‘That sounded like a threat!’

‘A threat?’ Rick turned towards Elizabeth, but the fading light meant that all she could see was a harshly defined and shadowed face.

‘About seeing a lot of us.’ Thank goodness for the darkness, which meant that her own giveaway rise of colour went unnoticed.

‘No, Elizabeth, not a threat. I’ve never yet threatened a woman, and I don’t intend to start now. Look on it more as a promise!’

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Potent as Poison

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To the ice-dance Queen—Heather Staps and her soppy husband, Paul!

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘WILL there be anything else, Mrs Carson?’

At the sound of her secretary’s voice Elizabeth turned from the window where she had been standing day-dreaming, lost to the world. She was tired, so tired she could have sat back in her chair, perched her long, stockinged legs on the desk, and sneaked forty winks! But such laid-back behaviour wouldn’t have augured well for her image as a super-bright, super-sharp company accountant, and besides, she had an appointment in—she glanced down at her watch—ten minutes’ time.

‘I can’t think of anything else, thanks, Jenny.’

‘Your voice still sounds awful—I’ve got another packet of throat pastilles in my desk if you want them.’

Elizabeth pushed her large tinted glasses back up her nose and smiled at the motherly-looking secretary who had been with her since the day she’d started at Meredith & Associates. ‘Any more pastilles and I’ll start to look like one!’ she joked. ‘Just show Mr Masterton straight in when he arrives, will you, then you can go?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘I don’t mind sticking around. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind seeing if the man matches the movie-star voice!’

Elizabeth cleared her throat with the dry cough which was the legacy of last week’s bout of flu, and laughed. ‘Hardly! This is real life, remember? Just leave me his file, would you, Jenny? Thanks.’

Elizabeth watched as Jenny retreated and closed the office door behind her, and then she picked up the résumé on Rick Masterton.

Unusual that Jenny should have been so impressed by a client, thought Elizabeth, although as she scanned the closely typewritten pages she tended to agree with her—for who in their right mind could fail to be impressed by what read like a composite of a Boys’ Own hero?

Her lips curved into a wry smile as she re-read the file.

Rick Masterton, aged thirty-four. Born Boston. Educated Exeter and Harvard, first class honours in law. Picked for USA Olympic skiing team, but unable to take up place due to injury to fist obtained from performing a citizen’s arrest on a mugger in New York City.

Here Elizabeth smiled again, because whoever had compiled the report on Rick Masterton bad written in the margin, ‘This guy cannot be for real!’

No, indeed, thought Elizabeth, as she briefly perused the rest of the report, noting the awards, the merits, the reputation, even—and here she shook her head a little in mild disbelief—even a philanthropist at such a relatively tender age. No less than the wing of a children’s hospital donated by him. No, she had to agree with the author of the report—he could not be for real!

There would have to be something wrong with him, and Elizabeth amused herself with imagining just what. He might be short, with a short man’s insecurities. Or fat. He could—and here she shook her head—be both. But skiers in Olympic teams tended to have a sleek physique, not be roly-polys. She would have to wait and see for herself whether Jenny was to be disappointed.

She glanced at the discreetly expensive timepiece which gleamed on her slim wrist. Ten minutes before he was due to arrive, and she would wager that he would be punctual, as all busy and powerful men always seemed to be. Not for them the reputation-damaging mismanagement of time; not in her experience, anyhow.

She’d better go and freshen up before he arrived.

She walked into her ultra-luxurious washroom. Ridiculously luxurious, she thought, as she gazed at the sumptuous fittings, remembering how she had protested to her boss about such preferential treatment. In vain. For in Paul Meredith’s eyes she was the greatest thing since sliced bread. He had shaken his blond head energetically. ‘Elizabeth, you got the washroom—you keep it! You’re the best and, what’s more—you deserve the best.’

Thus she had her own private bathroom. And the amazing thing was that none of her colleagues in Paul’s accountancy firm seemed to object. Elizabeth suspected that this was because she was the only woman accountant among a large band of men, and from the outset she seemed to have inspired a collective protection from them all. Which was sweet. She sighed. And uncomplicated. Just the way she wanted it. And, according to the male colleagues—and that included Paul—who had tried, and failed, to take the working relationship into more personal realms—she apparently gave off very strong vibes which said quite clearly ‘don’t touch’. She certainly didn’t give them off consciously, though she was pleased enough for the men treating her as they would a sister, for Elizabeth had decided some years ago that her busy life of full-time work and bringing up a young son simply held no room for the complications of a relationship, particularly when all relationships seemed to fall short of the one which had changed her life forever ...

She stared back at her reflection. She had grown used to her sleek grown-up working-woman look, but sometimes, just sometimes, she found it hard to believe that the calm, pristine young woman who stared back at her really was Elizabeth Carson. The linen suit was crisp and pale; very tailored and very neat, the long jacket chosen cleverly to disguise the over-lushness of her breasts. There had been too many instances in the early days of men’s eyes straying to below her neck to linger there.

The cool image was deliberate, the mask she hid behind; the smart tailored clothes her shield. The metamorphosis of Elizabeth Carson. When had that insecure little orphan become this cool-looking female? It had not happened overnight, that was for sure, she thought, then bit her lip. No, not overnight. But maybe over a weekend ...

She heard a light tap, and the click of the door in her office, Jenny’s voice calling her name, which meant that the client was here; and she quickly turned on her heel and went out to meet him. She walked forward on the high heels she often wore which had the effect of making her already long legs appear endless, angry with herself for her daydreaming, because it was surely a disadvantage for a prospective client to find his accountant just leaving the bathroom.

But then her footsteps faltered as she saw him, heard Jenny say briskly, ‘Mr Masterton for you, Mrs Carson.’

But Elizabeth scarcely registered the words as she stared at the man who seemed to fill her office. He wasn’t short, or fat, or bald, she thought with something approaching hysteria. Something had happened to her vision—it was as though she was viewing him from the wrong end of a telescope. Her world had gone silent, the faint rushing of blood to every pulse-point in her body the only sound. A world that had suddenly turned upside down; her worst nightmare and her favourite dream come true. It was him.

Or had she gone insane? She forced a breath back into her lungs. Was she simply hallucinating up a fantasy? A man dreamt about and agonised over every single day for almost nine years? She had recently recovered from a bad bout of flu, and didn’t the body make the mind play cruel tricks sometimes?

She blinked several times behind her glasses, and when her eyes reopened properly she saw that it was no hallucination, but indeed the nightmare, or the dream. He was here. In her office. Riccardo. The father of her son.

Dimly, through her confusion, she realised how bizarre she must look, but there was nothing she could do about it; she was literally struck speechless as hope stirred within her.

He’s come back for me, she thought foolishly, her body seeming to be drawn towards his, towards the enticing warmth she remembered so well.

But as he gazed back at her, that shatteringly handsome face registering nothing but cool and faintly bored indifference, her heart plummeted as she realised that the unthinkable had happened ...

He didn’t recognise her!

She continued to stand, staring at him mutely, completely at a loss as to what to say or do next, forgetting that she stood in her own office with her secretary staring at her in amazement. But she could have been anywhere; all she saw was him.

He turned to Jenny. ‘Is she always like this?’ he mocked. ‘Do you have a physician on standby?’

But before Jenny could answer, Elizabeth realised that she was going to have to pull herself together, and quickly. He had not, as she had stupidly imagined in one brief moment of madness, come back for her. Indeed, the man she had spent all those years yearning for had absolutely no idea who she was. And what had she expected? For there had been nothing in his treatment of her at the time to indicate that she was anything more than one of a long line of young women he had enticed into his bed ...

And this bitter realisation flooded her like poison, removing all her remaining fantasies and replacing them with a steely anger. ‘Mr Masterton,’ she acknowledged coolly. ‘How nice to meet you.’ But her words rang with the hollowness of insincerity, and she didn’t offer him her hand. She saw his eyes briefly glitter, then harden. They stood facing each other across the desk, like two boxers about to commence a fight, and Elizabeth forced herself to think clearly—there had to be a diplomatic way of doing what she was about to do.

She gave a poor imitation of a smile, forcing her voice not to betray a modicum of the desperation she was feeling. ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Masterton?’

A muscle stirred in the depths of an olive cheek. Clearly irritated, he gave a small shake of his head, and she realised that if he had sat down she would have had the psychological advantage of towering over him, whereas now, even with her spiky high heels on, he most definitely towered over her. She was going to have to get out of here, even for a few moments, but professional courtesy demanded that she offer him some form of refreshment, at least.

‘Might I offer you some coffee?’ But the words sounded as though they were choking her.

Unmoving, he continued to subject her to that narrow-eyed irritation. ‘Thank you,’ he said, with sarcastic emphasis. ‘But no.’

‘Then in that case—Jenny.’ She gave something approaching a smile to the woman who stood in front of her, aware of the look of puzzlement in her eyes. ‘You’ve worked for long enough. I can manage here on my own now. I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Yes, Mrs Carson.’

Even Jenny’s professionalism couldn’t keep the trace of bewilderment out of her voice, thought Elizabeth—and who could blame her, with her boss behaving as though she’d had a complete brainstorm? Elizabeth saw a sardonic dark eyebrow raised in Jenny’s direction and she could have hugged her secretary for very pointedly ignoring it.

As Jenny walked out and the office door closed behind her, Elizabeth met the cool gaze head-on. ‘If you’ll just excuse me for a moment—I’d like a few moments to straighten myself out.’

He didn’t reply; he didn’t have to—the expression on his face said it all. Strange woman.

She managed to make her way into the washroom without stumbling, turning the tap on full blast as if hoping that the running water would wash everything away, leaving her the same woman as five minutes ago with no problems other than of a practical nature; problems she could deal with quite easily.

Quickly, she ran the pulse-points of her wrists under the cool water in an effort to slow the thundering of her pulses which had caused two high spots of scarlet to flush over her cheekbones, so that they stood out in startling contrast to the drained whiteness of her face. She had to stay in control. Not cowering out here. In control.

And wasn’t she over-reacting like crazy? It was obviously coincidence that had brought him here today. Just because he had forgotten that once, a lifetime ago ... And here she bit her lip.

Once, he had slept with her.

Which meant nothing. Not these days. Not to a man like that. That she at the time had chosen to misinterpret what was obviously just meant to be a very enjoyable yet simply casual dalliance was down to her, not him. And she had no right whatsoever to burden him with the repercussions of that fateful weekend.

He was a prospective client, nothing more. But already she knew for certain that she didn’t want him as a client. She had loved him, for God’s sake—there was no way she could work for him as if nothing had ever happened. And she imagined that, after what had just occurred, the feeling would be mutual. And yet, as she turned to go back into her office, some protesting voice in her head shouted, Tell him! Tell him about Peter.

He was still standing, and had his back to her, looking out of her window, but as the washroom door closed behind Elizabeth, he turned.

Tell him? she thought, but the wavering only lasted for a second as their eyes met. He really doesn’t recognise me, she thought, and an immense sadness washed over her as the last remnant of her girlish dreams crumbled and died. ‘Won’t you take a seat?’ She indicated the chair before her desk with a long, elegant hand.

He paused no longer than a second, before lowering his long-legged frame into the chair opposite her own. ‘Thank you.’ But the courtesy belied the tone of his voice; that spoke nothing but derision.

He waited until she herself had sat down, watching her closely, so closely that at any moment she expected him to say, ‘Beth!’ but of course he didn’t, and when he did speak his words were anything but friendly.

‘Are you normally so hostile towards prospective clients, Mrs Carson?’ he said coldly.

Something of her normal unflappability began to gain ascendancy. ‘I’ve been under a lot of pressure recently,’ she said. ‘And this wasn’t helped by a bad bout of flu from which I’m only just recovering,’ she returned calmly, but it fell far short of an apology and what was more, they both knew it.

She couldn’t miss the imperceptible knitting together of the dark brows, the flash of fire in the blue-green eyes as he acknowledged her rudeness.

But she had intended to be insulting. Recklessly, she neither thought nor cared about the consequences—she wanted him out of here, and quickly. Because somehow, quite without knowing it, he was playing havoc with her equilibrium. Why else would the palms of her hands be so sticky that she was having to surreptitiously use her skirt to soak up their dampness, or her heart be hammering so furiously that she feared for her health? He had turned her world upside down once before, and she would do everything in her power to make sure that he didn’t do so a second time.

The spectacular blue-green eyes continued to glitter as he registered her pugnacious expression, and she expected a snapped retort, but she was wrong, for he leaned back in the chair as if he had all the right in the world to be there.

‘Have a problem with men, do you, honey?’ He stared suggestively at her short, almost boyish haircut, and she caught his drift immediately, a dull brick-red colour flaring over her cheeks.

‘Just what are you getting at?’

He shrugged broad, broad shoulders. ‘I’m a liberated man—I can take it. You know what they say: “different strokes for different folks”.’

‘If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,’ she spluttered furiously, ‘then I can assure you I’m not!’

‘Well, that’s something,’ he said, in a soft, almost dangerous voice. ‘Because let me tell you, Mrs Carson—I’ve heard a good deal about your particular talents’

Did his eyes briefly flick from lips to breast—the slight flare of the aristocratic nostrils an outward sign that he had responded to her physically? Or was her imagination running riot? I have to get him out of here, she thought weakly.

‘Mr Masterton!’ She could stand no more. Tension crackled in the air, like the first light to a bonfire. ‘I think it’s better if you leave now, don’t you?’

‘Leave?’ His tone was mocking, but his eyes were as hard as diamonds. ‘But I’ve only just arrived.’

Oh, those eyes. Blue-green, the colour of a sunwashed sea; how they dazzled as they mocked.

‘I’m sorry.’ Patently, she wasn’t. ‘But it’s obvious that we aren’t going to be able to work with each other.’ She pushed together an already tidy sheaf of papers in a gesture she intended to be dismissive, but to her despair he leaned even further back in the chair.

‘Oh?’ he queried. ‘And why’s that?’

She found herself wanting to shout at him, because his presence was somehow making her mind flare up with disturbing images as she found herself remembering his kiss, the exquisite perfection of his lovemaking. She found herself remembering his dark head flung back, a look of pure ecstasy on his face, caught up in the same heart-stopping release that she’d discovered with him ... For a moment she hovered on the brink of tears, but with gritty determination they were gone before there was even the hint of a shimmer in her eyes.

She drew a deep breath, managed a calm voice, even a rueful half-smile to play on her lips. She did her ‘we’re all adults here’ approach. ‘Come on, Mr Masterton—let’s not be naive. We haven’t exactly—hit it off, have we? A personality clash—whatever you like to call it. It happens.’

The eyes narrowed, and Elizabeth had the uncanny feeling that he had seen through her little show of pretence and witnessed the discomfiture which lay beneath. She also got the feeling that rejection was something he neither knew nor liked. ‘On the contrary,’ he said, in the deep American drawl. ‘There’s nothing more invigorating than a little conflict. It sharpens the mind and——’ his eyes glimmered ‘—makes such a refreshing change.’

He had leaned back in his chair, and now she was sure that his eyes had briefly travelled up the pale, silk-stockinged length of her legs, just visible beneath her desk. She despised herself for the tremor which trembled through her slender body like a feather caught on the wind. Even worse, she saw the corner of his mouth lift as he acknowledged it without surprise.

He had, she decided sadly, lost nothing of the almost tangible sex-appeal which had swept her off her feet as an eighteen-year-old. There was not a sound in the room as they stared at one another, puzzled interest in his eyes as the tension grew.

The years had been kind to him, thought Elizabeth. Very kind. She knew from his file that he was thirty-four now, and he carried himself with all the authority of a rich and powerful man.

His looks were unique—she had never seen another man like him. Perhaps it was the combination of those amazingly light eyes, so at odds when fringed by lashes and brows of the same deep ebony as his hair. Eyes so light that they looked startlingly luminous, set in the pale olive complexion which she recalled him telling her he owed to an Italian mother. The nose, naturally enough, was Roman—curved and carved into a haughtily aristocratic profile. And yet the body, and the accent—they were all-American. Solid, honed muscular perfection, with a deep, drawling movie-star voice. He was—he always had been—one hell of a package.

She leaned forward. ‘Listen to me. I can’t work for you. I can recommend other accountants——’

‘No.’ The voice was quietly decisive. ‘I want you to look after my business.’

She had never done anything like this in her life, not risked her job by refusing to take on such a valuable client. She prayed that Paul would never find just why she was doing it. ‘I don’t think you understand——’

‘No, Mrs Carson,’ he interrupted, and his voice rang out in the tone of a man who was used to calling the shots. ‘I don’t think that you understand. I was given your name because you happen to have a specialty—you handle the accounts of law firms, and that’s my line of business. I was told that you are the best, and that’s why I want you to represent me. I feel I should warn you——’ and here his gaze was mocking ‘—that I always get what I want.’

I know you do, she thought. She had one last try. ‘Mr Masterton, let me recommend you the names of some other accountancy firms.’

He leaned towards her, so that their faces were mere inches away from each other. ‘But I want this accountancy firm, Mrs Carson. And, more importantly—I want you. I don’t care if you don’t like me—for whatever reason. Your hang-ups about men are of no concern to me. I’m asking you to keep my books, not marry me.’

Elizabeth blanched at the unwitting irony of his words.

His eyes were piercing her with that blue-green light. ‘I have legal contacts and friends in England who have used you and been extremely pleased with the work you’ve put in. What they failed to mention was that you seem to have some problem with communication skills. Not that that matters—an accountant needs to be good with figures, not words.’ The slanting eyes narrowed still further. ‘What I do find intriguing, though, is your obvious reluctance to have my account. Tell me, is Paul Meredith aware that one of his senior accountants does her best to turn away lucrative offers of work?’

She heard the underlying threat spoken with silky menace, and it drew her up short, so that she started as she realised that she was in danger of jeopardising the career she had worked so hard for. Here was a man used to getting what he wanted, after all—and she suddenly recognised that a man like this, to whom everything in life had come so easily, would look on her reluctance to be hired by him as some kind of challenge. Why not just surrender gracefully to the inevitable? She looked at him steadily. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You, as the client, obviously know best, and I shall of course endeavour to do my best for you.’

‘Oh, for sure,’ he agreed softly, and then his eyes narrowed in intense concentration, just for a second, as if something was puzzling him. Elizabeth held her breath, certain again that he was about to remember her, but the moment passed.

She cleared her throat, pulling a portfolio towards her, and, picking up her fountain pen with a hand which was, amazingly, quite steady, she looked up at him expectantly.

‘Mr Masterton——’

‘Rick.’

She wondered briefly why he now used the American diminutive of his Italian name before shaking her head. ‘That may be the American way, but I’m afraid it’s not ours. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to keep things on a formal footing.’

But he obviously did mind, because as he looked at her, that perfect mouth twisted with derision. ‘God, but you’re uptight,’ he observed.

Pen poised, she looked at him as politely as if he had not just insulted her. ‘Shall we get on?’ she enquired frostily, and she saw him give a terse if somewhat reluctant nod. ‘Now then, about your business. What kind of business do you intend setting up?’

‘Why, a law firm, of course,’ he stated. ‘What else?’

‘But you qualified in the States. And as an American barrister——’

‘Attorney,’ he corrected.

‘Attorney, then. Surely you aren’t allowed to practise over here without taking extra exams?’

‘I’m not planning to. I’m leaving that to some very able English colleagues. I’m just here to set it all up. As soon as the chambers are established, then I’m back off to the States.’

She couldn’t keep the relief from her voice. ‘That means that you’re only here temporarily?’

His mouth twisted. ‘Yes, Mrs Carson. A few months at most.’

Thank God. ‘And do you intend for your law firm to be general—I mean tackling company law, fraud, divorce ...?’

He gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head as if acknowledging that now—at least—she was beginning to speak some sense! ‘Oh, no, Mrs Carson. Like you, I have a specialty.’

She got the strangest feeling of foreboding. ‘Which is?’

‘In America we call it “palimony”. I specialise in establishing the nature of common-law relationships, and negotiating a corresponding financial settlement. That’s one thing I do. My main interest, though, lies in the welfare of children.’

Some protective instinct deep within her stirred, powerful enough to keep her face poker blank. ‘Children?’ she echoed.

‘Yes, indeed. You see—I specialise in child custody cases.’

With an effort, Elizabeth only just prevented her mouth from falling open in sheer, disbelieving horror. ‘Child custody cases?’ she queried, and for one wild moment terror invaded her. He knows, she thought desperately. He wants Peter.

‘Sure.’ He shrugged big, powerful shoulders. ‘I’ve represented a lot of fathers contesting cases in the States. We’ve managed to break a lot of new ground.’

She swallowed, twirling the gold pen between her fingers like a drum majorette, so he wouldn’t see that her hands were shaking. ‘Oh? How’s that?’ She saw his big frame relax as he warmed to the subject.

‘Society’s changing. Women no longer have the right to assume that they are the child’s best custodian.’

Elizabeth felt slightly sick, her vision a little blurred, and her hand reached up so that she could rub her finger inside the rim of her shirt collar, the cool air to her neck making her vision thankfully clear again. ‘But a mother surely has a much stronger right than the man,’ she argued, her voice a hoarse whisper. ‘A biological right—given to them by nature, by the fact that they were the one who carried the child, gave birth to it, cared for it——’

He stared at her. ‘Nature over nurture?’ he queried. ‘But nature is often indiscriminate, is it not? A child’s future shouldn’t be governed by something as haphazard as the laws of nature.’

‘So you discriminate against women, do you, Mr Masterton? Use your trained lawyer’s silver tongue to buy your rich clients their child’s future?’

He frowned, as if momentarily puzzled by the reappearance of her aggressive stance. ‘On the contrary—I judge each case on its particular merits, and I pride myself on acting in the child’s best interests. But for too long fathers have suffered bad deals meted out to them by sentimental judges—giving them limited access which is laughable. At the very least there should be joint custody; unlimited access.’ He seemed to take in her unsmiling mouth. The dark eyes flicked to her left hand.

‘Are you married?’ he queried. ‘You are a Mrs, and yet you don’t wear a ring. Your husband must be a very liberated man.’

‘I—was married,’ she said slowly, the normal evasion she used when speaking of her past automatically shaping her answer.

‘Ah! No doubt why you speak with such fervour on the subject of child custody.’

He had assumed, as most people tended to, that her marriage had ended through divorce, rather than death.

His eyes narrowed with interest as he continued. ‘A fervour which goes against that very——’ and the eyes flicked now to the severe lines of her suit ‘—cool exterior.’ He smiled at her, a smile which could conquer all. ‘I trust I haven’t opened up any old wounds. Do you have children, Mrs Carson?’

She put her pen down on top of the folder, and gave him a chilly smile. The chilliest in her repertoire. ‘Mr Masterton,’ she said, her slightly condescending manner not lost on him, ‘fascinating as I’m sure you find it, my personal life really has nothing to do with why you’re here, does it? So perhaps if we could turn to a few salient points about the size of your prospective law firm ...?’

He didn’t like that, she realised. Not at all. He was not a man women would usually put down like that, not unless they had been hurt by him, of course—and he was ignorant of the fact that she belonged to that no doubt large band of women who had been hurt by him. And he must, she decided, that fiercely protective instinct coming to the fore once more—he must remain ignorant of the fact. For Peter’s sake.

She asked her questions, and he answered them, but there was an underlying tension which crackled in the air like electricity for the rest of the interview, and she saw that brief look of puzzlement cross his face once again.

You must make an effort, a voice urged silently. Stop antagonising him—for she recognised that he could be a dangerous adversary if aroused. He’s your client, the voice insisted, so drop the spiky manner. Ooze charm and he’ll probably run a mile. But she also knew that she wasn’t going to be able to keep up this dangerous farce for much longer.

She straightened the pile of papers on her desk, and looked at him expectantly—a polite if somewhat prim smile on her lips. ‘Well, Mr Masterton——’ And with an effort she increased the wattage of the smile. ‘That all seems to be fairly conclusive—I’ll have my secretary type up details for you first thing.’ And she need hardly meet with him again after today, thank God. Most of their communication would be by letter, maybe the occasional phone call.

Her words were intended as the precursor to a conclusion of the meeting. He knew it and she knew it, but he remained unmoving. Watchful, yet relaxed—a man totally at ease with the world, and his highly privileged place in it. She could see his forehead creased in concentration, as if he was trying to work out something in his head. Was he sensitive enough to have picked up anything from her behaviour?

In an effort to distract him, she spoke again. ‘Was there anything else you wanted, Mr Masterton? Anything you wanted to ask me?’

‘Yes.’

His next words filled her with both elation and horror.

‘Have dinner with me tonight.’

The laugh she gave was hoarse, and her voice cracked with the effort of it. The irony was not lost on her. For years she would have given everything she owned for just such an invitation, but now, in view of what he’d just said on the subject of custody—the reality of it was far too threatening even to contemplate. She put her hand over her breastbone. ‘Dinner?’

Still watching her closely, he smiled. But it was a cold smile, a smile which stayed light years away from his eyes. ‘Don’t look so shocked,’ he murmured. ‘Surely a man has asked you out to dinner before? You’ve been married too, so why sit there, your hand over your heart, as if I’ve suggested something which is in some way indecent?’

She gave him a chilly smile. ‘You’re a client,’ she pointed out.

He shrugged. ‘Nothing in the rule book to say we can’t eat together. Let’s call it a business dinner.’

‘But I thought we’d discussed everything we ought to—so how can it be?’

The dark-featured face remained disturbingly enigmatic. ‘You’re quite right of course, Mrs Carson. I’d like to have dinner with you because you intrigue me.’

She stood up, her heart beating like a piston. ‘Oh?’

‘Mmm. You do. Very much.’ He stood up also. ‘Your manner towards me has been remarkable, to say the least. Your secretary was taken aback, too—so you’re obviously acting out of character. When people behave out of character there’s always a reason. And I wonder why. Is it me?’

‘You mean you’re amazed that I haven’t responded to your abundant charm?’ she said angrily.

The eyes narrowed, and he smiled. ‘I haven’t used it yet,’ he murmured. ‘Do you want me to?’

She could have kicked herself. ‘I want you to let me get off home now,’ she said baldly. She badly needed to get him out of here, before she did or said something which would have dire repercussions for both her, and Peter.

‘Sure.’ He glanced at his watch on his wrist. ‘It’s getting late. Do you have a date?’

The perfect solution! ‘I—yes. Yes I do.’

‘Then I’ll see you to the lift,’ he said smoothly.

Helpless, trapped—for she how could she pretend her eagerness to be away and then linger around the office?—she reluctantly picked up her briefcase. ‘Thank you.’

The carpeted walk to the executive lift seemed like miles, the silence which hung in the air between them not an easy one, yet he, at least, showed no desire to break it, while she could think of nothing neutral to say. He stood aside to let her into the lift first, and she saw, to her horror, that he intended to accompany her! Alone, in the tiny confines of a lift—where even with people you knew well the atmosphere was always strained as you all stared mutely at the flashing lights. But alone with Riccardo—she corrected herself—alone with Rick Masterton ...

The lift doors slid open, and she went in first, putting her hand out immediately to press ‘ground’ with one plain, unvarnished fingernail, but he had beaten her to it, his finger firmly on the ‘hold’ button as he stared down at her, his face shadowed so that the light eyes appeared darkly fathomless as they searched her face as if in pursuit of the answer to a question which only she knew.

She shivered; nerves, fear and excitement—yes, excitement—combined to make her slender body tremble. For no matter how much her logical mind told her that after everything that had happened she should no longer be affected in any way by this man, her body knew differently. Her body betrayed her, as it had betrayed her so long ago. Her reaction to this man had always been disturbingly unique, and some things, it seemed, never changed.

Mute, and mere feet away from him, she saw the sharp planes and angles of that ruggedly handsome face, and some soft yearning deep at the very heart of her cried out its request. Tell him, said the voice. This is the man you once loved—so tell him about his son. Tell him about Peter. And she trembled again. But then she saw him give a tiny nod of his head, as though her helpless tremble in response to his proximity was merely par for the course.

‘The signals you’re sending out are delightfully and intriguingly mixed,’ he murmured. ‘You seem unable to quite decide whether to tell me to go to hell or to give in to what you really want to do ...’

She saw the predatory light firing in the depths of those incredible eyes and she thought that he was moving towards her as though to kiss her. My God—he was! And if he kissed her ...

She stepped back. His hand had left the ‘hold’ button, and she took the opportunity to press for the ground floor—and the lift purred into action.

She expected irritation on his part but there was none. Instead nothing but a kind of wry amusement, as though he were enjoying the silent tussle.

‘You like to fence, then?’ he queried. ‘That’s good. Because so do I.’

‘Evasive action was obviously called for,’ she said coldly.

He laughed. ‘Pity.’

‘Tell me,’ she enquired cuttingly, ‘do you always foist your attentions on perfect strangers?’

But he didn’t look at all offended as he shook his head. ‘That’s the peculiar thing,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t.’

And all of a sudden the game they were playing utterly sickened her. Here she was, almost flirting with a man who could, she realised—take away everything that she held dear.

The lift doors opened, and the commissionaire stepped forward.

‘Night, Mrs Carson,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Afraid you’ve just missed one.’

Rick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Missed what?’

‘My bus,’ said Elizabeth coolly.

‘Bus?’ Rick Masterton looked momentarily disconcerted. ‘But you have your own car, surely?’

She shook her head. She preferred the freedom of public transport, walking or taking a short bus ride to the Tube station, where at least she was able to work as she travelled home. Besides, parking was a nightmare. ‘No one drives in London,’ she said, forcing her voice to be airy.

‘Well, I do. My hire car is outside—you must let me give you a lift home——’

There was not, she realised, going to be a polite way of doing this. She turned to the commissionaire. ‘Frank?’ She smiled. ‘Please see Mr Masterton to his car—I have a couple of papers in my office which I have to go back for.’

‘Certainly, Mrs Carson.’

She turned her face to look into the darkly handsome face. ‘I’ll say goodnight, Mr Masterton.’ And Elizabeth held out her hand towards him.

He took it, in front of the commissionaire he played his part beautifully, but Elizabeth couldn’t miss the unmistakable glittering of irritation which fired at the depths of those incredible eyes.

CHAPTER TWO

ELIZABETH took the lift straight back up to her office, her hands trembling as she sat down at her desk and buried her head in her hands. ‘Please, God—no,’ she muttered brokenly, when the door to the adjoining room was thrust open and there stood Jenny—an astonished look of horror on her face.

‘Mrs Carson!’ she exclaimed, as she hurried over. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said gently. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

Elizabeth looked up unseeingly, her eyes bright.

‘What is it?’ repeated Jenny. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

Elizabeth shut her eyes again briefly.

‘You need something,’ said Jenny firmly.

Through a cotton-wool haze, Elizabeth heard the sounds of Jenny clattering around with bottles and glasses and moments later a glass of pale brown liquid was put into her hand.

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

‘Brandy. Drink it.’

Normally calm, unflappable, in control—Elizabeth drained the glass like an obedient child, welcoming the warmth which licked at her stomach like fire.

Jenny sat down in the chair opposite, bolt upright, as though she were about to take dictation. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Whether it was the large shot of brandy on an empty stomach, or simply the need to unburden herself to someone, she didn’t know—but Elizabeth did want to talk.

Apart from John, she had entrusted the story to no one—for years she had been filled with a sense of shame at what had happened, but the shame had at times been punctuated with a fevered yearning for the man who had turned her from child to woman in a few short hours.

‘I can’t tell you,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s too—shocking.’

Jenny gave a sad smile. ‘I don’t think so, my dear. I brought up a child of my own out of wedlock, remember?’

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. ‘You mean you knew ...’

‘That your husband wasn’t Peter’s father? Yes, I knew. Oh, just from little things you said, really. I’ve been working for you for a long time, remember. You can trust me, you know.’

‘I know I can.’ There was a pause. ‘That man—Rick Masterton—was ...is ...’ She looked up, her hazel eyes wide and frightened. ‘He’s Peter’s father, Jenny!’

She had expected some kind of appalled reaction, not Jenny’s slow and thoughtful nodding of the head.

‘That explains your behaviour,’ she said quietly. ‘But I don’t understand. Today, he didn’t seem to——’ her voice tailed off.

‘He didn’t recognise me,’ finished Elizabeth bitterly. ‘If anything was needed to convince me that I meant nothing to him, it was our little reunion today. Because there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition. That’s how much I really meant to Rick Masterton.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Jenny.

Elizabeth sighed as she started speaking, her voice very quiet, sounding as faraway as her thoughts. ‘It all began one summer evening, almost ten years ago,’ she said slowly, as the memories began to form. ‘I wasn’t Elizabeth then, I was Beth—and fresh out of the orphanage. I went to stay with a friend in London ...’

It had been one of those magical August summer evenings, the air warm, the ice-blue sky gilded with a golden haze from the sun, when the whole world had looked a gloriously happy place, and doubly magical for Beth, who had travelled down from Wales to stay with her friend Donna who had left the orphanage the year before to live and work in London.

‘I still can’t believe it!’ Beth had squealed fervently as she stared yet again at the slip of paper which listed her exam results.

‘Well, I can!’ retorted Donna. ‘And you deserve four “A” grades and your scholarship. Imagine! I said you were the brightest girl that they’ve ever had at the orphanage, didn’t I?’

‘But Oxford,’ said Beth, shaking her head a little as if in bemusement, so that her long pony-tail swung like a horse’s tail around her long, slender neck. ‘Do you suppose I’ll ever fit in there?’

‘With your brains, you’ll fit in anywhere,’ said Donna firmly. ‘Now go and run a bath—we’re going out to celebrate.’

‘I’ve hardly any money——’ protested Beth.

‘And you won’t need any—we’re going to a party.’

‘A party?’

‘Don’t look so shocked—it’ll be a perfectly decent party.’

‘I’m not really a party person,’ said Beth doubtfully. ‘Whose is it?’

‘Oh, the MD’s nephew is over from the States—they’ve hired some swanky rooms overlooking the river. They won’t mind if I bring a friend.’

‘Sure?’

‘Positive!’

But ‘party’ seemed far too humble a description for the glittering affair which Donna took her to, thought Beth, as she hovered nervously by the picture window under which the Thames glittered slickly. She had never seen such a collection of exotic creatures as the guests who mingled, danced, drank champagne and laughed uproariously.

She must look terribly out of place, she thought, chewing her bottom lip a little, and if the truth were known she felt out of place. Donna had taken her in hand, had dressed her for the party since Beth had brought nothing suitable, and didn’t have anything suitable in any case. Unfortunately, Beth was far more generously endowed that Donna, with lush, youthful curves of hip and breast. In the spangled emerald dress, her creamy breasts had spilled seductively over the bodice, making her resemble a heroine off the front cover of some historical bodice-ripper, according to Donna. ‘You look quite different,’ she said, her head to one side. ‘And if you wore strong cool colours all the time—like this emerald, or purple, or black or blue—the colour would be reflected in your eyes. OK?’

‘OK,’ agreed Beth hesitantly.

‘And you must wear your hair loose,’ Donna insisted.

So the shiny brown hair was left to cascade in waves almost to her waist, and Beth had scarcely recognised the glittery creature who gazed back at her from the mirror. Her eyes were pale and indeterminate—usually. Muddy, Beth called them, though Donna had described them as ‘hazel’. Tonight they looked completely different; Donna had been right—they were like mirrors reflecting the bright green of her dress and Donna had spiked the long, curling lashes with lots of mascara so that her face looked all eyes.

Her hand had automatically swooped down to pick up her wire-framed National Health glasses which everyone at the orphanage had teased her about, when Donna shot her a warning look and removed them from her grasp.

‘No glasses. Not tonight,’ she said firmly.

‘But I’m as blind as a bat without them,’ protested Beth.

‘Really?’ Donna looked aghast.

Beth took pity on her. ‘Well, not exactly—but I can only see clearly close-up.’

‘Great!’ teased Donna. ‘That’s all you need—to be able to see the hunk you’re dancing with!’

But, standing inside the elegant room at the party, staring straight ahead at the blurred crowd, she felt a bit of a fraud, wishing that she were back at the flat in her customary jeans and sweater, hair pulled back into its more usual plait, her nose deep in a book. Perhaps she could slip away unnoticed in a few minutes ...

So caught up was she in her plan to escape that she scarcely noticed the man who stood a couple of feet away, also gazing out at the flamboyant sunset.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true—of course she had noticed him; he had the kind of drop-dead gorgeous looks which meant that he would always have been noticed.

Most of the men there were dressed conservatively, either in suits or in casual trousers teamed with crisp, striped shirts. This man wore jeans, but with the kind of flair and panache that somehow managed to make him look the best-dressed man in the room. He wore a loose-fitting shirt which might have been silk, through which she could see a firm, hard chest, and the shirt was tucked into the jeans, displaying narrow hips and long, long legs.

She sighed as she looked away. Way, way out of her league. And he had a stunning-looking blonde popping titbits into his mouth.

And speaking of titbits. She still hadn’t eaten.

She reached down for a triangle of toast, which was spread with something which, intriguingly, looked black, bit into it, began to chew, then nearly retched. It took every bit of determination she had just to swallow the morsel, but the slimy, salty taste refused to leave her mouth; then, as if in answer to a prayer, a glass of cold, clear water was placed in her hand, and she drank the whole glass thirstily before looking into an amused pair of blue-green eyes.

‘I guess you’re none too fond of caviar, huh?’ he smiled.

He looked so darkly handsome that she had been convinced that he would be Italian, or Spanish perhaps—so that it came as something of a shock for her to hear his rich, deep American drawl.

‘Caviar!’ She shuddered. ‘Is that what it is? Well, that’s the first and last time I ever eat it!’

‘Never tried it before?’ He sounded curious.

She gave him a look, but then took pity on him, after all—he wasn’t to know about the institutional food which had been the sum total of her experience. ‘Actually,’ she confided, the champagne she’d drunk giving her the confidence to tease, ‘I normally eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner—but this isn’t Beluga, and Beluga’s the only one I can bear!’

He laughed. ‘But you’ve heard of Beluga?’

She hadn’t been the light of her school debating society for nothing. ‘Just because I’ve never tried it, it doesn’t mean to say I’ve never heard of it!’ she answered back. ‘There are such things as books, you know!’

His eyebrows were raised slightly at the reprimand, but his eyes held a glimmer of amusement. ‘I stand corrected!’ He held two hands up in mock defence, then picked up a plate of hors-d’oeuvre. ‘Here, have one of these.’

Beth eyed some more dark-looking things wrapped in bacon—yeuk!—she wasn’t risking another try! She shook her head. ‘No, thanks. All the books say don’t eat the nibbles—they pile on the pounds and never fill you up. I’ll have something when I get home.’ She looked around for Donna, but he was speaking to her.

‘You’re not going already?’

He sounded, she thought, absolutely astonished.

She nodded. ‘It’s not really my scene.’

‘Nor mine,’ he said suddenly. ‘Tell you what—I’m hungry, too. So what would you tell an American in London to eat?’

‘Fish and chips out of the newspaper!’ she said at once, memories of a rare seaside day-trip swamping her. ‘But it’s no good asking me where to find one,’ she protested, as he gently but firmly pushed her through the door. ‘Because I don’t know London at all!’

‘And neither do I,’ he smiled. ‘But I know a man who does.’

Which was how they found themselves in a black cab speeding towards the East End, where they were deposited in the front of the most delicious-smelling chip shop.

Still in her party clothes, but with Riccardo’s jacket on, she sat with him eating their feast on a park bench, munching the hot chips covered with salt and vinegar and breaking off great chunks of glistening white cod wrapped in batter.

Then they caught a cab back to Westminster, arguing all the way about how Verdi should be interpreted. Then they went to a pub, where he tried draught bitter and found it quite as disgusting as she’d found the caviar.

Quite by coincidence they were passing underneath Big Ben when midnight struck and they stood very still as the mighty chimes rang out around them.

This is it, Cinderella, thought Beth regretfully as she stared up into that dark, beautiful face ...

‘Meeting him was the most magical thing that had ever happened to me,’ said Elizabeth slowly, her mind coming back to the present as she surveyed Jenny sitting opposite her, staring at her with open curiosity. ‘I didn’t know that people like him existed—intelligent, witty—and oh, goodness, so attractive. I’d never felt any physical attraction for anyone before that—and he, somehow ...he made me feel ...oh, I don’t know. I was stupidly naïve. Too young and too inexperienced to realise he was feeding me a line.’

‘But what happened?’ asked Jenny. ‘What happened next?’

Elizabeth looked at her secretary, her eyes unwavering. ‘I didn’t go home that night. I went back to his uncle’s flat with him. I spent the weekend there. And afterwards I discovered that I was pregnant.’

‘Good grief!’

Elizabeth had expected this; the censure; perhaps that was why she had told no one besides John. ‘It’s pretty awful, isn’t it? Not a story I’m proud of.’

Jenny shook her head. ‘I’m not casting blame. For heaven’s sake, you must have been so young.’

‘Eighteen.’

‘And him?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘But Elizabeth—doesn’t he know? About the baby?’

Elizabeth’s voice became a flat monotone. ‘There was no reason to tell him——’

‘But surely, as the father, he had a right——’

‘No!’ Elizabeth’s voice was harsh. ‘A weekend fling with a stranger does not make you a father. It doesn’t constitute any rights. And anyway——’ and here her voice faltered ‘—I did try to contact him. To tell him. But he’d flown back to the States. I left him on the Sunday, and he flew back home on the Monday. And he had a fiancée back at home waiting for him. So you see,’ she gave a watery smile. ‘It really was just a quick roll in the hay—isn’t that what Americans say?—for him. That’s all he ever intended it to be. But it gave me what has made my life worth living. It gave me Peter. Speaking of which——’ and she rubbed a fist into each eye and glanced at her watch ‘—I’d better get going—he’ll be back from football practice soon.’ She swallowed the last of her brandy and got to her feet.

Jenny stood up too, still looking puzzled. ‘But how could he—how could he not recognise you? After ...after ...’ Her voice tailed off in embarrassment.

Elizabeth shrugged. ‘It was nearly a decade ago. I’m pounds lighter, I’ve had my hair cropped, and I wasn’t wearing glasses at the time. And, I expect,’ she said bitterly, ‘that there have been countless others in his bed since. But Jenny,’ she said, very softly. ‘Please. John was the only other person who has heard the whole story before. Perhaps I shouldn’t even have told you. I probably wouldn’t have done if it weren’t for the shock of seeing him again. But please, promise me that you’ll never speak of it to anyone? Imagine if any of the partners got to hear about it?’

‘Of course I won’t. Not that I think the partners would care—not in this day and age. But what about Peter? What does he know of all this? Does he think that your husband was the father?’

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never lied to him. I simply told him the truth—that I loved his Daddy very much, but that sometimes things just don’t work out as you hoped they would.’

‘But now that this—Rick Masterton is back. Don’t you feel you ought to tell him?’

‘No,’ said Elizabeth with a quiet fervour. ‘Not now—it’s too late. Especially not now. I was nothing to him—a young, willing bed-partner he can’t even remember. And now he’s a rich and powerful man; very powerful indeed. He’s also an attorney who specialises in child custody cases, driven by a particular zealous fire—taking up the cudgels on behalf of men who he feels have been poorly treated in custody cases. Imagine if he discovers that he hasn’t just been denied access, but knowledge of his son as well? He could take Peter away from me. And I can’t take that chance. Now, I really must go, Jenny.’ She gave a thin smile. ‘Thanks for listening. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Elizabeth travelled the three blocks to the Tube station in a total daze and flashed her season ticket at the guard as she waited for the northbound train which would take her home. She took a deep breath of fresh air as she walked along the platform, welcoming the anonymity of the crowded train, the blank eyes of the fellow passengers, the opportunity the journey would give her for time to think. To come to terms with having seen him again after all this time.

But by the time she reached her exquisite detached Regent’s Park house her mind was still a maze of muddled images. She walked wearily up the path to the distinctive black-painted front door, the sight of the elegant building momentarily soothing her troubled mind. Home.

She walked into the elegantly spacious hall and heard the familiar sound of a computer game from just down the hall.

‘Peter!’ she called, and there was a flurry as the boy, whose build, though wiry, none the less showed a hint of muscle which would make him as tall as his father in adulthood, came dashing along the corridor.

‘Hello, Ma—I scored three times today—can you believe that? Hey——’ And he peered at his mother closely. ‘You haven’t been crying, have you?’

‘Crying? Of course I haven’t,’ said Elizabeth briskly. ‘Now, do I get a hug or not?’

‘Ma!’

He spoke with all the feigned horror of physical affection which was prevalent in little boys after their sixth birthday, but he gave her a tight hug anyway, and it needed every bit of effort she possessed for her eyes not to grow unnaturally bright for the second time that afternoon.

‘Where’s Mrs Clarke?’ she asked, looking around for her stalwart of a housekeeper-cum-babysitter.

‘Gone upstairs,’ said Peter. ‘She’s knitting some kind of jacket for her granddaughter. What’s for supper?’

Deciding on a simple supper for them both, Elizabeth went into the kitchen with Peter and busied herself with cracking eggs for omelettes and making a salad, while Peter chattered on excitedly about his chances of playing for the junior soccer team that autumn.

Elizabeth was aware that she was viewing her son with new eyes this evening. Her heart was always in her mouth when she looked at him, consumed with unconditional love for the small being whose appearance had dramatically altered the whole course of her life.

Over the years she had tried, without lasting success, not to think too much about his father, not just because of the pain, but because there didn’t seem a lot of point in dwelling on a man she would never see again.

But now she had seen him, and it was as if his reappearance had brought it slamming home to her just how like his father Peter was. The same dark hair, the same curiously light and distinctive blue-green eyes, the same long-limbed build with the potential for a distinctively steely strength. The same razor-sharp mind.

He looked up suddenly, aware of her scrutiny. ‘You’re sad,’ he said, with unnerving perception—since she had been sure that her face showed nothing of her thoughts.

‘A little,’ she admitted.

‘You’re thinking about my dad?’

She kept her voice deliberately light. ‘Why d’you say that?’

He shrugged. ‘’Cos that’s how you always look when you think about him.’ He gave a small shrug which suddenly made him look terribly vulnerable.

She felt suddenly, inexplicably guilty. ‘I bet you really miss never having had a real father?’ she probed.

‘I had John—I can kind of remember him. I know he wasn’t my real Dad but—he was great.’

Elizabeth remembered her ex-husband with the same affection. ‘Yes, he was great. But never having known your real father——’

‘You were always enough for me, Ma.’ And then, obviously embarrassed by such a slushy admission, he scowled. ‘When’s supper going to be ready? I’m starving.’

‘Coming right up,’ she said brightly, sliding a fluffy omelette on to the plate and pushing the wooden bowl of dressed salad into the centre of the table, while they both sat down.

Nothing’s going to happen, she told herself. Nothing. In a few months he’ll be gone, and that will be that.

But she lay awake all night long, her face set with tension, blinking unseeingly at the moon-shadows on the ceiling, her mind fraught with images of Rick.

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