“It was a long time ago. Let’s put it all behind us.”

“There’s a snag,” said James in a tone that quickened her pulse. “Now I’ve seen you again it doesn’t feel like a long time ago.”

“Nevertheless,” Rose said woodenly, “it is.” It was impossible to behave or sound natural when the mere touch of James Sinclair’s hand on hers was rousing feelings she had never experienced in the most passionate of lovemaking with anyone else. And James knew it, she realized, as she met the blaze of triumph in his eyes.

“Rose.” He smiled slowly, and brushed a lock of hair back from her face. “Surely a kiss goodbye is permissible in the circumstances?” He drew her resisting body into his arms and kissed her, taking his time over it, the shape and taste and touch of his lips so frighteningly familiar she had no defense against the hot, consuming pleasure of the kiss.

CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years of living in Brazil, but on her husband’s later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera and browse in antique shops.

Husband for Real
Catherine George

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN a crimson envelope arrived among the morning post she was amused at first. But her smile faded when she took out an unsigned Valentine card painted with a single red rose. Frowning, she examined the typed envelope, but the postmark was so illegible it gave no clue to the sender’s identity.

Rose stood lost in thought for a moment or two, then took her usual stack of mail into the small office at the back of the bookshop and propped the card up conspicuously as something to joke about. Which it had to be. She dismissed it with a shrug, switched on lights, computer and point of sale, chose some Schubert for background music and unlocked the door, ready for the first customers of the day.

As usual these were mostly mothers straight from the school run, needing books for their young. For the first half-hour Rose was kept busy looking out the required titles, or ordering them for delivery next day, at the same time exchanging conversation and offering opinions on the newest craze in children’s stories or the latest paperback fiction. Interest in her customers, coupled with pleasant personal service, which came easy to Rose, were a necessary asset for a privately owned bookshop, even if in Chastlecombe only the supermarket and the various newsagents offered anything by way of competition.

When Rose’s friend arrived for her part-time stint at the shop she crowed with laughter when she spotted the card.

‘Lucky old you! I’m envious, boss. My beloved isn’t the sentimental kind.’ Bel Cummings’s eyes sparkled as she made the fresh pot of coffee they tried to share before she started. ‘I suppose it’s from Anthony. Though I would have expected something more impressive—’

‘In the unimaginable event of his sending me one at all at his age,’ Rose finished for her.

Bel smiled in full agreement. ‘So who’s the secret lover, then?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘Then it must be Anthony,’ said her friend, disappointed. ‘Get the thumbscrews out and make him confess over dinner. You are seeing him this weekend?’

‘Yes, but tonight for a change. He’s tied up with Marcus tomorrow.’ Rose finished her coffee quickly. ‘Right. I’d better get on with this lot before the day’s book consignment arrives.’

After Bel went off to greet a customer Rose began to sort out bills and invoices from the usual heap of junk-mail, feeling out of sorts as she worked. And, though the anonymous card was mostly to blame, some of her mood was reluctance to break her routine. She preferred Friday nights on her own. After an hour or so’s paperwork she liked to linger in the bath, eat something easy on a tray in front of her television and get to bed early with one of the latest additions to stock. But this weekend Anthony’s teenage son would be home alone. Marcus had stayed in Chastlecombe with his mother after the divorce. And because Liz Garrett was spending this weekend away, her ex-husband, determined to keep his son happy at all costs, would devote Saturday as well as his usual Sunday to him.

Rose liked Marcus well enough, and from the little she knew of him didn’t think he actively resented her. It surprised her that a young teenager preferred his father’s company to going out with friends, but she was perfectly happy for Anthony to spend Saturday night with his son. Tonight, too, if she were honest. Her week had been gratifyingly busy, and by the time she finished work she wouldn’t feel like dressing up and dining out. Her original offer of supper for two upstairs in her flat—a first in their relationship—had been turned down in favour of a table at Chastlecombe’s most fashionable restaurant.

Rose had known Anthony Garrett by sight when she was in her teens, but she met him again socially just after his divorce came through. He was an accountant promoted from a small Chastlecombe branch to the London head office of his company. And since the divorce he came back to stay at the King’s Head on some weekends, to see his son and spend all the Saturday evenings with Rose that she would allow. She was well aware that Anthony’s choice of someone local to wine and dine was deliberate. The injured party in his failed marriage, he’d remained firmly entrenched in a circle of friends only too ready to inform the ex-Mrs Garrett of every known detail of his connection with the new young manager of Dryden Books. Anthony was openly proud of his relationship with an attractive woman so much younger than himself. And if Rose sometimes felt like a trophy, it amused more than annoyed her.

Lunch-hour was busy, as usual, and it was late before Bel could be persuaded to go out for something to eat. During the post-lunch lull Rose finished checking the consignment of books newly arrived that morning, sorted out customer orders to file on the shelves kept for the purpose, then went into the office to eat the sandwich Bel brought for her when she got back.

It was Rose’s habit to catch up on reading from new stock over lunch, and she was chuckling over one of the latest children’s books when Bel popped her head round the door.

‘Delivery for you, boss.’

‘I’m not expecting anything—’ Rose stared in surprise when Bel handed over a long, beribboned package. Then swallowed convulsively when she took out a long-stemmed crimson rose.

‘Hey, are you all right?’ said Bel in alarm.

‘Ate my lunch too quickly.’

‘I think the rose was meant to be romantic, not give you indigestion,’ teased Bel. ‘Who’s it from?’

‘Let’s find out.’ Rose picked up the phone to ask the local florist.

‘No idea, sorry,’ was the response. ‘Your secret admirer pushed a typed note through the door this morning, with instructions and the exact amount of money.’

When Rose rang off Bel patted her shoulder in concern. ‘Are you all right, boss? You’ve been a bit abstracted all day.’

‘I’m fine.’ Rose eyed the flower with dislike. ‘But I detest mysteries. If all this Valentine nonsense is Anthony’s idea I’ll have words with him tonight.’

‘But surely he would have phoned the order through in the usual way?’

‘He’s got plenty of contacts in the town. Anyone could have put the money through the door of the flower shop for him.’

‘Well I think it’s very romantic,’ declared Bel, then left to deal with an influx of customers, and Rose shut the door on her mystery tribute and went off to help.

After Rose locked up for the night she scanned through the pile of invoices and school orders waiting to be dealt in the office, hesitated, then abandoned her Friday routine. She would be alone for Saturday evening this week. The paperwork could wait until then.

The phone rang when she arrived upstairs, but when she picked up the receiver the only sound on the line was heavy breathing.

‘Who is this?’ she demanded angrily. A voice whispered her name, raising the hairs on her neck, then the line went dead. Shaken and furious, Rose punched in the numbers to identify her caller, but the number had been withheld. Some stupid fool playing a prank, she assured herself, and made herself some lethally strong coffee to calm herself down.

She filled an empty milk bottle with water, thrust the rose in it and put it on the window-sill of her small kitchen, her eyes brooding as she gazed at the beautiful, perfect bloom. A rose for Rose, said a voice in her mind. A male voice. With the merest hint of Scots. Odd. She could hear the voice so plainly its owner could have been in the room with her. But normally she flatly refused to allow herself the indulgence of thinking about him. The wretched Valentine card was to blame, reminding her of things best forgotten. The phone-call hadn’t helped, either. But the rose was the real culprit. Its relentless, heady scent brought memories rushing back like persistent ghosts determined to haunt her. And, as she got ready for the evening, for the first time in years Rose let them stay.

Rose Dryden had gone off to university just after her eighteenth birthday. Eager to embrace everything student life had to offer, she’d been a little wary at first when she’d found she was to share a college flat with two girls who’d been to school together. Cornelia Longford and Fabia Dennison, both a year older than Rose, possessed an aura of self-confidence she envied. But they were warm, friendly creatures who had taken their younger flat-mate under their combined wing, and from the first had seen to it that Rose took full advantage of every social diversion college life had to offer.

Rose, grateful to be accepted as part of a trio, had quickly become accustomed to evenings spent in the students’ union with a boisterous, rowdy crowd of both sexes. Envious at first of Con’s blonde, thoroughbred looks, or the brain Fabia kept hidden behind a flippant manner, even their names, which were so much more glamorous than her own, Rose had quickly blossomed in their company. By the end of term she’d attended every possible festivity available, including the Christmas ball, and had been as ready as any of her peers to contribute to heated discussions on how to improve the world.

Determined to get a good degree, Rose had worked hard. But at the same time she’d learned how to make half a pint of lager last all evening, how to flirt, and how to avoid danger when some importunate male misread the signals.

‘It’s common-sense,’ Con assured her. ‘If you fancy a bloke you go out on a twosome. If you don’t, stick with the crowd.’

Rose never let on that the only men in her life up to that point had been friends of her unmarried aunt, plus one or two brothers of girls from school. Nevertheless, she had enough common-sense to know that a twosome might involve a lot more than just a pizza and a trip to the cinema. And, because she wasn’t attracted to anyone enough to risk finding out, her attitude challenged those among the male student body who considered themselves irresistible.

‘Idiots,’ said Rose irritably, during the first days back after Christmas. ‘I just don’t fancy any of them that way.’

‘You will, eventually,’ warned Fabia, immersed in painting her toenails different colours. ‘Mother Nature gets us all in the end. You’ll see. One look across a crowded room and, wham, you’re done for.’

Rose giggled. ‘No way—not me!’

‘She’s right, you know.’ Con looked up from her books. ‘But most of them just want a fun night out, plus some hanky-panky at the end of it if they’re lucky.’ She paused dramatically. ‘The trick is to make one of them fall in love so violently he’ll be your slave.’

Fabia collapsed with laughter, lying flat on her bed with her legs in the air as she waggled her toes to dry them.

‘You can’t make someone fall in love with you, Con,’ said Rose scornfully.

‘How do you know? Have you ever tried?’

‘Well, no, but—’

‘Then keep quiet and listen.’ Con’s smile sent shivers down Rose’s spine. ‘Come sit at Mama’s knee, children, and imbibe the knowledge. I’m the neurobiologist, remember, and this is scientific stuff. I read about it while I was having my hair cut yesterday. It’s a proper game plan. No black magic involved,’ she added, laughing. ‘You don’t need eye of newt or anything, Rosie, so don’t look at me like that! Trust me. Are you two game?’

Fabia nodded so eagerly that Rose, afraid that dissent would be taken as cowardice, gave a reluctant nod.

‘Good girl, Rosie,’ approved Con. ‘Don’t look so worried. This will be fun.’

The first step was for each of the trio to write four men’s names on separate pieces of paper, and put the folded scraps into a hat.

‘Now we shake it up and draw one out—only one each, mind, and if we hit on the same one as someone else we draw again,’ instructed Con.

The three of them thrust fingers into the hat simultaneously but Con raised a peremptory hand before they opened them.

‘This needs a bit of ceremony. You first, Fabia.’

‘Will Hargreaves,’ announced Fabia with satisfaction, then grinned at the other two. ‘I didn’t cheat, honest. Just luck of the draw.’

Con groaned as she read hers. ‘Joe Kidd.’

‘But he’s been chasing you ever since freshers’ week,’ objected Rose. ‘That’s no contest—’ She stopped dead, her face flushing crimson as she saw the name on her own slip.

‘Who on earth have you got?’ demanded Con, taking the paper from her. ‘Crikey—James Sinclair.’ She raised an eyebrow at Fabia, who shrugged defensively.

‘Why not? You said any name we like.’

‘So we did,’ agreed Rose, the light of battle in her eyes. ‘Luck of the draw, just as you said. The legendary Sinclair is only captain of the rugby team and so brilliant he’s bound to get a double first—not to mention being a good looking hunk and in his finals’ year. Piece of cake. I’ll have him slavering after little old first-year me in no time.’ She thrust her hands through her hair in despair.

Con patted her shoulder soothingly. ‘Steady on. You don’t have to go through with it if you don’t want to.’

‘Of course not—it was just my stupid joke,’ said Fabia, remorseful now. ‘Pick another name, Rosie; you can’t possibly go after Sinclair.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Rose hotly. ‘You don’t think I’m sexy enough to attract a man like him, I suppose!’

‘No, love! It’s not that.’ Fabia hesitated. ‘The thing is, rumour has it he might be gay.’

‘That’s just gossip, because he doesn’t chase after every female in sight,’ scolded Con.

Rose sighed glumly. ‘Any female at all, the way I hear it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘When I went to a rugby match with Ally Farmer—she’s going out with the full-back—she told me that Sinclair isn’t interested in women.’

The other two exchanged a look.

‘I’d forgotten you liked rugby,’ said Con thoughtfully.

‘I went to a couple of matches when you two were off shopping…’ Rose trailed into silence, eyes suspicious as the others looked at her in speculation. ‘What?’

‘Sinclair must have seen you,’ Fabia pointed out.

‘Transfixed by my beautiful blue eyes while he was charging up the field with half the opposing team hanging from every limb,’ said Rose scathingly. ‘I wish!’

Con, diverted, tilted Rose’s chin up. ‘He could have been, they’re big enough, and unusual, sort of navy blue.’

‘Nice,’ agreed Fabia. ‘But, as I keep saying, you should use some paint on them, Rosie, you don’t do them justice.’

‘They’ve got twenty-twenty vision, just the same, and I assure you that the mighty Sinclair did not notice me.’

‘He will if we carry out the plan scientifically,’ Con assured her, ‘so here’s what we do…’

Rose crawled into bed that night utterly convinced of her own insanity. Because she had flatly refused to renege on the task of ensnaring James Sinclair, Con and Fabia had abandoned their part in the scheme in favour of forming a back-up team for the project Rose had referred to as mission impossible. According to Con it would have been child’s play to enslave Messrs Hargreaves and Kidd. Sinclair, on the other hand, constituted a challenge Rose could hardly be expected to tackle single-handed. So Con and Fabia would research every last thing about Sinclair’s tastes, family background and relevant details, taking care not to give the game away. Then when Rose was in Sinclair’s actual company—a prospect that rendered Rose sick with apprehension at the mere thought of it—she could drop casual phrases into the conversation that would indicate like tastes and interests of her own, and thus convince him she was a soul-mate.

But first, Con had instructed, Rose must run into Sinclair by accident.

‘Where?’ demanded Rose.

‘When I said “run” I meant it,’ said Con ruthlessly. ‘At the stadium the town council lets us use. Get yourself there early in the morning. Very early. Joe Kidd says Sinclair runs at the track there most mornings about seven before anyone else does.’

‘I have to run?’ gasped Rose.

‘At seven?’ said Fabia, equally horrified.

‘Rose must be there well before that,’ said Con cruelly. ‘He must come upon her by chance, not the other way round.’

‘Not much before,’ wailed Rose. ‘Or I’ll be dead before he even gets there.’

Tossing and turning in her bed, Rose decided that the whole scheme was madness. In the morning she’d tell the others she’d changed her mind. She fell asleep at last for what felt like a split second before Con was shaking her awake again, deaf to all protests as she thrust her victim into a track-suit, found socks and trainers and, while Rose pulled them on, twisted the tumbled black hair into a hasty plait. Con crammed a scarlet sweat-band low over Rose’s eyes, then pushed her out of the door.

‘Coffee when you come back,’ she promised in a whisper.

‘If I come back,’ said Rose bitterly.

The stadium was deserted when she got there. She brightened. Perhaps he’d gone already. It was a grey, damp day, but thankfully no actual rain. Praying that Sinclair wouldn’t turn up for once, Rose jogged up and down on the spot for a bit, then with zero enthusiasm began to run round the track. Three times max, she promised herself, then back to bed, no matter what. For the first circuit Rose, unaccustomed to serious running, thought she might possibly expire before she completed it. But during the second lap she gradually mastered the art of breathing and running at the same time and felt a little better. Then she heard footsteps behind her, and her heart lodged in her throat and she could hardly breathe at all. She stared straight ahead, the breath whistling through her lungs as a tall figure in a dark track suit ran past, eyes turned towards her for an instant. Sinclair acknowledged her existence with the slightest of nods, then raced on down the track.

Now her quarry was in sight, flowing round the track with coordinated grace, Rose summoned up her last shreds of stamina to keep going. Instead of leaving at the next exit she ran on to make another circuit of the track to allow the legendary Sinclair to lap her. This time he gave her a fleeting smile as he passed, and Rose, feeling she’d done all, and more, that could be expected of her, left Sinclair to it and dragged herself back to the flat, hoping her heart would slow down to a normal beat some time in the foreseeable future.

‘Mission…accomplished.’ She panted, chest heaving.

Con and Fabia pounced on her with cries of delight, demanded every detail, then hustled her off to shower.

‘Can’t have you too stiff to run next time,’ said Con firmly.

‘Next time?’ gasped Rose. ‘I’ve got to do this again?’

‘Yes. But not tomorrow. Give him a day to miss you.’

‘Oh come on! He barely noticed me.’

‘Trust us older women, Rosie,’ said Fabia, grinning. ‘Sinclair will look for you tomorrow.’

The night before her next run Rose stayed in. ‘If I’m running in the morning I need an early night,’ she told the others. ‘And I’ve got a tutorial tomorrow, so I must finish this essay, anyway. Try not to wake me when you come in tonight.’

Con woke her at six-thirty the following morning instead. ‘Come on, Rose,’ she whispered, shaking her. ‘Up you get.’

Once again Rose was bundled, yawning, into running gear, but this time she’d braided her hair the night before, and only had to brush her teeth and throw cold water on her face before Con thrust her out into the chilly morning like a mother sending a reluctant child off to school.

Rose arrived at the stadium a little earlier than before, but this time Sinclair was there before her. She cursed him in fulminating silence. Now she’d have to run extra laps just to save face. The familiar, lean figure soon flowed past with its usual grace, and a slight smile came her way before Sinclair raced off into the distance, gathering speed. Rose gritted her teeth and pounded doggedly on until sweat soaked from her hair into the towelling band and each breath was like a spear through the ribs. Her running companion lapped her with increasing ease, but Rose forced herself to look straight ahead, counting the circuits until the magic number four released her from torture and she could escape.

This time the others were worried when Rose collapsed, crimson-faced and sweating, on Con’s bed.

‘No need to kill yourself, love,’ said Fabia, pulling her shoes off.

‘Was he there?’ demanded Con.

‘Of—course he—was there!’ Rose heaved in a deep breath, eyeing the others malevolently. ‘Before me. I had to do four circuits.’

‘Brilliant,’ crowed Fabia. ‘Think how fit you’ll be—and I bet he noticed you this time.’

‘He could hardly fail to; he lapped me often enough.’ Rose dragged herself up, groaning. ‘Right. For pity’s sake make me some coffee while I shower, please.’

Rose was allowed a run-free morning next day, purely, Con decreed, because it was a Saturday, and she could watch Sinclair play rugby in the afternoon instead. ‘And just to fog the issue a bit we’ll come with you, and cheer on Will Hargreaves. Someone’s injured, so Will’s got a place on the team today. So useful.’

Fabia was all for Rose turning up in her running clothes, complete with red sweat-band, so Sinclair would remember her, but Con wouldn’t hear of it.

‘Much too obvious. Rose can wear whatever she usually wears to stand ankle-deep in mud in a howling wind. Oh, how I wish it was summer, and Sinclair played cricket!’ She sighed regretfully. ‘Actually the whole scheme would be better in hot weather. You could strip off a bit, Rose. When the male of the species registers bare female flesh he gives off more pheromones—’

‘Stop it,’ howled Rose. ‘I don’t want to know!’

Normally she bemoaned her lack of inches, but at the match she was only too pleased to tuck herself between her tall friends, with lanky Joe Kidd and a few more yelling males for cover as they cheered the home team on to victory over a neighbouring college. Sinclair, at outside half, played with a brilliance which roused a frenzy of appreciation in his fans on the touchline, but Rose’s gloom deepened with every penalty he kicked between the posts. If only she’d set out to capture some ordinary mortal’s interest she might have at least had some chance of success. But with Sinclair she hadn’t a hope. She could just give up, of course. But her Dryden backbone stiffened at the mere idea. When the referee blew the whistle after Sinclair threw himself over the line to score a final try, Rose watched the mud-covered hero leave the field surrounded by shoulder-slapping team mates, and made herself a solemn vow. She would succeed. Somehow.

While the trio were thawing out over mugs of coffee back in the flat later, Will Hargreaves rang with the news that the rugby crowd would be in the Sceptre in the town that night.

‘Thanks, Will,’ said Con triumphantly. ‘Keep us a seat.’

Fabia turned to Rose with a militant gleam in her eye. ‘Right. Let’s get to work. By the time we finish with you, Rosebud, the great Sinclair can’t fail to notice you.’

Deaf to her protests, Con and Fabia curled up Rose’s newly-washed hair, bullied her into a skinny-ribbed sweater of Con’s and a pair of Rose’s own denims discarded as too tight. Then they sat her down in front of a mirror and went to work on her face with the intentness of Renaissance painters creating a masterpiece.

‘My word,’ exclaimed Fabia when they’d brushed Rose’s hair into a rippling waterfall down her back. ‘Didn’t we do well?’

Rose eyed her reflection with a touch of awe. Outlined in black, violet shadow in the hollows, her eyes looked larger in her small, triangular face, balancing the wide, full-lipped mouth Con had outlined with a pencil then painted with natural lip-gloss to leave the eyes to dominate. ‘I look so different—’

‘You look gorgeous, Rose,’ said Con, so obviously sincere that Rose relaxed.

‘Not too much over the top?’

‘No,’ said Fabia, patting her shoulder. ‘We just added a few touches. The basic material was there to start with.’

The Sceptre was crowded by the time they arrived, but Will and Joe had kept places for them at a corner table near the bar. Rose spotted her quarry the moment she arrived. The thick dark hair and honed bone structure of his face were unmistakable. Even laughing among a group of his friends he stood out from the rest; something so mature and self-contained about him Rose felt a sudden stab of panic, glad to slide into a seat with her back to the room.

‘Don’t look at him,’ whispered Con. ‘We’ll tell you what to do next.’

‘Dance on the table?’ snapped Rose.

‘If you like! But first I’ll tell you when it’s your round so you can go up to the bar.’

Rose suddenly regretted the cheeseburger she’d wolfed on the way back from the match. She smiled her thanks when Miles, one of her most faithful admirers, put a glass of lager in front of her, but the very thought of it made her gag. She turned to Joe Kidd determinedly and began to discuss the match, but for once Joe, normally a devotee of Con’s, was more interested in chatting Rose up than talking rugby.

There was an unmistakable gleam in his eye as he looked her up and down. ‘What have you done to yourself, Rosie? You look—’

‘Back off, Joe,’ whispered Con urgently, glaring at him. Then, in an undertone reminded Rose of her priorities. ‘Sinclair’s just gone up to the bar to get a round in. On your bike.’

‘But we’ve all got drinks,’ muttered Rose wildly.

‘Buy some peanuts, or something.’ Con tugged her to her feet. ‘Go.’

Rose pushed her way through the crowd and, conscious that her eagle-eyed mentors were watching, managed to wriggle eventually into a space alongside Sinclair. He glanced down at her and, as instructed, Rose gave him a cool little smile, then looked away, stomach churning. Her heart leapt as she felt fingers brush her arm. Pulse racing, she turned to look up into eyes the colour of burnished pewter.

‘Hello,’ said Sinclair. ‘Don’t I know you?’

CHAPTER TWO

THE deep voice held a trace of Scots accent which did alarming things to Rose’s knees. Heart thumping under the clinging pink sweater, she somehow managed to follow Con’s instructions and frowned, pretending to think, but before she could mention the stadium he snapped his fingers.

‘Pocahontas with the rope of hair!’ he exclaimed, and gave her a slow smile which put a final end to any nonsense about giving up her scheme. ‘I’ve seen you at the track.’

‘Oh, right.’ Rose returned the smile, deeply grateful that he hadn’t needed a reminder. ‘I’m not there often enough, I’m afraid.’ She took the bull by the horns. ‘I watched the match this afternoon, by the way. Congratulations.’

‘Good game,’ he agreed. ‘You like rugby?’

Rose nodded, then drew his attention to the barman, who was waiting for payment. Before Sinclair handed over the money he turned to her in enquiry.

‘Let me buy you a drink.’

‘I already have one, thanks. I just wanted some nuts.’ She gave a surreptitious glance at the table in the corner, where everyone was watching, riveted, as Sinclair insisted on paying for the packet of nuts Rose didn’t want, signalled to a friend to take the tray of drinks away, then leaned against the bar with the air of a man prepared to linger.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

Nerves rendered her answer so quiet Sinclair had to bend his head to hers.

‘I didn’t hear you.’

‘Rose,’ she said in his ear. ‘Rose Dryden.’

‘Mine’s Sinclair.’

Fascinated to find he pronounced it to rhyme with ‘sprinkler’, Rose gave him a polite little smile, thanked him for the nuts, then went back to her table.

‘That went off well,’ said Con in her ear.

‘Yes. He remembered me from the track.’

‘I knew he would!’

Normally Rose would have enjoyed the evening, but suddenly the crowd she was with seemed immature and noisy, and the usual overtures from the male contingent, more persistent tonight due to her new look, failed to amuse. After an hour or so she’d had enough.

‘I’m going,’ she whispered to Con. ‘Headache.’

‘Want me to come with you?’

‘No, it’s early. You stay. I just need fresh air.’ Rose chose a moment when everyone was embroiled in a heated argument, made for the cloakroom, then changed direction and slid through the exit door unnoticed.

Rose had never walked back to campus alone at night. As she left the town to climb the hill to the college she heard footsteps behind her and felt suddenly afraid. And at last began to run, her worst fears confirmed when someone began to run after her.

‘Rose—Rose Dryden,’ called an unmistakable voice, and she whirled round to find Sinclair gaining on her.

‘Sorry,’ she said breathlessly, and tried to smile, but her lips felt stiff. ‘I didn’t know it was you.’

‘I saw you leave and came after you.’ He wagged an admonishing finger. ‘You shouldn’t wander around alone at this time of night.’

‘It’s quite safe,’ she said defensively.

‘Then why did you run when I followed you?’

Rose shrugged. ‘Instinct, I suppose.’

‘I’ll see you to your door. Are you in hall?’

‘No, one of the college flats.’ She fell into step with him, hardly able to believe her luck. Con and Fabia would be over the moon.

‘So tell me about yourself,’ ordered her companion. ‘How old are you?’

For a moment Rose thought of lying, but something about James Sinclair decided her against it. ‘Eighteen,’ she admitted reluctantly, certain that from the lofty heights of twenty-two he would instantly lose interest. Then she remembered her coaching. ‘And, if you want my CV, I’m reading English Literature, like foreign films, and go for the occasional run to keep fit. Sorry you asked?’ she finished, laughing.

‘Not at all.’ He smiled down at her when they paused at the entrance to her building.

‘How about you?’ she said casually.

Sinclair hesitated, then gave her the information she already knew, that he was doing business studies and economics.

Time to go before he got bored. Rose smiled at him and held out her hand. ‘Thank you for troubling to come after me. I appreciate it. Goodnight.’

His eyes narrowed in warning. ‘Before you go, Rose Dryden, promise you won’t walk home alone at night again.’

She nodded obediently.

‘Say it,’ he ordered.

‘All right—I promise.’

‘Good. See you on the track some time.’ He shook the hand solemnly, gave her the slow-burning smile, and Rose, heart thumping at the sight of it, managed a friendly little nod and went inside.

When Con arrived, earlier than usual, she checked to see Rose was awake, then beckoned Fabia into the room with her. ‘Are you all right, Rose?’

‘Fine.’ She abandoned her book and sat up cross-legged on the bed, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

‘Someone looks pleased with herself!’ said Fabia, lolling at the foot of the bed. ‘Mind you, I would be too, if Sinclair had bought me some nuts. Have you eaten them?’

Not for the world would Rose have admitted that the unopened packet was zipped safely away in her tote bag. ‘I think I left them in the pub.’

Con settled herself in the room’s only chair. ‘Admit it, Rose, the plan’s working like a charm.’

‘Better than you think!’ said Rose in jubilation.

The other girls stared, wide-eyed when they heard Sinclair had gone after her to see her home.

‘Did he kiss you goodnight?’ demanded Fabia.

‘Of course not!’ Rose smiled demurely. ‘We shook hands.’

The other two laughed their heads off, then Con got up to make some coffee, respect in her eyes. ‘I never thought you’d pull it off, you know. Sinclair’s immunity to our sex is legendary.’

Rose pulled a face. ‘I don’t think he sees me as one of the opposite sex, exactly.’

Fabia shrieked with laughter. ‘Are you kidding? With all that hair and the magnificent paint job we did, not to mention a shape to die for in that sexy little sweater of Con’s—of course he thinks of you as a girl.’

‘But a very young one,’ said Rose, depressed. ‘He gave me a right old lecture about walking home alone.’

Con was undeterred. ‘Sinclair noticed you, remembered you, wanted to buy you a drink, then came after you to make sure you were safe. Don’t worry about the little girl aspect, ducky—remember Lolita!’

Embarking on phase two of Con’s plan, Rose missed the next day’s run, but after completing a third circuit in solitude the following morning had begun to think all the heart-pounding effort was in vain by the time the familiar athletic figure appeared. She returned the smile Sinclair gave her as he passed, completed the circuit, then left before he could lap her, or she fell in a heap. Whichever came first.

She wouldn’t have admitted it to the others, but it was an effort of will to stay away from the track next morning. But none at all to stay in the same night.

‘I must do some work,’ she said firmly. Because Sinclair never patronised it, an evening at the students’ union no longer held the same allure.

Rose no longer needed a morning call for her run. Next morning she was out of the room by six-thirty, shivering in the cold half-light as she hurried to the stadium, openly looking forward, now, to her early-morning glimpse of Sinclair. To her horror he was there before her again. She groaned. Now she’d have to do even more circuits just to keep up the myth that she liked running. She jogged up and down on the spot for a moment, to warn muscles of the coming ordeal, then started down the track at a speed moderate enough to give her any hope of staying the course long enough to look convincing.

When Sinclair passed her this time she was rewarded with a ‘Hi!’ to go with the smile as he went flying by.

‘Hi,’ panted Rose, and ran on, making no attempt to catch up with him. This, she soon found, wasn’t necessary. The next time Sinclair caught up with her he slowed down and ran with her.

‘Come on, try to speed up a little,’ he exhorted, not even out of breath.

Rose did her best to obey, but after three gruelling circuits she flung up her hands in surrender and slumped down at the side of the track, her head on her knees as she tried to get her breath back.

Sinclair hunkered down beside her, looking concerned. ‘Hey, sorry, Rose. I didn’t mean to finish you off.’

She turned a crimson, sweating face up to his. ‘I’m not—in your—class,’ she gasped.

‘You easily could be. Come every morning for a while. You’ll soon get into shape. Not,’ he added, with the smile that was no help to Rose in trying to breathe normally, ‘that there’s anything wrong with yours.’

She scrambled hastily to her feet, glad that her crimson face could hardly turn redder. ‘Time I got back to shower.’

‘Ah. You don’t care for personal remarks.’

She liked his a lot. Rose smiled non-committally as he fell in step beside her, wondering if he meant to see her back to the flat again.

‘I bring some kit and have a shower here sometimes when I’ve got lectures,’ he said casually. ‘If you do the same tomorrow we could have breakfast afterwards in the transport café down the hill.’

Rose felt a rush of excitement, wondering if this would be Con’s idea of progress. Not that it mattered. By this time, plan or no plan, Rose Dryden was totally committed to her crusade to make the lofty, uninterested-in-women James Sinclair fall in love with her. Nothing was going to persuade her from it until she either succeeded, or he told her to get lost.

‘If it doesn’t appeal to you, don’t worry,’ he said curtly, and turned away.

Rose came to with a start. ‘It appeals very much. I’d like that.’

‘Right, then,’ he said briskly. ‘See you in the morning.’

Rose passed acquaintances by unnoticed as she jogged back to the flat in a dream. Her reception committee was waiting impatiently, as usual, demanding every last detail of the encounter.

‘Wow,’ said Fabia in awe. ‘You’re definitely winning, Rose.’

‘But the prize is breakfast in a transport caff after slogging round the racetrack, not a candlelit dinner for two,’ Rose reminded her, deliberately prosaic to hide her elation.

‘Where Sinclair’s concerned,’ said Con, laughing, ‘it probably counts for the same thing.’

When Rose arrived at the stadium next morning, sports bag in hand, Sinclair was racing round the track at a speed that exhausted her to watch.

‘Hi,’ he panted, coming to a stop beside her. ‘Come on, a slow turn or two to warm up, then speed up a bit each circuit as you go along.’

When they took off round the track together Sinclair somehow managed to restrain his long stride to keep up with Rose as they ran, and to her surprise her technique improved so much with Sinclair for coach and pacemaker she even managed to stay upright when he called it a day at last and let her stop.

‘Into the shower,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t be long.’

Inside the deserted women’s section Rose swathed her hair in a towel and leaned into a spray as hot as she could bear, then towelled herself hastily, slapped on some of the body lotion Fabia had provided, zipped up a yellow hooded sweatshirt and wriggled into the clinging jeans. Con had ordered her to use eyeshadow and mascara, but Rose was so eager to rejoin Sinclair she didn’t bother. She loosened the braid, tied her hair back with a velvet ribbon and put some lipstick on as a gesture to the occasion. When she joined Sinclair outside her entire body simmered with excitement which increased when she saw the gleam of approval in his eyes.

‘If you feel as good as you look,’ he told her, taking her bag, ‘the run was a success.’

‘I feel great. And very hungry,’ she added, almost dancing along beside him as they hurried down the hill to the town.

The transport café was packed, and full of steam and the smell of frying, and Rose loved every last thing about it. Sinclair exchanged greetings with some of the long-distance drivers who formed the majority of the clientele, seated Rose in a corner near the fogged window, then without consulting her went off to collect their meal.

‘Bacon sandwiches—the staff of life,’ he announced as he returned with the food.

Rose, who rarely ate any breakfast at all, fell on her sandwich ravenously. ‘That was fabulous.’ She sighed, as they drank strong tea afterwards. ‘But if I lost any ounces on the track I’ve put them all back on now.’

‘Is that why you run? To lose weight?’ The assessing grey eyes scanned her from head to toe.

‘No,’ said Rose with complete truth. ‘I just want to get fitter, release the endorphins and so on. Isn’t that supposed to help the brain to function?’

‘It does it for me,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s part of my training. I should really have given up rugby for my finals’ year, but the season will be over soon; then I’ll channel all my energies into the last push to the exams.’

‘No more running?’ she said involuntarily.

Sinclair regarded her in silence for a moment. ‘If I gave it up,’ he said slowly, ‘I think I’d miss my morning run. Now.’

Rose gulped down the last of her tea and stood up, afraid he’d tune in to her excitement if she stayed a second longer. ‘Could I pay my share, please?’

‘No.’ Sinclair got up, smiling at her indulgently. ‘You can pay next time.’

Next time! Rose’s heart sang as she walked briskly up the hill with Sinclair, ignoring the awed, disbelieving looks of her peers as they recognised her companion. When they arrived at her entrance Rose thanked Sinclair for the meal and turned away quickly so he wouldn’t suspect how much she longed to linger, but he caught her arm.

‘Rose, wait a second. We’ve got another home match the day after tomorrow. Will you be there again?’

Again! So he had noticed her.

‘I don’t know. It depends,’ she said vaguely.

To her delight he looked slightly put out. ‘If not I’ll be running on Sunday, same as usual. Come and try for an extra circuit and I’ll buy you two bacon sandwiches this time to compensate.’

‘OK,’ she said casually, and forced herself take the stairs without a backward glance.

Con was full of admiration when she heard that Rose was neither turning up at the Saturday rugby game, nor going to the pub later on.

‘Good move. Fabia’s meeting Hargreaves at the Sceptre after the match, but I’ll go to the flicks with you instead, Rose,’ she added nobly.

‘In the afternoon, if you like. The Cameo’s showing one of those French films I’m supposed to like, so I’d better see it to impress Sinclair. But in the evening you have fun in the pub with Fabia and the others, as usual. I shall stay here and watch TV. Or even do some work.’ Rose grinned, her eyes dancing.

‘Clever little bunny! You don’t need teacher any more.’

‘I’m grateful for all the help I can get, but I do have the odd idea of my own, Con. Sinclair let slip that he noticed me at the match, and he definitely saw me at the pub, so this week I shall be missing from both. But I need you and Fabia and the rest there in force to make my absence marked. And a detailed report when you get back.’

During Saturday evening, while the comings and goings outside early on made it difficult to concentrate on a Shakespeare essay, Rose was almost sorry she’d had the self-control to stay behind while the others went out. But, quite apart from wanting Sinclair to note her absence, secretly Rose had worried that he might do no more than give her a casual wave anyway, if she’d turned up at the Sceptre. And no way was she willing to risk that.

‘Sinclair was there, right enough,’ said Con breathlessly, the moment she came through the door with Fabia. ‘Flushed with victory, after his usual star turn on the rugby pitch. He saw us arrive, and craned his neck to see if you were with us. Then afterwards he kept glancing over to our table to see if you’d put in a late appearance. It’s working, it’s working!’ She seized Rose’s hands and yanked her off the bed, whirling her round like a dervish until they collapsed in a heap with Fabia, laughing their heads off.

‘What are you two on?’ demanded Rose, giggling helplessly.

‘Adrenaline,’ gurgled Fabia, and eyed her with envy. ‘Damn. I wish I’d drawn Sinclair’s name out of the hat myself now.’

Con threw back her head with a yelp of laughter. ‘Come on, Fabe, can you honestly see yourself pounding round the track at dawn?’

Fabia joined in the laughter good-naturedly. ‘Not a chance. No man is worth that kind of effort.’

‘I rather enjoy the running now,’ confessed Rose. ‘It gives a terrific buzz.’

‘And ruins the mascara!’

‘Never wear any.’

Con patted her hand. ‘You don’t need it, anyway. Is Sinclair still treating you like a kid, by the way?’

Rose thought it over. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t think he is.’

‘I bet he’s wondering where you are tonight, and who with,’ said Fabia with relish. ‘He’d never believe the truth.’

‘He’s about the only one who might,’ said Con. ‘Sinclair’s got tunnel vision when it comes to the study bit, according to our faithful researchers. Will and Joe give off gamma rays of hero-worship whenever his name is mentioned.’

Rose felt a sharp twinge of conscience. ‘I just hope he never finds out what we’re up to.’

‘He won’t. Neither of them knows him well enough for intimate little chats. Besides, we have enough relevant information by now.’ Con ticked off her fingers. ‘Sinclair comes from somewhere near Edinburgh, lives in digs here in the town, likes foreign films and excels at almost every sport—as if we didn’t know—but apparently he likes fishing, too, and holidays on Skye, and, of course, ambition is his middle name. There.’

‘When did you find all this out?’ demanded Rose.

‘I had to be dangerously sweet to Hargreaves on the way home from the pub to wheedle the home background out of him.’ Fabia batted her eyelashes. ‘I stopped short of surrendering my virtue, but only just.’

‘Good,’ said Con approvingly. ‘Keep him on the boil in case we need his help again. And don’t even try to look noble—you know perfectly well you fancy him.’

‘A good thing I do in the circumstances!’ Fabia pulled a face. ‘Though he’s now convinced I’ve got a crush on our hero. Not that it matters. Will told me tonight I don’t stand a chance in that direction, because Sinclair, I quote, “has no time to spare for girls”.’

‘Except at dawn’s early light for Rose,’ said Con, laughing.

CHAPTER THREE

NEXT morning Rose woke before the alarm went off, deeply depressed to find rain streaming down her window. Moving quietly to avoid disturbing the others, she got into her running gear, collected a yellow slicker from the hook behind the door, picked up her bag with the change of clothes, then shut herself in the bathroom for the rest of her preparations. She hurried out eventually into rain so heavy she was sure Sinclair wouldn’t bother to turn up. But when she got to the stadium he was there before her, tall and faintly menacing in hooded black until his teeth showed white in the smile she was beginning to know so well.

‘Hi. I didn’t think you’d come.’

‘I had my doubts,’ she admitted, smiling cheerfully in response. She eyed the water-covered track with apprehension. ‘Can we run on that?’

‘I vote we don’t in this weather.’ He took her bag. ‘I’ve got a suggestion.’

‘Bacon sandwiches with no run for starters?’ she said hopefully.

‘Something like that. But there’s a problem. The café doesn’t open this early on Sundays.’

‘Oh. Never mind,’ said Rose, swallowing her disappointment. ‘Some other time, then.’

‘I live in digs in the town,’ he said quickly, the faint trace of Scots in his accent more pronounced. ‘And I make a great bacon sandwich. My landlady’s away this weekend, babysitting, but she gives me the run of her kitchen.’

‘Does she do that for all her boarders?’

‘I’m her one and only.’ His expression was hard to make out in the gloom. ‘Will you join me for breakfast, Rose?’

Excitement swept through her like a tidal wave. ‘Yes, I will. Thank you.’

He smiled. ‘Come on, then, let’s make a run for it. We’ve got a way to go before you get anything to eat.’

‘And I thought I was let off for today!’

By the time they reached a crescent of solid Edwardian houses they were drenched. Sinclair unlocked the door of a house halfway along and hurried her into a mosaic-tiled hall, switched on lights and yanked off her dripping slicker.

‘Take your shoes off,’ he ordered, ‘then go straight up the stairs to the bathroom and get into some dry clothes.’

‘How about you?’ She panted.

‘I’ll strip off in Mrs Bradley’s bathroom down here—go on, hurry up. I’ll start grilling the bacon while you change. My room’s first on the right. Wait for me there.’

Wishing she could avoid getting sweaty and red-faced just once now and again in Sinclair’s company, Rose stripped off her outer clothes in a blessedly warm bathroom, then pulled on dry socks, old, comfortable denims and an outsize baggy white sweater which grew larger every time she washed it. She dismantled her damp plait, rubbed her hair dry with her own towel, rather than mar the immaculate ones on the rail, used a hairbrush vigorously, then added the usual token touch of lipstick to her mouth and packed her wet things in the bag.

Rose felt like a trespasser when she ventured into Sinclair’s room. There were piles of books everywhere. The sizeable table he used as a desk had obviously been cleared of them to make room for a large wooden tray set with tea-things, but books lay in stacks under it, and on shelves and on the floor either side of a big sofa. To her relief there was no bed. He obviously slept somewhere else. Through the rain sluicing down the big window at the back of the room Rose could see a drenched garden backing onto gardens in the street behind. Pleasant on a better day. And she envied him the room, which was three times the size of hers at the flat. She put her bag down and went to look at his books. Her aunt maintained that you could tell a lot about people from their taste in reading. But there was little to be learned from Sinclair’s collection, which was all textbooks, bar a couple of volumes on fly fishing.

Rose turned guiltily as Sinclair came in with a platter of sandwiches. ‘You were quick!’ she exclaimed, hoping he couldn’t tell how shy she felt now they were alone together.

Sinclair switched on a couple of lamps and plugged in a kettle. ‘I put everything ready before I went out. I just had to light the grill and abracadabra, everything was ready in no time.’ He handed her a length of kitchen paper in lieu of a napkin, and gave her a plate with two sandwiches on it, then made a pot of tea and sat down on a straight chair at the table and began to eat. Rose munched in silence for a lengthening interval, wishing she could think of something brilliantly clever to say.

‘What’s the matter, Rose?’ he asked bluntly.

Her eyes met his with candour. ‘I was just thinking that this isn’t what I expected when I started out this morning.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d prefer the transport café?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then don’t look so scared. I’m perfectly harmless.’

She grinned involuntarily. ‘So I’ve heard.’

He glared, his eyes suddenly wintry. ‘And just what have you heard, little girl?’ he drawled, ice in every word.

Rose blushed to the roots of her hair. ‘Only that you’re more interested in getting a double first than chasing after girls.’

His eyes softened. ‘True enough. My surplus energies expend themselves on the track and the rugby pitch. The rest goes into this lot here.’ He waved a hand at the encroaching books, then gave her the slow smile which made her insides dissolve. ‘The rumours about my sexual preferences are false, by the way, in case you’re wondering, spread in my first year by a female who resented my lack of interest.’

‘I wasn’t wondering,’ she assured him blithely, and began on her second sandwich with more relish.

‘Why not?’

Rose regarded him steadily. ‘Because it’s none of my business.’

Sinclair stared back in surprise. ‘You’re very blunt. Want some tea?’

‘Yes, please.’ He filled a beaker, added a splash of milk and handed it to her, pleasing Rose enormously because he’d remembered how she liked it.

‘So you don’t care whether I’m gay or not?’ he demanded.

‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘I fail to see why race, religion or sexual leanings should matter when it comes to friendship.’

Sinclair leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees as he peered down into her face. ‘You really mean that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Rose gave him a crooked little smile. ‘Wet behind the ears I may be in your eyes, but I have my beliefs.’

‘Your parents fostered them?’

Her face shadowed. ‘They began the process, but they died when I was fourteen. I live with my aunt. Minerva holds strong views on everything, so I suppose I’ve taken some of them on board myself without even realising it.’

Sinclair got up, seeming taller than usual to Rose from her seat on his sofa. He took her mug and plate from her and put them on the tray, then to her astonishment he sat beside her and took her hand.

‘Would you like to tell me about your parents?’ he said gently.

Rose gave him a startled, sidelong glance, deeply conscious of the hard, warm hand grasping hers. Then after a moment’s hesitation she told him about the joyrider who’d put an end to her parents’ lives one afternoon on a narrow country road in Warwickshire.

‘They were on their way to fetch me from school.’ Rose bit her lip. ‘For a long time I just couldn’t accept that they were gone, even after I went to live with my aunt. Minerva owns a bookshop in a small town in the Cotswolds, and after—after the accident I moved into the flat over the shop with her.’

‘Poor little kid,’ said James quietly. ‘It must have been tough for you.’

‘I won’t pretend it wasn’t. But I’ve been fortunate, too. My father was a lot older than Minerva, so I look on her more as friend than aunt now I’m older. And I still have my memories of a happy childhood, and the holidays I spent with Mother and Dad.’ Feeling horribly guilty, she recalled herself to the matter in hand. ‘We even went to Scotland once, to Skye.’ The last bit, a vital part of Con’s strategy, was her first real lie, and she gulped down some tea to cover the rush of guilty colour to her face.

‘Skye!’ exclaimed Sinclair. ‘When my father was alive we went there once a year. I love it there. How about you?’

‘I don’t remember much about it. I was quite young, and it rained a lot,’ said Rose, deliberately vague. ‘My father went fishing, and Mother and I visited woollen mills.’

‘Did your father do much fishing?’ he asked with interest.

‘Yes. When he could. Trout, like you.’ She went cold for a moment. ‘I saw the books on your shelves,’ she said hurriedly, and went on talking to cover her blunder. ‘Dad made the most beautiful flies. He’d sit with a special little vice at the kitchen table, listening to opera tapes while he created tiny works of art. I still have some of them. The fishing flies, I mean. His rods were sold.’

The grasp tightened. ‘You still miss him.’

‘I miss them both.’ Rose hesitated. ‘But it comforts me to know that they’re together.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘Yes.’ Her chin lifted. ‘Because I need to believe it.’

There was silence between them for a while.

‘My father died when I was twelve,’ said Sinclair abruptly.

Rose sat perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. In her wildest dreams she’d never imagined he’d confide in her in return.

‘He died in his sleep,’ he went on. ‘When my mother woke up one morning he was just—gone. Dad was a workaholic with a heart problem. Fatal combination.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Rose tightened her fingers in sympathy.

‘When I was eighteen my mother married again. He’s a good man, and they’re happy together. But…’ he paused.

‘You feel left out?’

He frowned thoughtfully. ‘I’ve never thought of it in quite those terms, but, yes, I suppose I do. That’s why I applied for a college down here. I could have gone to Edinburgh or St Andrews, but I opted to get right away to leave the newlyweds in peace. I even took off for a year between school and college. Went backpacking round Australia.’

‘Sounds wonderful. I’ve never done anything adventurous like that,’ said Rose enviously. ‘Do you mind? That your mother remarried, I mean?’ Then she held her breath, afraid she’d trespassed.

But Sinclair shook his head. ‘No. I don’t mind at all. She waited until I was ready to leave home, though Donald would have married her long before then from choice. My mother was only fortyish when they finally tied the knot. And even in a son’s eyes a very attractive lady.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Donald’s a successful advocate, and a very self-contained sort of bloke, but it was obvious, even to me, that he was mad about my mother from the moment he met her. Still is. Mother sold our home when she moved in with him. His house is a big, rambling place, and there’s a room in it kept solely for me, but I can’t help feeling like a visitor there—’ He stopped dead, shaking his head.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I can’t believe I’m telling you all this stuff. I don’t usually bore people rigid with my life history.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘You must be a very good listener, young Rose.’

Now, she thought reluctantly, would be a good time to leave. She detached her hand gently and got up. ‘I’d better leave you to your books. Thank you for breakfast, and—and for talking to me.’

Sinclair got to his feet and stretched, suddenly so overpoweringly male in the small room Rose felt a sudden urge to run, like an animal scenting danger.

‘The average man doesn’t need much persuading to talk about himself,’ he said wryly.

‘Average’ was the last word Rose would have applied to Sinclair. ‘I must go—or should I help you wash up first?’

He ruffled her hair, smiling. Like petting a puppy, she thought, resigned.

‘I’ve got a better idea. Stay and have some more tea. It’s still hissing down out there.’

Rose glanced at the window. ‘You’re right. OK. Then I really must get back.’

‘Rose, it’s only half-eight, and it’s Sunday. What’s the rush?’

‘I must be keeping you from your work.’

‘I’ve got the rest of the day for that.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Or is there someone waiting for you?’

He didn’t like the idea!

‘A playmate of my own age, you mean?’ she said, smiling.

‘Hell, Rose, you’re not that much younger than me,’ he said irritably, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Is there someone?’

Afraid he might wash his hands of her if she even hinted there might be, Rose shook her head. ‘No. Only my flatmates. And I doubt if they’re even awake yet.’

‘Right.’ He picked up the kettle. ‘You sit there for a minute, and I’ll go and fill this again.’

‘Can’t I wash the plates, or something?’

‘I’ll let you off as it’s your first visit. Next time you can do the catering.’

Next time! Rose sat deep in thought after he’d gone. It seemed Con might be right. It actually was possible to deliberately rouse a man’s interest. Though it was impossible to imagine James Sinclair as any woman’s slave. Nor falling madly in love with Rose Dryden, either, however faithfully she followed the plan of campaign. But he was definitely taken with her a little bit. Enough to invite her back here, and coach her on the track. Which was way beyond anything she’d expected.

When Sinclair came back he gave her a searching look as he plugged in the kettle. ‘Where were you last night, Rose?’

‘Working.’

He frowned. ‘A part-time job? Where?’

‘No job. I was writing an essay. I went to the Cameo in the afternoon, then caught up with some work afterwards. Why?’

‘I noticed you weren’t in the pub. I wondered if you were ill.’ He made two more beakers of tea, and handed her one.

She shook her head, full of secret jubilation. ‘Since I’ve taken up running again I’m fighting fit.’

‘I said you would be. So what film did you see?’

‘They were showing a re-run of Manon des Sources. It’s one of my favourites,’ she added, crossing mental fingers.

His eyes lit up with enthusiasm. ‘Mine too. I never managed to catch the prequel—what was it called?’

‘Jean de Florette. That’s on this week for three days—then it’s Belle du Jour,’ Rose added hastily, afraid she’d been too obvious. She sighed. ‘Catherine Deneuve is so beautiful.’

Sinclair shrugged. ‘Not my type. I prefer my women dark.’

‘Sounds as though you own a harem,’ said Rose flippantly, and drained her mug to avoid looking at him.

‘Your face is very expressive, Rose,’ he teased. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I just wondered if you had someone—a girl, I mean—back home. Which is absolutely none of my business, of course,’ she added in a rush, wishing she’d held her tongue.

‘I don’t have a woman back home, or anywhere else for that matter. The grapevine is absolutely accurate,’ he said mockingly. ‘I’ve got no time for girls.’

‘Which is a cue for this one to leave, if ever I heard one,’ she said promptly, and jumped to her feet. ‘Rain or no rain, it’s time I was off.’

He ran down the stairs ahead of her to fetch her shoes and slicker. ‘Shall I call a cab?’

‘No. The exercise will do me good.’

‘Hands up.’ He put the slicker over her head, then drew the hood over her hair. ‘See you on the track in the morning, then.’

Rose smiled non-committally as she stamped her feet into her damp track shoes. ‘Thanks again for my breakfast,’ she said, when he opened the front door. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, James,’ he corrected.

‘Everyone else calls you Sinclair,’ she pointed out, careful to pronounce it as he did.

‘Exactly.’

Rose smiled uncertainly. ‘Goodbye, then—James.’

‘See you in the morning. Don’t hang about on the way back, and straight in the shower when you get there.’

She saluted smartly, gave him a cheeky grin, then took her bag from him and went off down the path at speed, turning to wave at him as he stood at the open door.

When she arrived at the flat, sodden, out of breath, and utterly triumphant, she dumped the dripping slicker in the bathroom, then went to join Con and Fabia.

‘Where on earth have you been until now?’ demanded Con.

Fabia eyed Rose’s glowing face with suspicion. ‘You can’t have been racing round that track all this time!’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Rose began stuffing her shoes with kitchen paper to dry them out. ‘There was so much surface water James said it was unsafe to run so he took me back to his digs for breakfast.’ She looked up, laughing at the identical look on both faces.

‘At his digs?’ said Con faintly. ‘Like in his room?’

Rose nodded gleefully. ‘His landlady was away for the weekend, and he’s the only lodger. We had the house to ourselves.’

Fabia blew out her cheeks and sat down abruptly. ‘You’ve cracked it, then!’

‘Hold on. I haven’t achieved that much,’ warned Rose. ‘James isn’t in love with me—’

‘Not yet,’ put in Con, eyes gleaming, ‘but he’s interested enough to ask you back to his place for breakfast.’

‘For which I was truly thankful,’ said Rose piously. ‘I think my efforts on the track entitled me to a couple of bacon sandwiches at the very least.’

‘Did you have to make them?’

‘No. James,’ she said with emphasis, ‘made them with his own fair hands.’

‘Did he ask you to call him that?’ demanded Con, impressed.

‘Yes. Sinclair to everyone else; James to me.’

‘So what happens next?’ said Fabia eagerly. ‘Has he asked you for a proper date?’

Rose’s face fell. ‘No. Though heaven knows I hinted enough—told him about the film we saw, and the one showing this week. He may like foreign films, but he’s not taking me to see one.’

‘Never mind. I think you’ve worked miracles as it is,’ consoled Con. ‘When do you see him again?’

‘He said he’d see me at the track in the morning, but I suppose I’d better give it a miss until Tuesday.’

Con shook her head. ‘If he wants to see you tomorrow, be there.’

‘Won’t that be overkill?’

‘No. This, my pet, is phase three. Time to hot things up.’

‘I just hope it doesn’t end in tears!’

Fabia frowned. ‘Why should it? It’s just a game.’

Rose thought about that a lot later that night, once she was in bed. Since the exchange of confidences with James it no longer felt like a game. Which lay on her conscience so heavily sleep was elusive. But next morning she got up early, just the same, and let herself out into a cold, but thankfully dry morning to join James at the stadium, smiling in welcome.

‘Hi! I’ve done my bit,’ he informed her. ‘Ready to try for an extra lap today?’

Rose nodded eagerly, went through a few warming-up exercises, then set off with him round the track. Under his tuition she found herself running a slightly faster circuit every time, exhilarated by her success, until halfway round for the fourth a sudden, stinging pain in her foot ruined her balance and she fell heavily, her momentum sending her rolling over and over to land flat on her back, completely winded.

‘Rose!’ James fell on his knees beside her. ‘What the hell happened? Are you all right?’

Rose had no breath to spare for talking. While she fought to get air in her lungs he ran his hands over her arms and legs, probed her ankles, found nothing broken and pulled her carefully to her feet.

‘Come on, breathe. Deep, even breaths. That’s the way. Good girl. Lean against me for a bit.’

Rose obeyed gratefully, heaving in gulps of air, but soon grew much too conscious of the heat and scent of his body, the heart beating like a drum against her cheek. She pulled away, smiling shakily. ‘Stupid—thing—to do. Sorry.’

‘There must have been water on the track,’ said James gruffly. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

She nodded. ‘Embarrassed, that’s all.’

‘Here, take my arm. I’ll help you back to the flat.’

Rose stared at him, horrified. ‘No, please! You don’t need to. I’ll be fine.’

He scowled down at her. ‘Be sensible, Rose, you’re limping.’

‘There’s something in my shoe.’

James sat her down on the track and removed the shoe, swearing under his breath when he found a small nail sticking up inside it. He removed her bloodstained sock and located a puncture on the sole of her foot. ‘No wonder you fell, Rose. What the hell was something like this doing on the track?’

‘Maybe it got washed down from somewhere in that weather yesterday.’

‘In which case there may be more. I’d better report it. In the meantime you need a dressing. Wait there a minute. I’ll raid the first-aid box in the men’s showers.’

While he was gone one of his rugby team mates appeared for a morning run, and hurried to Rose in surprise.

‘What’s wrong, love? Sprained your ankle?’ said the large, amiable giant.

‘No, I trod on a nail,’ she confessed, feeling horribly self-conscious.

‘Bad luck! I’ll get you something to put on your foot,’ he offered, then stared in astonishment as James appeared.

‘Sinclair? A bit late in the day for you, isn’t it?’

‘Hi, Greg. Be careful on the track. There may be more like this.’ James held up the nail he’d taken from Rose’s shoe.

Greg looked on, riveted, as a sticking plaster was applied to Rose’s foot and her sock and shoe carefully replaced.

‘There,’ said James, pulling her to her feet. ‘Can you stand on it, Rose?’

She tried the foot gingerly. It was sore, but she could walk. ‘It’s fine,’ she said firmly. ‘Sorry for all the fuss.’ She gave a smile that encompassed both men. ‘Thanks a lot. I’d better get back. Bye.’

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