Celebrate the legend that is bestselling author

PENNY JORDAN

Phenomenally successful author of more than two hundred books with sales of over a hundred million copies!

Penny Jordan’s novels are loved by millions of readers all around the word in many different languages. Mills & Boon are proud to have published one hundred and eighty-seven novels and novellas written by Penny Jordan, who was a reader favourite right from her very first novel through to her last.

This beautiful digital collection offers a chance to recapture the pleasure of all of Penny Jordan’s fabulous, glamorous and romantic novels for Mills & Boon.

About the Author

PENNY JORDAN is one of Mills & Boon’s most popular authors. Sadly, Penny died from cancer on 31st December 2011, aged sixty-five. She leaves an outstanding legacy, having sold over a hundred million books around the world. She wrote a total of one hundred and eighty-seven novels for Mills & Boon, including the phenomenally successful A Perfect Family, To Love, Honour & Betray, The Perfect Sinner and Power Play, which hit the Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller lists. Loved for her distinctive voice, her success was in part because she continually broke boundaries and evolved her writing to keep up with readers’ changing tastes. Publishers Weekly said about Jordan ‘Women everywhere will find pieces of themselves in Jordan’s characters’ and this perhaps explains her enduring appeal.

Although Penny was born in Preston, Lancashire and spent her childhood there, she moved to Cheshire as a teenager and continued to live there for the rest of her life. Following the death of her husband, she moved to the small traditional Cheshire market town on which she based her much-loved Crighton books.

Penny was a member and supporter of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Romance Writers of America—two organisations dedicated to providing support for both published and yet-to-be-published authors. Her significant contribution to women’s fiction was recognised in 2011, when the Romantic Novelists’ Association presented Penny with a Lifetime Achievement Award.

Second Time Loving
Penny Jordan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

NOT far now. Angelica had just driven through the last village on Tom’s list, and, according to the route he had worked out for her, the lane to the cottage should only be a couple of miles ahead of her.

She was glad that the drive from London was nearly over. Her back was stiff with tension, her eyes gritty and tired. Tired…She smiled cynically to herself. Eighteen months ago, even twelve months ago, if anyone had told her that tiredness, exhaustion, both physical and mental, and most of all emotional was going to overrun and dominate her entire life she would have laughed at them. But then she hadn’t known what she knew now: that this numbing, destructive, all-encompassing form of exhaustion, this longing to close her eyes, curl up in a small ball to sleep and go on sleeping was a form of depression as dangerous and invasive in its way as its far more publicised and recognised cousins.

She had learned an awful lot during these last eighteen months though, too much perhaps, and certainly a good deal that she would rather not have learned. Her mouth twisted painfully. She ought to have remembered that old adage about there being no fool like an old one; not that at twenty-eight she was old precisely, even though if, right at this moment, she felt as though she were inhabiting the body of a woman thirty years her senior rather than one supposedly at the height of her mental and sexual peak.

Her sexual peak. The twist of her mouth became even more pronounced. In these days of increasing concern over and responsiveness to the growing threat of AIDS, it was perhaps not the stigma it had once been to be a woman of over twenty-one with so limited a sexual history that she was still actually a virgin, but it was still something she preferred to keep to herself; a vulnerable Achilles’ heel, in someone who, to the rest of her small world at least, was the subject of admiration and envy.

When she had first taken over her father’s ailing business, manufacturing an old-fashioned brand of face cream and cleansers supplied on a mail-order basis to a very limited list of customers, she had done so because she had no alternative. When she was fresh from serving her articles with a firm of accountants, and had just passed her exams, her father’s sudden heart attack and death had left her mother solely dependent on an income from a company which had become more and more precariously financially based.

It had been a chance conversation with a friend which had led to her turning round the whole focus of the company, so that instead of marketing its traditional products Angelica had taken the huge risk of completely reorganising the company and marketing products which were based entirely on natural ingredients.

There had been no time for careful market research; no time to do anything other than make her decision and then act upon it.

The success of the company was something that sometimes surprised even her. It had expanded to such an extent that she had had to invest in new factory premises and an increased work-force, and had taken on the kind of financial and emotional burdens that went with economic success.

And yet she had thrived on it, revelled in the challenge. When others flagged, she had laughed at them; when others doubted, she had stuck to the force of her own convictions and been proved right.

Her mother was now living very comfortably indeed in an elegant flat in Brighton, her future secure; Angelica herself had a tiny but very valuable mews cottage, tucked away from view in one of London’s precious and increasingly rare oases of peace and quiet. All of the mews houses had separate garages, and the mews itself had no vehicular access to the pretty cobbled courtyard they all shared.

On admittedly rare warm summer weekends, it was not unusual to see all its inhabitants breakfasting al fresco in the courtyard in a manner more reminiscent of France than Britain, on delicacies supplied by a local delicatessen.

It had been on one such morning that she had first met Giles. He had been living in one of the cottages on a temporary basis. He had told her that he had been loaned it by some friends who were spending six months in the States.

Later she had discovered that this was not the truth; that in fact the house belonged to the parents of his previous girlfriend, and that he had casually moved in and refused to move out, claiming the property as his by virtue of his relationship with their daughter. Giles had had a gift for distorting the truth, for bending it to suit his own selfish purposes, and she, like the fool she was, had been completely taken in by him.

It didn’t help that her friends had been equally easily deceived, that they had been equally stunned by the truth. They had quickly and determinedly rallied around her when the blows had fallen, not singly, but in a massed attack which had left her feeling as though her heart and her mind had been beaten to a jelly that made it impossible for her to rationalise herself out of her anguish and suffering.

And yet she had been so lucky…so very lucky. If her mother hadn’t broken her arm just before she and Giles were due to take that holiday in Provence, if she hadn’t returned unexpectedly to London that evening to collect some papers she had needed…If Giles hadn’t been arrogant and reckless enough to spend not just the evening but the night as well with someone else, and if she hadn’t seen that someone else leaving his house in the early hours of the morning, she might never have discovered the truth—or at least she might only have discovered it when it was too late.

And the worst of it was that to her own mind at least she had been so trusting, so idiotic, that she had actually believed that he loved her, that she had never questioned why such a charming and good-looking man of twenty-seven should actually want a woman like her—a woman who had never really had time to play and enjoy life, a woman who had dedicated herself to her business life, a woman who took her responsibilities so seriously that they were the prime focus of her whole life.

She had been a fool.And it didn’t help knowing that she was far from the first woman Giles had deceived. Indeed he had made quite a career out of it, safe in the knowledge that his other victims, like her, would not want to broadcast their idiocy.

It made it no better knowing that she had willingly allowed him to dictate the course of their relationship, to sweep her off her feet, insisting that he loved her, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. That holiday in Provence had been going to be a time of pre-wedding intimacy, a whole month of getting to know one another, of becoming lovers, of committing themselves to their shared future.

She had been so blinded by wonder, by the thrill of believing that he loved her, that she hadn’t even looked for any flaws in him.

Tom had told her gently that she mustn’t blame herself; that there came a time in everyone’s life when they were vulnerable to that kind of foolishness—that she had been lucky because fate had stepped in and saved her before it was too late.

As her solicitor he had felt bound to point out to her that, had she and Giles actually been married, she could have suffered far more than the emotional destruction of her life. She could have virtually lost if not everything she had worked for then certainly a good part of it.

That had been a bitter pill to swallow: the knowledge that Giles, simply because of her imagined wealth, had callously and cold-bloodedly set out to deceive her into believing he loved her. He had wanted, not her, but the company. His desire had not been for her, but for money.

The humiliation of that knowledge was something she thought she would have to carry for the rest of her life—that and the knowledge that she had been such a fool. Falling in love with a cheat was something a girl in her teens could be forgiven, but a woman of her age ought to have known better, ought to have realised…What? That it was impossible for a man to fall instantly and completely in love with someone like her, a woman who, while passably attractive, had hardly the kind of head-turning looks that had men falling over themselves for her attention.

Even now she still couldn’t understand why it had happened—why she had so easily allowed herself to be deceived. She shivered suddenly, her flesh going cold as she dwelt on all she had put at risk—not just her own future, but her mother’s as well and those of her employees, and all for what? For the meaningless smiles and even more meaningless flattery of a man who had cold-bloodedly set out to use her.

Was she so emotionally bereft of inner strength, so vulnerable, so in need of believing herself loved that she had not had the sense to see what Giles really wanted? Was she so much of an emotional fool that she had really believed him when he’d sworn he loved her, when he’d told her he wanted her as his wife? Why hadn’t she questioned him more deeply? Why hadn’t she suspected?

Because it had never occurred to her that she might fall into that kind of trap, that a man might want her simply because of the financial gain she represented.

That was what hurt her the most of all, she recognised: that she had been stupid enough to believe herself loved when all the time Giles had been laughing at her gullibility, when he had been secretly assessing her financial worth. All those lies about wanting their lovemaking to be perfect, about wanting to take her away somewhere where he could have her all to himself. All those lies, which she had believed, when the truth was that he had already been sleeping with someone else.

In New York women employed private detectives to search into the lives of their menfriends. She had thought them cynical and cold-blooded. Now she was not so sure.

Facing up to the knowledge that she had made such a fool of herself had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do. She had been remorseless with herself, not allowing herself to hide from the truth, making herself confront her own frailties, her own stupidity, making herself see that she had craved being loved so much that she had almost eagerly thrown away her intelligence and self-respect.

Up until Giles’s arrival in her life, she had considered herself to be fulfilled and as reasonably happy as any human being could expect to be.

Marriage, children—these were secret dreams she had kept tucked away in a private corner of her mind. She had looked around at the relationships of her friends, seen how very difficult it was in this frenetically paced age merely to find the time to devote to developing and then cosseting emotional bonds, and had told herself prosaically that maybe later in her life she would opt for a sensible, unpassionate marriage to some kind, bland man who would share her desire for children and stability, but that that time had not come yet and that she was presently more than content with her life, that the wild love-affairs indulged in by some of her friends were not for her and more to be looked upon with mild amusement than envy, that the trauma of intense emotional relationships were never worth the expenditure of time and emotion that went into them.

And then she had met Giles, and he had turned her whole world upside-down, and she, fool that she was, had helped him.

Well, she was suffering for that self-indulgence now.

‘Exhaustion’was her doctor’s pithy diagnosis of the enervating malaise that had drained her to the point where she felt she could simply no longer function as the person she had once been.

There had been a good deal of shocked reaction from her friends. The words ‘yuppie flu’ had floated sympathetically on the air. None of them had been tactless enough to suggest she was suffering from something as unfashionable as the misery caused by a broken heart, especially as it was twelve months since she and Giles had parted. Modern women did not have hearts that broke; they were far too sensible, far too mature. They wisely assessed the advantages and disadvantages of every relationship they entered, not having the time to waste on those that were unprofitable. If only she had followed that sensible course…But she hadn’t, had she? And she was left, not only with the pain of being deceived by someone she had thought cared for her, not only with the anguish of her own misery and her bruised pride, but she was also having to contend with the realisation that she was not the woman she had always supposed; that she was not the mature, wise creature she had always prided herself on being; that she was in fact as vulnerable as the rest of her sex when it came to her deepest emotions and needs.

Which was why, on the insistence of her doctor, she was taking this enforced break. It had been Tom, her solicitor, and one of her closest friends, who had offered her the use of the Pembrokeshire cottage he had recently inherited from an uncle.

‘It’s virtually in the middle of nowhere, five miles from the nearest village, but the countryside is wonderful. I went down there never having even seen the place. I’d already made up my mind to sell, but once I did see it…Well, I’ve decided to keep it, and it’s yours for just as long as you need it, Angelica.’

She had wanted to protest that she wasn’t an invalid, that she didn’t need it, that she didn’t need anything or anyone; that was how raw and sore she still was inside, but she had known she would have been lying. She badly needed somewhere to crawl away into and hide, somewhere where she could lick her wounds and recover at her own pace.

She could leave the business in the capable hands of Paul Lyons, her second-in-command; she knew that.

She didn’t love Giles any more. How could she? The man she had thought she loved had never actually existed, but that didn’t stop her heart from thumping crazily every time she saw a man with fair, sun-streaked hair and blue eyes. It didn’t stop her from waking up alone at night with her face stiff from the drying salt of her tears. It didn’t stop her from feeling it was impossible for her to face the world, from feeling that everyone who looked at her knew what a fool she had been.

Tom was right—six weeks away from London, living simply and on her own, was probably just what she needed to get things back into perspective, to recoup her old energy and determination.

They had had lunch together yesterday, and then he had gone back to the house with her, to make sure that she had got the route clear, he had said, but she had known that he was worried about her. That knowledge had warmed her. She and Tom had been friends for a long time. Her mother adored him, and often hinted that they would make a good couple, but, close though they were, both of them had separately and mutually acknowledged that their relationship was more akin to one of brother and sister, that their emotional bonding was such that it precluded any possibility of sexual desire. Tom had recently fallen in love, and she liked his new girlfriend very much.

She had broken her journey in Ludlow to admire the pretty town and have something to eat, and had perhaps, she recognised, lingered there rather longer than was wise, because now it was dark; the country road was unlit, and she was glad of the absence of any other traffic, otherwise she suspected she would have irritated the other drivers by her hesitancy as she searched the roadside for the turn-off for the cottage.

She was becoming increasingly anxious to find it, not just because it was late and she was tired; for the last few miles she had been feeling increasingly unwell. Her stomach hurt, she felt sick, and she was pretty sure that the meal she had eaten in Ludlow was to blame.

She had lost almost a stone in the twelve months since she had parted from Giles. Her friends were beginning to warn her that there was such a thing as becoming too slender, and that her five-foot-seven frame was beginning to look a touch gaunt. She had been forced to acknowledge the truth of their remarks. She could see new hollows at the base of her throat, could feel a new prominence in the bones of her hips, a new slackness in the waists of her discreetly elegant skirts. There were shadows beneath her eyes turning them from grey to haunted violet, the soft black silkiness of her hair was beginning to lose its gloss, and she knew that the emotional devastation she had suffered was beginning to show its physical signs on her body.

She had promised herself that she would spend this break getting herself fit; walking, eating sensibly, living simply and wholesomely instead of picking reluctantly at meals she never seemed to finish and keeping herself closeted in the unhealthy stuffiness of her centrally heated office.

The cottage was spartan, Tom had warned her, but they were having a good summer, and she had felt a sharp relief at the prospect of living alone somewhere where no one would expect her to make any effort to keep up the appearance of the glossy, self-sufficient career woman.

That was the trouble with being a woman, she reflected muzzily; nature had not designed them to be self-sufficient. Nature had ensured that they would always inherit those genes which made them yearn to share and nurture. Nature was a fool and a cheat—just like Giles—and she was a bigger fool for having allowed herself to be deceived.

Too late she saw the turning and had to reverse the car. Doing so made her feel horribly faint and sick. Her head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton wool, while her stomach…

As she drove down the lane between high, hedge-topped banks, she prayed that she would make it to the cottage before her stomach rebelled completely.

She could feel sweat breaking out on her skin, the kind of sweat that heralded a bout of sickness, and then mercifully as she turned a corner the car’s headlights picked out the low stone-built cottage. Longer than she had expected, and was her brain playing tricks on her or did it seem as though it had two separate front doors, and what was that hedge doing in the middle of the front garden?

As she stopped the car, she realised muzzily that it wasn’t one cottage but a pair of semis, in fact. She just had time to realise that Tom hadn’t warned her that the cottage didn’t stand completely alone before violent cramps seized her stomach.

Throwing open the car door, she virtually fell out of the driver’s seat, and was immediately and violently ill.

Shivering and shaking, her body doubled up with the intensity of the violent spasms racking her stomach, she prayed they would abate for long enough for her to make it to the privacy of the cottage. Not that there was anyone to see her. No lights shone from the windows of either cottage, no sound apart from the chattering of her own teeth spoiled the perfect silence. She was alone—completely alone…

Tensely she straightened up, relieved to discover that, while she felt appallingly weak, the pain and nausea had faded—at least for the time being.

Hurrying back to the car, she extracted her bag, and found the large, old-fashioned key to the cottage. Not bothering to lock her car, she opened the wooden gate and hurried down the path to the front door.

The effort of trying to control the pain in her stomach was making her feel positively light-headed, she acknowledged as she tried shakily to insert the key in the lock. A horrible sense of weakness overwhelmed her, the return of the unbearable cramping agony in her stomach bringing a film of sweat to her forehead, and nausea burning in her throat.

As the pain increased, she dropped the key, gripping her stomach, all her concentration demanded by the intensity of her agony.

As she cried out, and half collapsed on to the ground in front of the cottage, she was dimly conscious of a car engine fading into silence somewhere in the distance, but she was far too occupied with her own physical needs to pay it much attention.

She had just finished being violently sick, tears of pain and shock pouring down her face, her throat raw with the violence of her retching, her body still huddled on the ground, as she fought against the dizzying waves of agony beginning to build up inside her again when she heard an irritated male voice demanding from behind her, ‘What the devil’s going on?’

And then as she tried to turn her head, too exhausted and in too much pain to question either the man’s arrival or his anger, he obviously realised for himself how ill she was, because he made a sudden sound of enlightenment and then crouched down beside her, saying in a much kinder tone, ‘It’s all right. No, don’t try to move. What happened? Food poisoning?’

The cramping pains were increasing again. Angelica only had time to nod before they became so violent that she stopped fighting to stay conscious and let herself slide down into the waiting darkness, vaguely conscious of someone lifting her, carrying her, speaking to her before the darkness completely closed over her.

CHAPTER TWO

RELUCTANTLY Angelica opened her eyes, wincing as the light hit them, and closing them again, the mere effort of turning her head in the direction of the light so exhausting that it drained her.

She felt oddly light-headed…empty and fragile. She had a collection of hazy memories and impressions, the sharpest of them being a pain so intense that even to remember it made her stomach muscles tense defensively.

She had been sick, more violently sick than she could ever remember being in her life. So sick and in so much pain that she had honestly thought she was going to die—had even at times wished that she might…

She remembered saying as much, and she remembered another unfamiliar voice cautioning her against such folly, calming and soothing her, just as unfamiliar hands had dealt with the physical agony of her illness.

Who had they belonged to, those hands and that voice? A doctor? Her forehead crinkled in a frown as she tried to analyse why she should reject that thought so rigorously. Not a doctor, then who?

A stranger almost certainly, and yet oddly she had found the fact that he was a stranger comforting rather than intimidating, as though had she known him in some way she would have been obliged to put up a pretence of not needing the assistance he was giving her, instead of sinking weakly and gratefully into his care, allowing him all manner of intimacies with her pain-racked flesh that would have been intolerable had she actually known the owner of those capable, clinical hands and that calming, knowing voice that somehow assured her that he knew exactly what she was enduring, how much it frightened her, how vulnerable and weak it made her…How little she wanted to be beholden to him or anyone else.

Her mind felt cloudy and confused; the more she tried to focus it, the more woolly her thoughts became. She didn’t even know where she was…

But, yes, she did—she was in Wales—Pembrokeshire. She had come here to rest…Her mouth twisted slightly. Surely only she could start off what was supposed to be a period of complete rest and recuperation with a bout of food poisoning so intense that her memories of the last few days were no more than vague wisps of uncertain flashes of reality mingled with long periods of cloudy uncertainty, the whole time sharply delineated by her memories of the agony of her illness.

She remembered arriving at the cottage, and that must be where she was now, surely? This bedroom with its sloping eaves and its view of the distant hills; this old-fashioned, iron-framed bed, so high off the ground that it was impossible for her feet to touch the floor.

She frowned. How did she know that? She had a vague memory of desperately wanting to be sick, of trying to clamber out of the high bed and find the bathroom, only to be stopped, and then firmly carried there…

Strange how, in recollecting the incident, she should feel consumed with the very natural embarrassment she could quite clearly remember she had not felt at the time. Almost as though somehow he, whoever he was, had been so clinical and detached, so assured and firm in his handling of the situation and of her that she had felt nothing other than an exhausted desire to simply give in and let him take control.

It shocked her to realise that she had shared an intimacy with this stranger that she had never shared with Giles. Not the intimacy of lovers of course, but an intimacy which in its way made her feel even more vulnerable. And yet she had not felt vulnerable at the time…had not felt anything other than a weak, shaky gratitude. She even remembered now trying to thank him at some stage, but he had brushed her thanks aside. Where was he now? Had he gone? Left her alone?

For some reason that thought panicked her. Without thinking what she was doing she pushed back the quilt and the heavy linen sheet, swinging her legs to the floor, and discovering as she did so that she had been quite correct in remembering that the bed was too high for her to reach the floor, and also that, instead of one of her own long, sensible nightdresses, she seemed to be wearing a man’s shirt.

A man’s shirt with just enough buttons fastened for decency, as though whoever had fastened her into it had known that when she woke up she would remember the intimacies they had shared, and who had taken pains to reassure her that, no matter what he might have done to help her in the extremity of her need, he both understood and respected her desire to recover her privacy. As though he was reassuring her that there had been nothing voyeuristic or lustful in his intimacy with her flesh. As though he had known how shocked she would be when she remembered how he had helped her, carried her, bathed her.

Her body suddenly grew hot, her face flushing. She didn’t want to remember anything like that. He had helped her and she was grateful to him, whoever he was, but now that she was herself again…

She slid her feet on to the floor and stood up, or rather she tried to stand up, her eyes widening in surprise and disbelief as her legs refused to support her.

As she crumpled to the floor, she only just had time to grab hold of the side of the bed.

The next thing she knew the bedroom door was being flung open and a man strode in, limping slightly as he made his way to the bed. He was frowning down at her, his dark hair damp and untidy as though he had just been towelling it dry, his jaw shadowed with an overnight growth of beard. The jeans he was wearing seemed a little loose on the waist and the hips, as though he had recently lost weight.

When he bent down to help her she caught the scent of his soap, clean and masculine, and realised that he must have been in the bathroom.

‘It’s all right. I can manage,’ she told him self-consciously, trying to pull away from him as he picked her up bodily, depositing her back on the bed.

The look he gave her spoke volumes and made her flush guiltily. She owed him far too large a debt of gratitude already without compounding that debt.

It seemed unfair that fate should have decreed that this should happen to her just when she had made up her mind that henceforth she would live her life as independently and free from emotional commitment as she could.

But all men weren’t like Giles. There was Tom, for instance, who had been such a good friend to her over the years. Tom, and Paul, her second-in-command at the factory, both of whom she trusted implicitly, both of whom had proved their friendship and affection for her.

But then that was the difference between her relationship with them and the disastrous relationship she had had with Giles. They were friends—not potential lovers.

Perhaps she was the kind of woman who was safer establishing non-sexual relationships with men. The sort of woman who aroused affection in the male breast rather than adoration.

She realised abruptly that the hard arms imprisoning her had been removed, and that the owner of those arms was now leaning over her still frowning down at her.

He had nice arms, she reflected absently, firm and well muscled without being in any way overdeveloped. His skin was weather-beaten rather than tanned, as though he worked outside.

For the first time she was curious about him…About how on earth he had materialised so fortuitously in her time of need. About what he was doing in the first place in such a remote spot. About where he ought to have been rather than here, taking care of her.

‘You still aren’t well enough to get up,’ he told her firmly.

He had a pleasant voice, deep and faintly husky, but with no marked Welsh accent.

‘I’m feeling much better,’ Angelica protested. ‘I really ought to get up. I’ve taken up far too much of your time as it is.’ Her skin went faintly pink as she added uncertainly, ‘You really were a Good Samaritan. If you hadn’t arrived when you did…’She gave a tiny shiver, not wanting to dwell on what might have happened to her. ‘I had no idea there were two cottages here,’she told him as he slowly straightened up. ‘When Tom described this place to me he omitted to mention the fact that it was one of a pair of semis.’

She watched as his eyebrows rose a little, and for some reason felt obliged to add defensively, ‘Not that I’m not thankful to you for all that you’ve done, but I can’t impose on you any longer. You must have things of your own to do—your own cottage to—’

‘This is my cottage,’ he told her blandly, and when her mouth dropped a little he added coolly, ‘When I found you virtually out cold on my doorstep, I’d no idea who you were or what you were doing here and it seemed better to take you inside with me rather than wait for you to come round to find out. When I got the doctor out from Aberystwyth it was touch and go for the first twenty-four hours whether or not he’d have to find you a bed in our one and only local hospital.

‘By the time we’d managed to find out who you were and what you were doing here, it seemed easier from my point of view to keep an eye on you here than to move you next door.’

He said it all so matter-of-factly that Angelica could do nothing other than smile uncomfortably at him and say weakly, ‘I’ve put you to a good deal of trouble. I’m so sorry.’

‘No need to be. Being ill is no picnic. I know—I’ve been there myself. There are times when we all need a little help.’

Angelica frowned. What did he mean, he’d been there himself? Now that she looked properly at him, she saw that there was a gauntness about his face, a sharpness around those high sculpted cheekbones, narrow grooves cut either side of his mouth that hinted at pain and suffering.

She remembered how he’d limped when he walked into the bedroom and was suddenly and totally unexpectedly curious about him. And then she realised what he had said about the cottage. This wasn’t Tom’s cottage—it was his.

‘Look, I feel dreadful about all of this,’ she told him truthfully. ‘I must have caused you a great deal of trouble, but I’m over it now, and perfectly well enough to move into Tom’s cottage. I feel I’ve trespassed on your privacy for long enough.’

‘You aren’t going anywhere until the doctor says you can,’ he told her flatly.

Angelica eyed him uncertainly. There was nothing threatening in his attitude, nothing aggressive or domineering, and yet she had the inner impression that if she tried to defy him, if she tried to get up and physically remove herself from his presence, she would very soon find herself right back in this bed.

It startled her how very easy she found it to submit to the strength she could feel emanating from him; almost as though she was relieved to be able to do so, to let him make her decisions for her.

She shivered slightly, remembering how her own doctor had warned her that the stress she had been under could manifest itself in many different ways. Was this another of them—this reluctance to take charge of her own life, this unfamiliar desire to simply lie here and let this man, this stranger, make her decisions for her?

She shivered again, suddenly conscious of how much her relationship with Giles had changed her, how much it had undermined her self-confidence, and, although she was mercifully free of any shadow of the love she had once thought she felt for him, she was left with this weak indecisiveness, this inability to trust her own judgement, to make up her own mind, in a way that was completely at odds with the woman she had always thought herself to be.

‘Something wrong?’ enquired her rescuer.

The abrupt question startled her. She shook her head, a little nervous of his perception, wondering what he might have read in her unguarded expression.

‘Have you owned your cottage long?’she asked him quickly, trying to redirect their conversation into less emotive and personal channels.

He stood up and told her curtly, ‘I don’t own it. I’m renting it.’

It was Angelica’s turn to frown. His words were innocuous enough and certainly there was no real reason for the warning bells to ring so loudly in her ears. But Angelica had been running her own business and dealing with people for long enough to recognise ‘keep off’ signs when they were posted. She had after all been posting enough of her own recently to be instantly aware of when she had trespassed on to forbidden ground. And yet what could there have been in her innocent enquiry about his ownership of the cottage to draw that curt, rejecting response that warned her it was a not a subject he wished to pursue?

Shrugging mentally, she told herself that it was no real business of hers. She wasn’t particularly interested in whether or not he owned the cottage anyway. She had only been trying to make conversation.

And yet…And yet…as he stood there with his back to her, the muscles in his shoulders and back so obviously stiff with tension and anger, she felt a totally unexpected surge of sensation, not strong enough to be an actual emotional pain, and yet certainly strong enough to be rather more than conventional pique.

She trembled a little, hugging her arms around her body, not liking the idea that the physical intimacy forced on her by her illness had somehow or other forged within her mind, albeit unconsciously, the right to feel affronted and hurt by his obvious desire to shut her out.

As he stood there he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his palm absently rubbing the muscle in one thigh as though it was causing him pain.

‘I’ve been in touch with your friend Tom, by the way,’ he told her, turning back to her.

‘You’ve been in touch with Tom? You know him, then?’

She was puzzled, confused that Tom had not mentioned this neighbour.

‘No. We’ve never met, but you had his telephone number scribbled down on your map.’

Angelica nodded. Tom, bless him, had taken the precaution of jotting down his new London telephone number just in case she couldn’t follow his directions. He had moved house a fortnight ago and she had not as yet memorised his new telephone number.

‘I didn’t ring him until after the doctor had confirmed that you were suffering from salmonella. He wanted to drive down here to be with you, but it seems he had other commitments.’

‘Yes,’ Angelica agreed with a smile that was fond and more betraying than she knew. ‘He was going to spend the weekend with his new girlfriend’s parents. It’s the first time they’ve met and since he suspects that they’re a little concerned at the age gap between them—Tom’s thirty-two and Sarah is only nineteen, although a very mature nineteen—I know he wouldn’t have wanted to put them off. Nor would I have wanted him to. In fact, grateful though I am to you, you really shouldn’t have burdened yourself with me. Surely a private nurse…?’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Maybe, but they are not easy to come by in this part of the world, especially at such short notice. Your Tom warned me that I was going to have trouble with you once you were over the worst. A very independent lady was how he described you…’

A very independent lady. She had been once and had prided herself on it. Now she wasn’t so sure, and neither, she knew, was Tom. But, bless him, like the good friend he was, he would have taken care not to betray her vulnerabilities to anyone else.

‘What time is the doctor due?’ she asked quietly. She had imposed on this man for long enough. The intimacies that had passed between them while she was incapable of looking after herself were something she had to accept, and yet now, confronted with the reality of a man who before had simply been a shadowy, unfamiliar figure, a gentle, capable pair of hands that seemed to know instinctively how to help and soothe, a calm, understanding voice, she was beginning to feel acutely self-conscious and vulnerable.

The look he gave her seemed to slice right through her defences and fasten on all that she was feeling. He had coldly clear pale blue eyes that in some lights looked almost grey; dangerously seeing eyes, she recognised uncomfortably, that went well with what she was beginning to suspect was an equally perceptive mind.

She wondered obliquely what he did for a living. There was no obvious industry in this part of the world; it was an idyllic spot for holiday-makers, for those in search of solitude and peace, but for those who lived locally…And what kind of work allowed a man to take days off without any notice, to nurse a complete stranger? Did he in fact work at all, or was he perhaps one of that breed of people she had occasionally read about and puzzled over but never met: a genuine drop-out from society?

She eyed him covertly, registering the wellworn jeans, the slightly too thin frame. If he didn’t work how did he manage to pay the rent on this place? How did he feed and clothe himself?

‘I can hear a car outside,’ he told her. ‘It will probably be the doctor now. I’d better go down and let him in.’

His hearing was as acute as his perception, Angelica recognised as she too heard the approaching sound of a car engine.

The doctor, when he came into the bedroom, proved to be a middle-aged man with a soft Welsh accent and tired eyes. WhenAngelica apologised for causing him so much trouble, he shook his head and told her, ‘There’s nothing worse than a nasty bout of food poisoning. You were lucky that Daniel was here when you collapsed.’

‘Very lucky,’Angelica agreed hollowly, shivering a little as she remembered her physical agony and distress when she first became ill. So his name was Daniel. Foolish of her not to have asked him herself.

‘Your friend gave us the name of your London doctor.’ The shrewd, tired eyes studied her. ‘Come down here for a bit of a rest, have you?’

Angelica pulled a face. ‘He says I’m suffering from stress. When Tom offered me the use of his cottage…’

‘Stress, is it? Well, then, you’ll be needing a bit of peace and quiet.’

‘Yes,’Angelica agreed. ‘I feel I ought to move into Tom’s cottage and let Mr—er—Daniel get on with his own life.’

For some reason she could feel her face growing hot as she spoke, as much because of the thoughtful way the doctor was studying her as because of her discomfort at not even knowing her rescuer’s name.

‘I feel very guilty about the way I’ve been taking up his time,’ she added awkwardly. ‘I did think that perhaps a nurse—’

‘There’s not much Daniel doesn’t know about what it’s like to be ill,’ she was told calmly. ‘And as for taking up his time, well, I dare say if he hadn’t wanted to help you he’d soon have made some other arrangements, although out here people do tend to take it for granted that neighbours will help one another out.’

The doctor was standing up, his examination finished. ‘You’ll be feeling very weak for a few days yet,’ he warned her.

‘But I can get up,’Angelica pressed. She had already made up her mind that she simply could not impose on her host any longer. And besides, now that she was properly conscious, properly aware, well, she felt both uncomfortable and guilty about the way she had been so dependent on Daniel. Dependency wasn’t something she was used to, and since the débâcle of her relationship with Giles she had striven very hard to regain her former self-reliance. It had become very important to her that she was independent of other people, that she was able to function completely on her resources. She was never, ever again going to allow herself to suffer the kind of emotional trauma and pain she had suffered with Giles.

‘Yes, you can get up,’ the doctor agreed, frowning thoughtfully at her, ‘but I must warn you against trying to do too much too soon. You could very easily have a relapse. Salmonella is never something to be treated lightly and when it’s as severe as this bout you’ve just had…’ His frown deepened, and Angelica had the feeling that he was about to say something else, but obviously he must have changed his mind because after a few seconds’ pause he smiled at her and said kindly, ‘This isn’t London, you know. Here we take our responsibility to our small communities and to each other very seriously indeed. You mustn’t feel guilty about needing Daniel’s help. Just think of it as a good deed you’ve been “loaned”, and which one day you’ll have the opportunity to pass on to someone else.’

He gave her another smile, closed his bag and headed for the door before she could say anything else.

Angelica heard Daniel talking to him when he went downstairs, and sensitively wondered if it was her they were discussing. It was stupid to feel so vulnerable, so defensive, she chided herself.

Surely she was mature enough, sensible enough to realise that all men weren’t like Giles—that she had been unlucky and perhaps a little foolish, but that the pain she had suffered was no reason to turn her back on the entire male sex, mistrustful and afraid of every single one of its members.

Maybe not, but it would be folly to allow herself to fall in love again, to—

Fall in love? She frowned heavily. Who on earth was talking about falling in love, for heaven’s sake? What possible link could there be between her relationship with Giles and the very, very different relationship which circumstances had forced on her with Daniel?

Daniel. She tasted the name, testing it cautiously, acknowledging that in some way it suited him. It was a powerful name, a little awesome in some ways. Like the man himself? Did she find him powerful and just a little intimidating? Just a little bit too much the dominant male animal, supremely confident of himself, in a way she knew she could never be?

Was it an inbuilt flaw of her sex that it was so constantly vulnerable, so constantly aware of its failings and insecurities? Wasn’t it because of her own awareness of her personal, deep-rooted insecurities, her fear that her life was starting to revolve too completely around her work that she had been so dangerously open to Giles’s deliberate manipulation? Had she had a stronger, tougher, more male-based personality, she would have been too self-sufficient, too sure of herself and confident to fall for Giles’s rather obvious and facile charm.

Was she never going to stop feeling guilty for being such a fool, for not realising far sooner than she had just what Giles was? It still galled her to realise that, in the eyes of others, she must have seemed both stupid and laughable; a mature woman, so desperately craving love and reassurance that she had not been able to see the truth.

She was never going to allow herself to be deceived like that again. From now on her relationships with men were going to be strictly non-emotional, strictly held at a safe distance from her too vulnerable heart.

It still tore at her emotionally that, despite the success she had made of her business life, she still felt this emptiness, this yearning, this need to be fulfilled as a woman.

She shivered a little, all too well able to imagine how the man downstairs would laugh at that kind of vulnerability. Even Tom, great friend though he was, had not really understood this deep-rooted need she had to love and be loved in return. At times she didn’t even understand it herself, resenting its hold on her, wishing there was some way she could destroy it so that it never made her vulnerable again.

If she couldn’t destroy her own inner need, then at least she could ensure that no man ever got close enough to use it against her, manipulating her, deceiving her.

She moved restlessly, conscious of a sharp, biting anger that fate had decreed that she should be rendered so helpless and vulnerable that she had had no option but to accept Daniel’s help.

Why couldn’t it have been another woman who had found her there on the doorstep? Why did it have to be an unknown man—a man, moreover, who, despite his shabby clothes and generally down-at-heel appearance, seemed to exude power and strength in a way that only seemed to reinforce her own appalling weakness?

Despite what the doctor had said, despite his warnings, the sooner she moved into Tom’s cottage and away from Daniel, the better.

She said as much to Daniel himself half an hour later when he came upstairs, glibly omitting to tell him that while the doctor had said she might get up he had also warned her against overdoing things.

‘I really do feel I’ve trespassed on your time and hospitality far too long,’ she told him coolly, adopting her most businesslike manner and trying not to feel acutely conscious of the fact that all she was wearing was one of his shirts. ‘And the doctor agrees with me that I am now well enough to manage on my own.’

Was there just a suspicion of a betraying tremor in her voice as she spoke this small fib? Was she tilting her chin just a little too much as though defying him to argue with her, and, when he didn’t, when he simply continued to regard her thoughtfully, was that really a tiny thread of disappointment that tangled with her relief, increasing her anxiety to escape to the security and privacy of Tom’s cottage?

‘If you’re sure you can manage,’he said at last.

‘Yes. Yes, I am,’ and then, aware that it might seem as though she was not aware of all that he had done for her, she added quickly, ‘I’m very grateful to you of course, and if there’s anything I can do to repay you…’

The smile he gave her almost seemed to mock her as though he knew exactly how desperate she was to escape from him.

‘I still don’t even know your name,’ she told him fretfully, hating the way she felt at such a disadvantage. Now that she was fully conscious again, she was acutely aware of her unmade-up face and tousled hair, her borrowed and unconventional nightshirt, while he stood watching her armoured in the secure protection of his jeans and shirt. Now when it was the last thing she wanted to do, she had a series of illuminating and embarrassing mental memories of hazy moments of consciousness when she had called out for help, and he had been there, his hands holding her, soothing her, his movements calm and sure as though he had known instinctively what to do.

No nurse however professional could have cared for her so conscientiously. She was overwhelmingly grateful to him, and at the same time she was intensely self-conscious and embarrassed about the intimacies which had passed between them; intimacies which, even if she had been only half conscious at the time and in no fit state to do anything other than submit thankfully to his care, had remained uncomfortably sharply etched in her memory.

She remembered after one particularly gruelling bout of sickness how he had stripped off her clothes, and gently sponged her skin, almost seeming to know how intensely she longed to feel the clean coolness of fresh water on her body washing away the smell and heat of her nausea.

Looking at him now, it seemed impossible that he had shown such care, such…such tenderness. She felt her face grow hot with guilt and anger. What was the matter with her? He had simply done what he had felt necessary. In this part of the world neighbours helped one another, the doctor had told her that. There was no reason for her to feel so intensely aware of him—so intensely aware of him in fact that it was as though her flesh had somehow memorised the touch of his hands to such an extent that it now—

She swallowed hard, reining in her runaway thoughts, and almost blurted out, ‘I can’t stay here any longer.’

She saw the way his eyebrows drew together, and bit her lip. What on earth was the matter with her? She was behaving like a fool. Like a woman suddenly terrified of intimacy with a man for whom she felt a dangerous sexual awareness, and there was nothing like that about this situation.

There had been nothing remotely sexual in the way he had helped her. There was nothing in his manner now to indicate any degree of sexual awareness of her as a woman. No, the awareness was all on her side, she acknowledged bitterly. And yet why should she be aware of him? He wasn’t good-looking in the fairhaired, smooth way which Giles had been. He was too rugged, too roughly hewn, too powerfully male to have that kind of appeal. And even if there was nothing outwardly aggressively sexual about him, she had an instinctive knowledge that he was the kind of man that women would find strongly sexual. Not the kind of man who appealed to her at all. She had always avoided that particular type, finding them slightly intimidating, and they had normally avoided her, obviously realising that she was not the intensely sexually responsive type.

It was her relationship with Giles that had left her so vulnerable, so bruised and so lacking in self-worth that she had become acutely conscious of this man as a man. When he took a step towards her she found she was actually trembling. He saw it and frowned.

‘You’re still too weak to get up yet,’ he told her curtly. ‘You’ll stay here tonight and then in the morning, if you’re feeling up to it, we’ll see about getting you moved into the other cottage.’

She ought to have objected, to have told him that she was the one making the decisions, that it was her right to make them, that she was an adult woman and had no intentions of allowing him to dictate to her in any way, but she was still trembling inside, still desperately conscious of the fact that she wished he would move away from her.

‘I came up to see if you could manage some home-made broth,’ he told her, changing the subject.

Home-made broth. She stared at him as though he read her mind; he gave her a brief smile and told her, ‘No, I haven’t made it myself. The farmer’s wife gave it to me when I went to get the milk and eggs. She’d heard that you weren’t well.’

‘The farm—is it far?’ Angelica asked him.

‘Not really; a couple of miles, that’s all. I walk over every other day or so.’

A couple of miles. She swallowed hard. In London the furthest she ever walked was a hundred yards or so. The thought of walking a couple of miles in her present condition made her all too glad that she had her car. And then, without meaning to do so, she glanced automatically at Daniel’s lame leg.

‘The exercise is good for it,’ he told her curtly, so obviously following her train of thought that she flushed with guilt and embarrassment.

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I was just—’

‘You were wondering how I managed to walk that far,’ Daniel supplied carelessly for her. ‘It wasn’t easy at first, but it’s like everything else: something you eventually get used to. It helps to strengthen the damaged muscles—or so they tell me.’

Was that bitterness she could hear underlying the harsh words? She wondered what had caused his lameness. Had he been injured in an accident? She found herself shivering at the thought and then was angry with herself for being so concerned. What business was it of hers what had happened to him?

‘Well?’ Daniel prompted, while she battled with her wayward emotions, and stared at him in confusion. ‘The broth,’ he reminded her. ‘Would you like some? Mrs Davies has sent some of her home-made bread as well. I’ve got an Aga here in the kitchen and I’ve been trying my hand at baking some, but I must add as yet I haven’t had any success.’

He’d been trying his hand at baking bread. Angelica gulped as she stared at him.

‘We have some bad storms on this coast,’ he told her wryly. ‘It’s possible to be cut off here, even from the farm, for days at a time. Self-sufficiency here isn’t an affectation, it’s a necessity, and if the power goes off—which it can do—the Aga is the only source of heat.

‘Your friend would be as well to get one installed in his place, especially if he intends to use it during the winter.’

‘I’ll tell him,’Angelica responded. ‘And, yes, I would like some broth please.’

‘Good. In that case, I think we’ll get you downstairs, and just see how strong you do feel once you’re on your feet.’

At the same moment as Angelica swung her feet to the floor, he walked towards her, closing the gap between them and picking her up before she could draw breath to protest.

His shirt rode up to reveal the pale slenderness of her thighs, and, although she knew he had carried her like this on a dozen or more previous occasions, now that she was fully conscious she was acutely aware of the intimacy of his hold, of the strength and the heat radiating from his flesh where it touched her, of the way she had to lean against him so that her head was tucked into his shoulder, her breast pushing softly against his chest, one arm underneath her as he supported her, the other holding her tightly, so that she had no alternative but to lock her own arms around his neck even while she protested.

‘Please—I can walk.’

‘You mean you think you can,’ he derided her. ‘The last thing we need now is you collapsing and falling downstairs. Let’s see how you go on when you’re downstairs before we get too adventurous, shall we?’

He really was the limit, Angelica decided wrathfully. Telling her what she could and could not do. Laying down the law, when she was perfectly capable of making her own decisions. If it weren’t for the fact that she owed him so much, she would have told him in no uncertain terms that no one dictated to her, that no man was allowed to dominate her life…Not any more. She had learned the dangers of becoming too dependent on a man the hard way, and it was a lesson she intended to keep firmly to the forefront of her mind.

The cottage’s stairs were very narrow and Angelica found she was instinctively holding her breath, her arms tightening as Daniel carried her down them.

‘It’s all right,’ he assured her. ‘I won’t drop you. If I haven’t dropped you yet, I don’t think you need worry that I’m going to do so now.’

For some reason his words, which she suspected were intended to be reassuring, conjured up such images of intimacy within her too imaginative brain that she found herself trying desperately to arch her body away from him. His heartbeat was faintly erratic as though he was in fact finding her heavier than he pretended.

He might have carried her like this before, but then she had been in no state to register such things as the powerful contraction of his muscles, the warmth of his breath against her skin, the heat of his body, the scent of it stimulating her senses in a way she had never known before, not even with Giles.

To her anguished chagrin, she could actually feel her body reacting to his proximity in a way that made her desperately anxious to be out of his arms.

What was the matter with her? After Giles, she had told herself that never, ever again would she allow herself to be emotionally and sexually involved with a man. It was too dangerous—too painful.

Giles had made her all too acutely aware of how dangerous it was to allow herself to love. She was lucky she had discovered the truth about him before she had committed herself too deeply. As it was she had been hurt, but thankfully not fatally, and with hindsight she could see that her pride had been more bruised than her heart.

Even so it had been a salutary lesson, and one which had made sharply clear to her the dangers of allowing the vulnerable feminine need within her to take control of her life.

‘There,’ Daniel told her when they reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘I told you you’d be quite safe.’

Quite safe. Odd how the words caused a tiny pulse to jump in her throat and her heart to thud warningly.

‘If you don’t mind, we’ll eat in the kitchen. I tend to live in there.’

He nudged open the door with his foot and carried her into the warm, food-scented room, placing her carefully into a comfortable Windsor chair next to the Aga.

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