyone else at the agency didn’t know was that there’d once been a Cass Linton who’d been as fashion conscious as anyone else, who’d enjoyed enhancing her natural attractions with make-up and scent. But that girl was long since dead, and the new personality which had risen painfully from the ashes of the old preferred to camouflage herself in drab clothes, and severe hairstyles. She didn’t want people to look at her as they once had. She didn’t want, in particular, men to look at her. She was a widow. She wanted no other relationship in her life, and although she no longer wore Brett’s ring, she carried it with her always to remind her.

She examined her hands judiciously. Bare, with neat unpolished nails. A neat face too, pale-lipped and unremarkable, her clear blue-green eyes its chief beauty. And—neat hair, when the wind and rain hadn’t played havoc with it, turning it into a dark curling mop instead of the usual controlled bob. Everything about her designed so that people wouldn’t give her a second look.

But today, whether she liked it or not, everyone would be looking, and making judgments, and the thought irritated her almost unbearably. She’d made unobtrusiveness her leitmotif, and today, through no fault of her own, she was going to be the centre of attention.

It might not be so bad, she tried to console herself. After all, executives from the Eve cosmetics board had visited the agency on a number of occasions. Only the new chairman, the overlord of Grant Industries, was an unknown quantity.

She tried briefly to review what little she knew about him, culled mainly from agency gossip. Quite young, she’d gathered, for the onerous position he now occupied after his father’s retirement. Had spent a lot of time in the States, but for the past couple of years had been European director. Was expected to take a firm hold on Grant’s worldwide business interests, but had not, frankly, been expected to interest himself in a relatively minor detail like an advertising promotion for Eve Cosmetics.

No wonder Barney was going off like a firecracker, jumping in all directions, Cass thought wrily. She could have coped adequately with Mr McDowell, and Mr Handson. But Rohan Grant was additional pressure which she could have well done without.

Sylvie popped her head round the door. ‘Is it safe to come back?’ she asked. ‘What have you done with the body?’

‘The body’s alive and well, and no doubt playing hell somewhere else,’ Cass said, with a faint grin.

‘And you’re sticking to your guns?’ Sylvie asked.

‘Why not?’

‘Oh.’ Sylvie hunched a shoulder. ‘I thought you might have—compromised for once. Under the circumstances.’

Cass looked at her in mild surprise. ‘But I thought you agreed with me,’ she said. ‘Barney’s blatant sexism has always infuriated you too.’

‘Yes,’ Sylvie agreed. ‘Although his wife seems to thrive on it,’ she added drily. ‘At the last Christmas party she told me she’d gone back into stockings and suspenders because he preferred them.’

‘Well, good luck to her,’ Cass said, shrugging. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I should do the same to woo Rohan Grant and his cohorts.’

‘No, that would be going too far.’ Sylvie hesitated. ‘Oh, what’s the use in pretending. Bloody Barney wants me to persuade you out of those khaki horrors you’re smothered in, and into something with a skirt. And for once, I see his point,’ she added hastily as Cass opened her mouth to protest. ‘Whether you want it or not, today you’re the agency’s spokesperson. They’re going to judge us all by you, or at least Rohan Grant will. You know how important the right impression can be,’ she went on appealingly. ‘Cass, I feel a total heel saying these things to you, but just for once, can’t you forget your aim of fading into the wallpaper—and look the successful lady you are?’

There was a silence. Cass said, ‘Quite a speech. What do you want me to do? Take Barney’s thirty pieces of silver and get myself a basic black?’ Her tone was bitter.

‘Why not?’ Sylvie’s voice was equable. ‘You’ve got a part to play, so dress up for it. It might even make it easier.’

Cass bit her lip. ‘That—actually makes sense,’ she admitted slowly. ‘All right—I’ll do it, for this occasion only. Did Barney give you any further instructions?’

Sylvie giggled. ‘Can you doubt it? He said we were to get something which matched your eyes and showed off your legs.’ She sent Cass a droll look. ‘So much for Operation Chameleon.’

And after a stunned moment, Cass found herself joining helplessly in her laughter.

But two hours later, she had stopped smiling. The clients still hadn’t arrived, and any remaining hope she’d had of getting off for Jodie’s open day was vanishing fast.

She sighed irritably. The day was proving a chapter of disasters from start to finish, and this—charade she’d allowed Sylvie to talk her into it, was one of the worst. The dress, a simple cream wool sheath with a cowl neck, was the most expensive garment she’d ever possessed, but she took no pleasure in it, or in the broad leather belt which cinched her waist, reducing its slenderness almost to nothing, or the matching dark brown shoes, the heels of which added over an inch to her height. And to add insult to injury, Sylvie had produced one of the Eve cosmetic beauty cases, and insisted on Cass touching her eyelids with a delicate tracing of pearly shadow, and smoothing a soft pink gloss on to the indignant lines of her mouth.

Sylvie, she thought sourly, seemed well pleased with her handiwork. ‘It’s like one of those old Hollywood movies,’ she’d said, grinning. ‘All we need now is for Barney to come in and say, “My God, Ms Linton—but you’re beautiful.”’

‘I’m glad you think it’s so damned funny,’ Cass had snapped back.

Perhaps Sylvie had warned Barney to step warily, for all he said in the event was a quiet, ’Thanks, Cassie.’

No one else made any comment at all. But that, Cass thought caustically, was probably because they didn’t recognise her. To tell the truth, she hardly recognised herself. And the reflection which looked back at her from the mirror was hardly a reassuring one. It was too powerful a reminder of the vulnerable girl she had been, rather than the guarded self-sufficient woman which marriage, and the subsequent bringing up of her child as a single parent, had made her. She didn’t want to remember that girl, or any of the circumstances which had brought about that change in her.

She ran an irritable hand through her hair. Allowed to go its own way like this, it made her look years younger. Oh, she would be so thankful when this day was over, and she could retire back into her inconspicuous shell again.

She opened the door of the women’s cloakroom and hurried into the corridor, colliding as she did so with the leading figure in a group of people just walking past.

For a startled instant, she was off-balance, sharply aware of muscular strength, and a cool, clean male scent. Then firm hands took her shoulders, steadying her, and she recoiled with a gasp.

She heard Barney say jovially, ‘Cass—I’ve just sent Linda to find you and tell you that we’re on our way to the board room now. May I introduce Rohan Grant to you. Mr Grant, this is Ms Linton who will be conducting the presentation of the campaign on our behalf today.’

A man’s voice drawling slightly said, ‘If I’ve left her any breath to do it with. How do you do, Ms Linton.’

She looked at him almost dazedly, registering all kinds of things. His height, for one thing. He seemed to tower head and shoulders above anyone else in the group. His superbly cut suit accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, and the lean hips and long legs. A thin, tanned face, with nose and chin strongly and commandingly marked, and a firm, straight mouth. Long-lashed hazel eyes glinting with amusement, and something else, and brown hair curling away from his forehead.

It was as if she was making notes for an inventory. She swallowed. There was no actual facial resemblance between them, but Brett’s hair had been brown and his eyes hazel. And there was a terrible familiarity in that arrogant lift of the head, that unspoken assumption that he was male—all powerful, and all conquering … All so like Brett, she thought with a kind of sick horror.

Barney said sharply, ‘Cass, are you all right?’

She dredged up some self-control from somewhere. She said coolly, ‘Fine, thank you. I’ll join you in the board room right away. She moved her lips in a brief meaningless smile. ‘Mr Grant—gentlemen.’

Her office was empty, and she was thankful. All the material for the presentation had already been set up in the boardroom. There was only her personal folder of notes to take. She reached for it, aware that her hand was shaking a little, and her breathing ragged.

She had to get a grip on herself, she told herself sternly. There were thousands of brown-haired, hazel-eyed men in the Greater London area alone. She saw them every day on the streets, in the Tube, in the restaurants around the office. And he didn’t look like Brett, she reminded herself almost frantically. It was the colouring only—and the stance which made her think …

But she couldn’t forget that for a brief moment she had touched him. And he had touched her. She had actually felt the warmth of his hands on her through the fabric of her dress. She shuddered violently. The first time—the first time a man had touched her, apart from cursory, unavoidable handshakes, since Brett’s death.

And it was no use telling herself that it was her own fault, that she’d crashed into him purely accidentally. Just that one fleeting contact, and she felt threatened.

She wanted to run away, to hide somewhere. But there was nowhere. And they were waiting for her. At any minute, Barney would be sending someone to hurry her up. She was needed to do her job, the job which paid the rent and supported not just herself, but her child. The job she couldn’t afford to lose by keeping important clients waiting while she stayed, shivering, in her room. She must have scored zero for poise with the Grant man already. She couldn’t compound the bad impression. She snatched up the folder, and her bag, then paused again.

Obeying an impulse she barely understood, she opened her bag and unzipped a small inside pocket, and took out Brett’s ring, biting at the inside of her lip, as she forced it over her knuckle. Her hands had grown a little. The ring felt tight, alien on her finger.

She had never thought to wear it again, had kept it solely as a private reminder of her marriage, but now, suddenly, it seemed like the safeguard she needed and had abandoned with her shapeless khaki trousers and jacket.

But why should she suddenly be so sure she needed a safeguard? That was the question that followed her, tormenting her, all down the long corridor to the board room where they all waited.

CHAPTER TWO

‘THE problem we’ve had to face,’ Cass said, her voice clear and even, ‘has been the old one of familiarity breeding contempt. Everyone knows Eve cosmetics. The range is as established and respected as Arden or Rubenstein. Yet in spite of everything that’s been done to make sure the products moved with the times, this frankly hasn’t been reflected in your advertising campaigns over the past ten years, nor by the sales. Your non-allergic brands—the fact that you’ve produced a whole range without using animal products—all these things should have been exploited—but haven’t been.’

She paused. ‘The ideas we’ve put to you seek to put this right, and also to hammer home the message of the brand name. Eve is all woman, and Eve cosmetics are designed for all women.’

She smiled briefly and sat down, amid appreciative murmurs. But were they really enthusiastic, or merely polite. Cass couldn’t gauge any more. She felt as if she’d put through a wringer, mentally as well as physically.

And Roger enjoyed this, she thought limply. How could he, but she knew what the answer to that was. If Roger had been here, the line of questioning would have been very different. It would have been taken for granted that Roger knew his job, because he was a man. As a woman, Cass had had to prove she knew what she was talking about over and over again. And the man heading the Inquisition had been Rohan Grant.

At first his questions had bewildered her a little, and she’d begun to flounder. Then she caught Barney’s warning glance, and realised that she was being tested. She resented this, and it put her on her mettle. She believed in the product—if women had to wear make-up, then Eve cosmetics were as good as any and better than most and she believed in the campaign which she’d been instrumental in designing. And if Rohan Grant was used to high-powered performances from bigger agencies, then that was just too bad.

Now, he said, ‘Very interesting, Ms Linton, but isn’t the image you’re trying to create a little—low-key?’

Cass shook her head, ‘I don’t think so. Whatever the situation may be on the other side of the Atlantic, I don’t think women in this country go for the hard sell over anything as personal as make-up and scent. The appeal has to be to the individual, and we have to intrigue her sufficiently to get her into the store, and up to the counter.’ She ventured another smile, this time at Mr McDowell. ‘The sad fact is that a lot of women feel intimidated by beauty counters. The choice is too vast, and the whole concept of being beautiful rather overwhelming. I want this campaign to interest them so much that they won’t just grab the first jar or bottle they see, but ask for Eve by name.’

‘And are you—overwhelmed by the concept of beauty, Ms Linton?’ Rohan Grant asked smoothly. ‘I notice you wear the barest minimum of make-up yourself.’

‘How very observant of you, Mr Grant,’ Cass said calmly. ‘And does your eagle eye also tell you what that minimum consists of?’

‘Why, yes,’ he drawled. ‘You’re wearing Silver Jade shadow, and Rose Blush on your lips. But no scent,’ he added reflectively. ‘I understood sample bottles of both our new fragrances, Sundance and Moonglow had been sent here.’

‘They have.’ Cass shrugged slightly. ‘They—don’t happen to be to my particular taste, I’m afraid.’

He smiled, leaning back in his chair, the hazel eyes surveying her from head to foot with smiling insolence. ‘Eve cosmetics,’ he murmured. ‘Designed to appeal to all women—except Ms Linton, it seems.’

‘Perhaps,’ Cass said coolly. ‘But that does not mean I don’t know how to persuade other women to like them—Mr Grant. I never allow my personal judgments to get in the way of work,’ she added sweetly.

‘Don’t you, Ms Linton?’ It was his turn to shrug. ‘Well, you’ll have a chance to prove that to the hilt in the weeks ahead. We’ll give your campaign a trial, and see how it works out.’

She swallowed, managed a feeble, ’Thank you,’ and began to gather her papers together. She could sense the jubilation in the air around her, but seemed to have no part in it. She’d been walking the high wire for too long. Rohan Grant’s almost laconic bestowal of the account, whether it was on trial or not, could only be an anti-climax. And a glance at her watch revealed that even if she could slip away now, she would be too late for Jodie’s open day. She felt weary to death suddenly.

And, of course, there was going to be no chance to slip away. An elaborate cold buffet had been laid out in the next room, and champagne was being poured.

‘Honey babe, you were sensational,’ Barney whispered, as he pushed a glass into her nerveless hand. He gave her a wicked leer. ‘I don’t know whether it was your arguments which turned the balance, or those fabulous legs of yours.’

‘Thanks,’ Cass said drily, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

‘But you had me worried a couple of times,’ he went on. ‘I had no idea you liked living dangerously. However—it paid off in the end. Expect a big bonus from grateful Uncle Barney.’

‘Thanks,’ she said again, this time with real gratitude. Barney might make her grind her teeth a lot of the time, but he was unfailingly generous when rewards were called for. She might be able to afford to have some redecoration done—or to take Jodie abroad for a couple of weeks later in the year. It had been a tough winter, with Jodie succumbing, it seemed, to one virus after another, although Cass herself had escaped unscathed. Some Mediterranean sun might be what they both needed.

She put down her untouched glass, and looked for an unobtrusive exit, but her way was blocked.

‘Not leaving already, Ms Linton,’ Rohan Grant said pleasantly. ‘Or may I copy Barney Finiston and call you Cassie? After all, we shall be seeing quite a lot of each other in the coming months.’

Cass looked past him. ‘I doubt that, Mr Grant. I’m sure you have far more pressing concerns in your empire than Eve cosmetics.’

‘Most of my empire, as you call it, seems to be flourishing,’ he said drily. ‘Which gives me more time to spend on the ailing sections of it, like Eve.’ He paused. ‘It happens to be rather close to my heart. Would you like to know why?’

‘Not unless I can use it in one of my campaigns, Mr Grant.’ She met his gaze fully for the first time. ‘Otherwise it’s not really any of my business. Now, perhaps you’ll excuse me. I think Barney—Mr Finiston—wants to speak to you.’

His mouth twisted slightly. ‘He probably does at that. However there are still several points from today’s presentation I would like to go over with you—perhaps over dinner tonight?’

Cass’s jaw dropped. She said stupidly, ‘I don’t understand.’

He looked faintly amused. ‘What’s so baffling? You eat, I presume, and you’ve heard of dinner—a meal, consisting of several courses, taken in the evening.’

His tone flicked her on the raw. ‘I do seem to recognise it,’ she said coolly. ‘But I’m afraid I have other plans.’

‘Change them,’ he suggested. His voice was pleasant, but the note of command was implicit, and unmistakable.

‘I’ll do nothing of the sort,’ Cass said, her voice shaking a little. ‘Incredible as it may seem, Mr Grant, I have no wish to have dinner with you tonight, or any other evening. And if the Eve account is conditional on my agreement, you’d better say so now. I think Barney might have something to say about a member of his staff being—sexually harrassed even by an important client like you.’

She paused. ‘And in case you hadn’t noticed, I happen to be married.’

He gave her a long, hard look. She’d made him, she thought detachedly, very angry.

‘I’d like to meet your husband,’ he said silkily at last. ‘He must have the guts of Genghis Khan to get to first base with you, you little fire eater. The invitation, as it happens, was to dinner, not to bed. Christ, woman, I thought the next round of discussions could take place in slightly more congenial surroundings, that’s all. A table is often more conducive to agreement being reached than a desk, or haven’t you noticed?’

She said, ‘I find our present surroundings quite congenial enough, Mr Grant, and I work office hours.’

‘I see,’ he said. ‘You disappoint me, Ms Linton. I’d begun to think you were the real thing, for a change, but you’re just another married lady playing at career woman. Pity,’ he added with a shrug, and walked away.

She watched him go with sudden apprehension. She might be the blue-eyed girl where Barney was concerned, but if Rohan Grant relayed the gist of their conversation to him, then she would be in deep trouble.

Perhaps she even deserved to be. She seemed to have misconstrued his motives pretty thoroughly. But it was far better for him to write off her conduct as boorish, than to know the truth—that even the prospect of sharing a conventional tête à tête dinner with him frightened her half to death. She did not want to be alone with him, ever, or on any terms of intimacy. She wanted all future dealings with Eve to be with Mr McDowell and Mr Handson. She wished Rohan Grant had stayed in Paris and rubber-stamped his approval of that campaign from a distance.

What’s happening to me, she asked herself desperately, with a little shiver. She was beginning to feel positively light-headed. Perhaps in reality the radio alarm had never gone off that morning, and she was still in bed, having some nightmare.

Somebody from the accounts department came over to her. ‘Barney says don’t forget to let us have the bill for that dress,’ he said in an undertone.

She said, ‘I’d prefer to pay for it myself. That way, I can give it to a jumble sale with a clear conscience.’

He gasped at her. ‘Cassie, are you mad? It looks terrific on you. I’d hardly have known you.’

‘I hardly know myself,’ Cass said hardily, ‘And I don’t like it. Back to reality tomorrow.’ She made her way towards Barney. He was not, she noted with relief, talking to Rohan Grant, or anywhere near him. She touched his arm. ‘Would it be all right if I went home now. I have a slight headache.’

He was all concern. ‘I hope you’re not coming down with the same damned thing as Roger.’ He peered at her frowning. ‘You’re very pale,’ he added accusingly. ‘You’d better take a taxi. Charge it to expenses.’

Cass nodded wanly, and made her way to the cloakroom. Her clothes were there, in the boutique carrier, but she felt disinclined to change. It could wait till she got home, she decided.

And the headache hadn’t been just an excuse. It turned into a real one on the journey, most of which Cass spent with her eyes closed.

‘Good party?’ the driver asked cheerfully as she paid him.

‘The best,’ she said.

Mrs Barrett’s brows climbed almost into her hair when she answered her bell. ‘My goodness,’ she exclaimed. ‘What a transformation.’ Then she caught herself guiltily. ‘Not that you don’t always look nice, Mrs Linton.’

Cass smiled at her wearily. ‘Is Jodie all right?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make the open day, but …’ she spread her hands helplessly.

‘Well, she was naturally disappointed,’ Mrs Barrett admitted. ‘But I think she’s over it now. I made some of that flapjack she likes for tea, and she’s watching television. She’ll be thrilled you’re home early.’

‘You look different,’ was Jodie’s instant greeting.

Cass kissed her. ‘Different better, or different worse,’ she asked teasingly.

‘I don’t know.’ Jodie wriggled free. ‘You didn’t come,’ she accused.

‘Sweetheart, I couldn’t.’ Cass stroked her hair, grieving inwardly. She should have been with her daughter that afternoon, not dressed up like a Christmas tree, trying to make an impression on a man who combined too much money, and too much power, with infinitely too much sex appeal.

She shivered again. Well, at least now she’d admitted why he frightened her so. It was easy to armour oneself, when there was no temptation to break out of its protection, she thought sombrely.

After Brett, it had been easy to swear her private vow of total celibacy. Easy to keep it too. Now, in the course of one afternoon, everything had changed. Nothing was simple any more, and might never be so again, and if she didn’t take some aspirin soon and lie down, her head would probably burst.

She listened to Jodie’s excited account of the open day activities, sampled the flapjack, and accepted gratefully Mrs Barrett’s carefully written account of everything Jodie’s teacher had said about her brightness and promise. After the dark beginning to her child’s life, it was the kind of thing she needed to hear.

She made herself a drink with fresh lemons, when she was in her own flat, and took the promised aspirin, but when she opened her eyes the next morning, everything was infinitely worse, and she closed them again groaning.

She ached everywhere fiercely, and would have burned up, if she hadn’t felt so cold all the time. But she dragged herself out of bed, and made Jodie’s breakfast.

When Mrs Barrett arrived to collect Jodie, she took one horrified look at Cass’s grey face and shivering body, and ordered her back to bed.

‘It’s this forty-eight hour thing that’s going round,’ she said portentously. ‘They say the doctors won’t even come out for it—just tell you to keep warm, and drink plenty. I’ll keep Jodie with me for a couple of days, while you sleep it off.’

Cass thanked her hoarsely, and tottered back to bed. After which life became a blur for several hours. She was vaguely conscious of Mrs Barrett bringing jugs of squash, and telling her she had ’phoned the agency to warn them she wouldn’t be in. She tried to say something grateful in return, but it came out as a croak.

‘Poor little soul,’ Mrs Barrett said, perhaps then, or maybe much later. ‘Not much more than a kid herself.’

Cass wondered why Mrs Barrett should be talking about her to her in that odd way, and fell almost at once into a profound and dreamless sleep.

Or thought she did. But the next time she opened her eyes, it seemed that Rohan Grant was there, sitting in the old armchair by the window, and she turned over, burying her flushed face in the pillow to dispel him, and muttering peevishly to herself.

Wasn’t having ’flu bad enough? Did it have to be accompanied by more nightmares?

The next time she woke, he had gone, and she breathed a sigh of relief, stretching out aching limbs and muscles, and discovering wonderingly that she actually felt a little better, and might be persuaded to live, after all.

And when Mrs Barrett appeared, with a tray holding a cup of home-made vegetable soup, and a few wafer thin slices of brown bread and butter, Cass began to think that living might even be enjoyable again. She drank the soup to the last drop, while Mrs Barrett beamed at her.

‘Slept the clock round, you have, dear,’ she said. She looked slightly roguish. ‘I don’t think you even woke up for your visitor.’

Cass put down the bowl. ‘Visitor?’ she asked, trying to sound casual, but aware that her heart was hammering uncomfortably.

‘From your work.’ Mrs Barrett gave an unmistakable wink. ‘Said they were worried about you, so I let him in for a while, although I kept popping in, just in case,’ she added. ‘I hope I did right, dear?’

Cass tried to assemble coherent thought. ‘What was he like?’ she enquired apprehensively.

Mrs Barrett’s smile widened. ‘Tall,’ she said wistfully. ‘A real dish.’ She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘And sexy with it. Made me wish I was thirty years younger, I can tell you.’

‘How odd,’ Cass said pallidly. ‘He makes me wish I was thirty years older.’

Mrs Barrett didn’t seem to hear her. ‘I thought to myself—well that explains the pretty dress, and the way of doing your hair, and I was so pleased for you. Jodie liked him too,’ she added.

‘She met him?’ Cass’s head felt hollow.

‘When I came up—to make sure everything was all right—she came with me, and they had a nice little chat.’ Mrs Barrett gave her an anxious look. ‘It was all right, wasn’t it, Mrs Linton? When I looked in, he was sitting in that chair over there, and he said you’d been restless so he’d given you a drink, and made your pillows more comfortable. I’m sure no one could have been more concerned, that’s why I thought …’ her voice tailed off lamely.

Cass was burning again, but this time with embarrassment, not delirium. She managed a taut smile. ‘No, he isn’t a boyfriend,’ she said quietly. ‘Just—a colleague of sorts, and I can’t imagine why he should have gone to all this trouble.’

‘Flowers he brought too,’ said Mrs Barrett. ‘I left them in your living room, because my mother used to say flowers in a sick room could be funny. I’ll get them for you, now you’re awake.’ She bustled off to return a moment later with about a ton of freesias arranged in an ornamental basket. ‘Don’t they smell lovely,’ she said ecstatically. ‘I’ll put them on the chest of drawers where you can see them.’

She was right about that, Cass thought wearily later. Wherever she looked in the room, the freesias seemed to be there, in the corner of her eye. When she got up to go to the bathroom, she carried them back into the living room, and put them in the middle of the small dining table. She didn’t want them in her bedroom, reminding her constantly of him—the interloper who’d been there. Not a dream, not delirium, but reality. And how dared he? she thought, trying to work herself up into a rage, but finding she was still too listless to make the effort. All she really wanted to do was cry weakly, but she couldn’t do that. She’d shed her last tear a long time ago.

When evening came, she felt well enough to get up. She ate the supper which Mrs Barrett provided—a fluffy omelette flanked by grilled tomatoes—by the fire, then switched on the television. Some commercials which she and Roger had designed for a client were scheduled for their first showing, and Cass hadn’t been entirely happy about the filming. The client, a fitted kitchen manufacturer, had insisted on having a particular actress feature in the commercials for reasons, Cass gathered, of a sexual rather than an artistic nature. Roger had roared with laughter about it, but Cass hadn’t been so amused, watching take after take being ruined. And the girl was still wooden, she thought, viewing the finished product critically. If the fitted kitchen industry collapsed, she would probably never work again. Or if the client’s wife found out, Cass thought drily.

As she switched off the set, she heard her front door buzzer. Mrs Barrett, she thought, returning for the tray.

‘Come in,’ she called. ‘It isn’t locked.’

She sank gratefully back on to the sofa, curling her legs under her.

He said, ‘Don’t you think you should keep it locked. I might have been a burglar.’

Cass jumped, every nerve ending jangling, as she stared at him, leaning against the door jamb.

She said, stammering, ‘What—what are you doing here?’

‘Checking the invalid’s progress,’ he said pleasantly, and strolled forward.

She said hurriedly, ‘I’m fine,’ aware as she spoke, that she was involuntarily tucking the folds of her dressing gown further around her feet and legs, and that the hazel eyes had taken sardonic note of her action.

‘Yes, I’d like to sit down,’ he said mockingly. ‘And, no, I won’t have any coffee, thank you.’

Cass flushed. ‘Well, I’m not offering,’ she said grittily. ‘Perhaps you’d leave.’

‘Not when I’ve only just got here.’ He shrugged off the supple suede car coat he was wearing, and dropped it across the arm of the sofa, then sat down opposite her, stretching out long legs. He was more casually dressed this evening, she couldn’t help noticing, with dark brown pants moulding themselves to his body, and topped by a matching roll neck cashmere sweater. She looked away hurriedly, fiddling with the sash of her robe. ‘Besides, I want to talk to you, and you were in no fit state for conversation when I called yesterday.’

‘Why did you?’ She glared at him.

‘To see if your sudden illness was genuine, or just a convenient excuse for avoiding me.’

‘You flatter yourself, Mr Grant,’ Cass said defiantly. ‘I’m hardly concerned enough about you and your boundless male egotism to go to those lengths.’

He raised eyebrows. ‘You never miss a chance, do you, Cass? I’ll bet you’re the pride of the local sisterhood. Even when you’re struggling back from the ‘flu, you’re punching your weight. Actually, I thought I should reassure you.’

‘About what?’ She gave him a wary look.

‘The Eve cosmetics account.’ He paused. ‘You seemed to think there might be—strings attached. You’re wrong.’ He gave her a long look. ‘And you’re also wrong if you thought I’d tell Finiston about your unique method of turning down dinner invitations.’ His smile was thin. ‘So if you were expecting repercussions, there’s no need.’

Cass bit her lip. She couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t a relief. ‘Thank you,’ she acknowledged stiltedly.

‘Please don’t mention it,’ he said, too courteously. ‘Now the next item on the agenda. Why the hell did you hand me all that “I’m a married woman” garbage, when you’ve been a widow for at least four years?’

Cass lifted her head defiantly. ‘To try and convince you that I wasn’t interested in you or your invitations. You didn’t seem prepared to take no for an answer.’ She paused. ‘How did you find out?’

‘A few casual questions at Finiston Webber. It was amazing the amount of information that was volunteered.’

‘Including my address,’ she said bitterly.

He laughed. ‘No, I got that from the telephone book. So, if you want to keep my visits here as another of your little secrets, then there’s nothing to stop you.’ He linked his hands behind his head, and watched her from beneath lazily drooping lids. ‘Your colleagues regard you as something of an enigma, did you know that?’

‘It’s not something they’re likely to discuss with me,’ she said flatly. ‘Perhaps you’d extend me the same courtesy, and keep out of my personal affairs.’

He gave her a mocking look. ‘But there don’t seem to have been any, Cass. Even the mildest approaches have had the brush-off. Why? And don’t tell me your heart’s in the grave,’ he added cynically. ‘The vibrant creature who sold me an advertising campaign didn’t give that impression at all.’

‘That’s typical masculine arrogance,’ she said stormily, her breasts rising and falling jerkily. ‘None of you can believe that it’s possible for a woman to lead a full, satisfying life without a—a tame stud somewhere in the background.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Well, believe this, Mr Grant. I’ve been married. My husband is dead. I have a child and a career, and I love both of them. There’s no need, no room in my life for another—relationship. Incredible as it must seem, I’m just not interested.’

The long lashes lifted, and the brilliant hazel eyes searched her flushed passionate face remorselessly. ‘Do you prefer women perhaps?’

The breath caught in her throat. ‘Oh.’ She almost threw herself off the sofa. ‘Of course. The obvious explanation. If not one sexual connotation, then another. My God, you make me sick.’ She paused, swallowing thickly. ‘Now—get out. Just because I don’t fancy you, doesn’t give you the right to force yourself into my home and insult me.’

‘Is that what I did?’ He rose, and, barefoot as she was, she felt dwarfed although she’d always regarded herself as being of reasonable height for a woman. But it wasn’t just a physical thing, she thought. It was a question of personality, an aura of vibrant, sensual masculinity which was almost tangible, making the small living room seem cramped.

He said softly, ‘Why the hostility, Cass? Why the aggression? When other men have tried to get near you, you’ve always let them down lightly. What makes my treatment so different? From the moment you ran into my arms in that corridor, you looked as if you’d been poleaxed. All afternoon, I was watching those beautiful wounded eyes, and asking myself “Why?” I’m still wondering.’

‘Because for a moment you reminded me of my late husband,’ she said shortly. ‘Now, will you please go?’

The dark brows snapped together, and his mouth compressed tautly. He gave a short, unamused laugh. ‘I suppose I should have expected that. But I didn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘All right, Cass, I’ll go and leave you to convalesce in peace.’

At the front door, he paused, the lean tanned face sardonic. ‘Well, good evening, Ms Linton. It’s been—instructive, if nothing else. And I forgive you for lying to me about your marriage. Because, I have to confess, I lied to you too. I implied my dinner invitation had no sexual motive. It wasn’t true. I wanted to get you into bed, Cass. I still want to, and I will.’

Before she could guess his intention or take evasive action, he took her by the shoulders, pulling her towards him in one swift, effortless movement. She cried out, but the sound was instantly muffled under the brief, searing pressure of his mouth.

It was over almost at once. He smiled at her.

‘And sooner,’ he said softly, ‘rather than later. Sleep well, darling.’

And was gone.

CHAPTER THREE

CASS was still shaking two hours later, but from rage, she assured herself over and over again, not any other emotion.

She turned and punched savagely at an inoffensive sofa cushion. The sheer sexual arrogance of the creature. He clearly hadn’t listened to one word she’d said, so securely armoured in his own conceit that it made him deaf to any point of view but his own.

And when she got back to work, gallingly, she would have to maintain a surface civility towards him at least. Or she could go to Barney, and ask to be taken off the account, she thought frowningly, only that would involve her in all kinds of explanations, she would much prefer to avoid.

But there had to be some way to convince the Rohan Grants of this world that she was not just—there for the taking, the frustrated widow of joke and insinuation.

She hated milky drinks, but she made one for herself before she went to bed, in the hope that it would help her sleep, then lay tossing and turning until far into the night.

But contrary to all expectations, she felt fine when she woke the next morning. Perhaps temper had helped burn out the few remaining germs, she thought drily.

After breakfast, she went downstairs to collect Jodie.

‘I see your visitor was back,’ Mrs Barrett commented archly as she let Cass in.

Cass smiled coolly. ‘A little problem at work.’ And that was putting it mildly, she added silently.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Mrs Barrett said, vexed. ‘You’d think they’d leave you alone when you’re poorly.’

‘There’s no justice, Mrs B.,’ Cass said cheerfully. ‘But I’ll take care it doesn’t happen again.’ And how.

Her reunion with her daughter was everything she could have desired. Until they got back to their own flat, that is.

‘Mrs Barrett’s nice,’ Jodie remarked. ‘She lets me watch unsuitable things on television. She calls it “the box”.’

Cass’s lip quivered. ‘How do you know they’re unsuitable, madam?’

‘Because you always change channels when they come on. You think I don’t notice, but I do,’ Jodie said serenely. ‘Is that man coming back?’

Cass’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What—man?’ She tried to sound casual.

‘The one who came to see you. Mrs Barrett said he came again yesterday.’ Jodie’s face was angelic. ‘Is he going to be my Daddy?’

‘No, he is not,’ Cass said forcibly.

Jodie gave a heavy sigh. ‘I liked him.’

Cass gave her a long look. ‘Jodie—you didn’t say anything to him, did you?’

‘What about?’ Jodie didn’t meet her gaze—a bad sign.

‘About being your Daddy,’ Cass said desperately.

The answer was too long in coming. ‘No-o-o,’ Jodie said, slowly and evasively.

‘Jodie,’ Cass threatened.

Her daughter’s mouth trembled. ‘He didn’t mind, Mummy. He wasn’t cross.’ She ventured an appealing look. ‘He laughed.’

‘I bet he’s never stopped,’ Cass said savagely. ‘What on earth possessed you?’ She sighed, running a distracted irritable hand through her hair. ‘Never—ever say such a thing to a visitor again.’

‘Mrs Barrett said he was your boyfriend.’

‘Well, Mrs Barrett was wrong,’ Cass said with unwonted sharpness. She saw Jodie flinch, and gentled her tone. ‘Sweetheart, he’s a client—a very important man at my work. Not Daddy material at all,’ she added, trying to make a belated joke of it all.

‘He said he’d be honoured,’ Jodie said mournfully.

Cass could have screamed.

She supposed reluctantly, thinking it over later, that it was to his credit that he’d been kind to the child—let her down lightly. But it didn’t make her like him any better, or add relish to the prospect of having to face him again.

She was quite well enough to return to work on Monday morning. Roger was also back, delighted at the acquisition of the Eve account, but far more interested, Cass thought amusedly, in the lingering symptoms of ‘flu which he was convinced still afflicted him.

And when he’d disposed regretfully of his various aches and pains, he then wanted to discuss Rohan Grant. Compared with whom, even Roger’s health was a more acceptable topic, Cass thought crossly.

She steeled herself to answer his questions coolly and concisely trying not to give any of her personal feelings away.

‘And you don’t like him,’ Roger said when she’d finished, proving that she was no actress.

‘Do I have to?’ Cass asked rather sourly. ‘I wasn’t too keen on Randy Sid, King of the Stainless Steel Sink either, but it made no difference to the campaign.’

‘So you’d put the high-flying Mr Grant in the same category, would you?’ Roger gave her a thoughtful glance. ‘What happened Cass? Don’t tell me he made a pass at you,’ he added grinning.

‘All right, I won’t.’ She made a business of searching in her desk drawer for something.

‘You mean he did?’ He sounded almost awed. ‘Dear God.’ He whistled. ‘The guy’s supposed to have an eye for women, but he must have laser vision if he could penetrate that battle dress top, and all the other ethnic layers you’re usually cocooned in. How do you turn him on, Cassie? With the dance of the seven Greenham Common ponchos?’

‘Very amusing.’ Cass slammed the drawer, narrowly missing removing her own finger in the process. ‘I had no idea that my love life, or lack of it, was of such consuming interest to everyone here.’

Roger said quietly, ‘Actually, I was joking, but if I’ve offended you, Cass, then I’m truly sorry.’ He paused. ‘Has it happened at last? Has someone—some man really got to you?’

‘No,’ she said controlledly. ‘Why do you ask?’

He shrugged. ‘Because it has to happen sometime.’ He frowned swiftly. ‘Yet not, I’d have thought, with Rohan Grant.’ He gave her a troubled look. ‘He’s the big league, Cass. His reputation says he likes to love them and leave them. Any relationship with him would be high on passion and good times, but lacking in anything else, including longevity.’

She smiled coolly. ‘My sentiments entirely, so I’m in no danger.’ She picked up some of the papers on her desk. ‘This fireplace company. It seems to me the designs they want to feature in their ads are the really ugly ones. How can we explain that tactfully?’

She was passing Accounts on her way out to lunch later when a man came out. She recognised him as the one who’d spoken to her about the bill for her dress at the lunch party, and spontaneously they smiled at each other. He fell in beside her.

‘Have you given it to the jumble sale yet?’

She laughed. ‘I’m waiting for a good cause.’ She was trying to remember his name. They’d been introduced when he joined Finiston Webber just before Christmas. Lloyd, she thought. That was it—Lloyd Haswell.

He said, ‘Where do you go for lunch?’

She shook her head. ‘I rarely do. I cook in the evenings for myself and my daughter, and I generally use my lunch hours for shopping.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I was going to ask you if you’d join me. There’s a pub I go to that does a marvellous steak and kidney pie. Unless, of course, you’re a vegetarian,’ he added doubtfully.

‘No,’ Cass said cheerfully. ‘I’m an unashamed carnivore still.’ She stole a fleeting look at him under her lashes. He was about her own age or slightly older, nice looking, slightly diffident in his manner. Almost as different from Rohan Grant as it was possible to get. She added, ‘Actually, I am quite hungry. I’m getting over ‘flu, and I haven’t felt like eating a great deal over the weekend.’

His face lit up. ‘Does that mean I have company?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ she returned gaily, refusing to feel guilty at his obvious pleasure. If the consensus of opinion was that she needed a man in her life, then she would have one, she decided coldly and clinically. Someone nice and inoffensive like this Lloyd, whom she could keep at arm’s length when it mattered. She wanted someone to be seen with; someone to convince Rohan Grant that he was wasting his time.

It might not be fair to Lloyd, she thought with compunction, but it wouldn’t do him any lasting damage either.

In the event, she found him good company, with a ready sense of humour. When he mentioned a new West End comedy, and said he was thinking of getting tickets, it was no hardship at all to agree to go with him.

They arrived back at the agency together, and she guessed that the news would spread rapidly. At one time she would have found this painful, but there were worse threats hovering over her now than a little office gossip.

When she got to her own office, Roger was there, just replacing the telephone receiver.

He said ‘McDowell’s been on from Eve.’ He paused. ‘He wanted to know if we’d definitely signed Tracey Kent for the perfume commercial.’

‘Why did he want to know that?’ Cass frowned slightly. ‘Both he and Handson thought she was perfect.’

Roger sighed. ‘Orders from above,’ he said laconically. ‘Apparently the big boss wants Serena Vance to do the launch.’

‘And does he know we haven’t an icicle’s chance in hell of getting Serena Vance?’ Cass asked crisply.

Roger shrugged. ‘He thinks we have. Apparently he and Miss Vance—know each other very well, and she will be happy to star in the Eve commercial as a favour to him.’ He leered. ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, just what he did for her?’

Cass said with distaste, ‘I’d prefer not to.’ She managed a little laugh. ‘So—we’re stuck with the Randy Sid syndrome all over again.’

‘Well, hardly,’ Roger objected. ‘At least Serena Vance can act. But we’ll have to re-jig her script. The words that would have been acceptable from someone who looked as dewily innocent as Tracey would be ludicrous spoken by Miss Vance.’

Cass fiddled with her pen. ‘Of course, we don’t really know if she’ll do it,’ she pointed out. ‘Perhaps Rohan Grant is just—shooting a line.’

‘Perhaps, but I don’t think so,’ Roger said drily. ‘What would be the point? No, I bet when shooting starts, the camera will be lingering over Miss Vance’s deservedly famous attributes, instead of Tracey’s innocent charms.’ He sighed enviously. ‘What a thing it is to have power, as well as good looks and charisma. I wish Serena Vance owed me a favour,’ he added disconsolately.

When she got home that night, Cass went through a pile of old colour supplements which she had put out for collection by the dustmen, until she found the one, dated a few months earlier, which she wanted. Serena Vance’s challenging beauty stared up from the cover beneath the legend—‘Serena Vance—sex symbol or serious actress?’ Cass couldn’t remember what, if any, conclusion the article inside had come to, but she did recall the other full page photograph which had accompanied it, showing the actress naked except for a few discreetly placed folds of an opulent wild mink cloak. A present, the caption had stated, from an admirer.

‘I wonder who that was!’ Cass muttered to herself, thrusting the magazine back into the pile.

It had come, she told herself, as no great surprise to learn that Rohan Grant had been the lover of someone like the voluptuous Serena. Nevertheless it made his subsequent behaviour towards herself all the more baffling and ridiculous. Unless, of course, he was just amusing himself at her expense—tormenting her to see how she would react. A young widow with a reputation as a loner would seem easy game for a man used to finding his pleasures with sophisticated beauties.

It was a train of thought which should have made her angry, but instead she found herself getting more and more depressed, although she reminded herself that was probably the aftermath of the ’flu.

She cooked supper, had a game of draughts with Jodie before putting her to bed, then settled down with notepad and pen to watch some television. There were several important contracts coming up for renewal at the agency, and she wanted to do a critical breakdown on some of the commercials already running, to show how the campaigns could be improved and up-dated.

But it was difficult, she found, keeping her mind on her work for once. It kept straying, almost obsessively, back to her various encounters with Rohan Grant, analysing them, trying to discover why she’d reacted to him as she had. Remembering particularly that last confrontation when he had told her openly that he intended to seduce her. Remembering his touch—that brief kiss with painful, disturbing clarity.

She thrust the pad and pen away from her with hands that shook. Fool, she castigated herself. He didn’t mean it—any of it. He was just having a little game at your expense, because you annoyed him by turning him down. He decided he’d give you something to think about, and by sitting brooding like this over his nonsense, you’re playing right into his hands.

She looked round the living room and sighed. The flat wasn’t large, but it was enough for her needs and Jodie’s and she’d become casually fond of the place. Now, the walls seemed to be closing in on her, making her feel trapped—restless.

She bit her lip. Maybe she should take Mrs Barrett up on her eager offers to babysit. She had the theatre next week to look forward to, but there were other things too. The cinema, for one instance, and Roger and his wife for another. They were always inviting her for meals, and she’d usually refused, terrified that they might try to matchmake by inviting some spare man of their acquaintance. And yet what had she to fear from such casual meetings?

Staying in alone was no safeguard, and nor was wearing deliberately dowdy clothes. Her real security was Brett’s memory, and the knowledge that, after him, there could never be another man for her.

The past. Her secret armour against the world—and against a man like Rohan Grant in particular.

She bought a new dress for the theatre trip, a silky turquoise thing with a loosely bloused top. Oh, Barney, what did you start, she thought, as she stared back at the attractive stranger she saw in the fitting room mirror.

It got Jodie’s unqualified approval too.

‘You look like a fairy princess,’ she said ecstatically. ‘Are you going with that man?’

Cass smiled at her. ‘I’m going with a man, darling, but not that one. A very nice man, too,’ she added as Jodie’s face visibly drooped.

Lloyd was proving to be extremely pleasant company. He didn’t try to monopolise her at work, but they’d had lunch a couple of times together. She’d almost invited him to call for her at the flat, instead of meeting in the foyer, but decided to stick to the prior arrangement. It wouldn’t be fair, she thought, to arouse hopes in Lloyd which she had no intention of fulfilling.

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