A Ring for a Fortune

A RING FOR A FORTUNE Lilian Peake

All that she needed was a wedding ring Then the money would be hers, to use for a very special reason. Her late grandfather's will had put Jasmine into an impossible situation. Hadn't he visualized that she might ask any man to marry her--so long as he was free--merely to get her hands on the money? Sloan Lancaster, the brilliant writer, just might be the one who could fit into her plans. From their first meeting she found him arrogant and aloof--yet she couldn't deny that he somehow aroused desires she had never felt before....

CHAPTER ONE EVEN as Jasmine closed the front door and walked away, she heard the three children vying with each other to shout the loudest 'goodbye'. A few steps along the road she turned and waved, hoping, as she always did, that Michael would be able to cope. Just before she left, he had thanked her and kissed her abstractedly, as if his mind was already on the next job to be done. Jasmine had cleaned through the house, and dried the clothes she had washed, leaving them for Michael to iron. For part of the two hours she had spent at Michael's house, she had nursed his twoyear-old half-brother, Kevin, who had a cold. When she had put him down to carry on with the housework, Fran, Michael's eight-year-old sister, had tried to cope with him, keeping him quiet while elevenyear-old Leslie did his homework. All the time Jasmine had been busy, Michael had been in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. Jasmine walked home slowly, tired after a day—- one of so many— of office work followed with scarcely a break by what she had come to regard as baby-minding with hard labour. During the morning, while Michael was working part-time in a television rental shop, a neighbour looked after Kevin, the two-year-old, and, in school vacations, the other two children too. Michael had been Jasmine's boy-friend for three years now. His father had died some years earlier and his mother had remarried. After giving birth, a little late in life, to Kevin, she had, with little advance warning, died. Michael's stepfather had endured/the screaming, quarrelling family for a month, then walked out, leaving nineteen-year-old Michael in

charge. His stepson had heard nothing from him in the two intervening years. Jasmine walked wearily along the garden path to the house in which she rented a room. Mrs Simms, her landlady and mother of Pam, who had become one of Jasmine's best friends, opened the front door even before Jasmine had had a chance to get out her key. 'You look tired enough to sleep for a week,' Mrs Simms said sympathetically. I've got a cup of tea just made. We'll have it while we wait for Pam. She's working overtime at the store this evening helping get ready for the summer sale. But you know that, don't you, being in the same office?' Jasmine nodded, sinking gladly into a shabby but comfortable armchair in the corner of the small dining-room. She felt guilty about letting Mrs Simms wait on her, but helping Michael each day after a hard day's work in the offices of Hazelton's department store in the town was proving more and more exhausting. 'I'm sorry for Michael,' Mrs Simms said, sinking her ample form into a second shabby armchair, 'but you're got to think of your own health, dear. You can't go on being his unpaid housekeeper on top of your own job.' 'There's no one else to help him, Mrs Simms,' Jasmine said wearily. 'Fran does her best, but she's only eight—a grown-up eight, luckily.' 'And Michael's only twenty-one himself, a year or two younger than you.' Mrs Simms handed Jasmine her cup of tea, which was gladly accepted. 'Where's that no-good stepfather of his, eh?' The woman took a swallow of tea. 'Can't they get a solicitor on to looking for him?' 'And if Michael did find him, do you think a man like that would help?'

Mrs Simms shrugged. 'Doubt if he'd do any more than snap his fingers in Michael's face and walk off again.' She watched as Jasmine drank her tea, her tired eyes staring, her mind a blank. 'That money your grandpa left you, Jasmine——' ' Jasmine jogged her mind back to life. 'It's tied up, Mrs Simms.' The woman nodded, knowing the story but never tiring of hearing it repeated because it intrigued her so. 'Until you can find a man to marry you.' 'Cup of tea in the pot for me, Mum?' Pam stood smiling in the doorway. Her mother gave her a fond welcome and eased herself in the direction of the tray on the table. Pam sat in a fireside chair, pushing off her shoes. 'What about Michael* himself, Jasmine?' Pam asked. 'He's fond of you. Couldn't you use him to unlock the key of the door to that fortune?' 'Use' was right, Jasmine thought, because that was all she would be doing where Michael was concerned. Being fond of a mail was not enough to make you want to ask him to marry you—and Michael would accept her at once, she knew that. He had often told her—-in between preventing his brother and sister from fighting and trying to keep his tiny half-brother clean and well fed—that he loved her. Jasmine frowned. 'I can't understand how Grand-father could insert such an outrageous condition into his will. He was so sensible in every other way.' 'You're not able to touch even a handful of it, are you dear?' Mrs Simms commented. 'Not until I've got a man's wedding ring on my finger.' 'A man,' Pam took her up, 'you yourself have asked to marry you.'

'And all because,' her mother elaborated, 'he had a guilty conscience about the way he forced your mother to marry a man so much older than herself because she was such a rebel he couldn't wait to get her off his hands.' Jasmine nodded. 'He said after adding the condition that he thought that asking a man to marry me was the best way to ensure I'd get a husband I really wanted. All the same, my mother and father were very happy together, despite the large age gap.'. 'Your grandfather never lost his guilty conscience, though, did he?' Mrs Simms commented. 'Hence the clause in the will,' said Pam, drinking the tea her mother had given her. Her eyes lit up. 'You can take your pick, Jasmine. Just imagine— going up to a man in the street, someone goodlooking and tall,' her eyes grew dreamy, 'and you ask him, "Excuse me, but are you married or engaged? No? Then will you marry me?' " She collapsed into laughter. 'I'd give most of it to Michael.' Jasmine's statement had Mrs Simms gasping and her daughter's laughter turning to a choking cough. When she recovered she said, 'Jasmine, you don't mean that?' 'Every word. Michael's in an impossible situation, having to bring up his sister and brothers single- handed and with so little money coming in/ 'But you aren't under any obligation to Michael/ Mrs Simms remonstrated. 'Not even engaged, are you?' Pam added. 'He's asked me, but I don't feel that way about him.' 'Which means,' Pam said, 'it would be no good asking him to marry you to unlock the money.'

'Seems a pity,' Mrs Simms sighed, 'since you seem to have made up your mind you're going to give it to him.' 'If anyone needs help,' Jasmine stated, 'it's Michael. I'm doing all I can to help him, but it's not enough. Money would give him a housekeeper, for a start. And a washing machine, a new--' Pam's cup hit the saucer. 'I can think of someone you could propose to/ Mrs Simms looked expectantly at her daughter. 'Aunt Delia's friend in Malta.' Mrs Simms looked puzzled. 'You know, the man who lives in a villa there.' 'He doesn't live there, dear,' Mrs Simms corrected. 'It's his holiday home.' To Jasmine, she added, 'He's a writer. He lives in Malta for the spring and summer months, although his real home is here in England. Pam,' she turned to her daughter, 'I don't really think he's the kind of man Jasmine would want to marry. You know, dear,' now she spoke to Jasmine, 'when Delia brings him here, which isn't very often, I might say, I can't think of a word to say to him!' 'If I had even half a chance to marry Sloan Lancaster,' Pam commented, 'I'd consider myself lucky. Jasmine, he's worth thousands--' she checked herself, 'but then that wouldn't matter to you, would, it? Just getting his ring on your finger would make you worth a lot of money, too.' 'If the money were just for myself,' said Jasmine, I wouldn't worry about it. I'd wait until -' 'The right man came along,' Mrs Simms finished. 'I was going to say,' Jasmine continued, 'until I fell in love. But the likelihood of that happening is decreasing as the months go by. I'm twenty-four and it hasn't happened yet.'

'Oh, you are an old woman,' Pam joked. Jasmine laughed. 'What's this man Sloan Lancaster like?' she asked. 'He has money, a villa in Malta and a house over here—there must be something wrong with him! I mean, is he short, fat and bald? Has he had half a dozen wives and maybe wouldn't notice if he added my name to the list?' Mrs Simms and her daughter laughed. 'He's the very opposite,' Mrs Simms said. 'Tall, good-looking, with dark brown hair,' Pam added, 'mid-thirties. A kind of—well, hunk of a man. And not a wife in sight.' 'Women,' Mrs Simms commented, 'well, he's had a few women friends in his time, or so Delia says.' 'I wouldn't be his woman!' Jasmine exclaimed. 'Not even if I married him. I'd insist that it wouldn't be that kind of marriage.' Pam laughed. 'If you looked at him in that way, he wouldn't want to come near you!' 'It sounds,' said Jasmine firmly, 'as if he's not for me, but thanks, Pam, for the thought.' She smiled at her friend. Mrs Simms turned to her daughter. 'I've got an idea. I'll phone Delia and ask if Mr Lancaster's left for Malta yet.' She returned from the telephone call and announced, 'He went back last week, but -' cutting off Pain's groan of disappointment, 'your Aunt Delia says that her apartment in Malta is yours for the asking, if you want it. She's been invited to spend three months with friends in Florida.' Jasmine, whose holiday plans that year were nil through lack of money to finance them—she had spent so much of her income on

helping Michael cope—said excitedly, 'I've got just about enough money saved up to pay my way.' Mrs Simms said, 'Delia said Pam and her friend— that's you—could have the place free. You'd have to buy your own food and so on, of course.' 'Hey, Jasmine,' said Pam, as pleased as her friend, 'isn't this just exactly the breakthrough we wanted? Sloan Lancaster and Aunt Delia are on visiting terms, so we could use that as the key to the man's door. Not literally, of course,' she added, laughing. She went across and hugged her friend. 'Jasmine, you're on your way to getting your hands on that money your grandfather left you.' 'I couldn't ask a man like Sloan Lancaster to marry me,' Jasmine protested. 'Why ever not?' Pam looked at Jasmine as she sat, hands covering warm cheeks. 'He's everything a woman could want in a husband. Except, maybe -' 'Warmth?' her mother supplied, hearing her daughter's hesitation. 'But what does that matter, dear? Jasmine only wants a man to marry her, then she need never see him again.' From the way Pam and her mother had described Sloan Lancaster, Jasmine was certain of two things. First, she would never be able to bring herself to talk to him, let alone propose marriage. And second, she didn't think that, even for Michael's sake, she would want to tie herself, even in name only, to such a man. 'You'll find a way,' Pam commented, misinterpreting her friend's silence. But Jasmine was convinced she wouldn't.

Three weeks later, Jasmine and Pam made the flight from LondonHeathrow to Malta. The department store at which they both worked had co-operated by allowing them to take their holidays at the same time. The plane began to lose height over the dark shape of Sicily and as they flew into Malta, the faintly illuminated white houses and roads seemed to Jasmine to resemble a child's toy town. As they stepped off the plane a warm breeze greeted them. They walked across the tarmac and Jasmine felt the night air warm on her face and arms. On the balcony of the Customs building a crowd of people stood waving their welcomes to arriving friends and relatives—even, Jasmine thought with surprise, at the early hour of three in the morning. The drive from Luqa airport to Aunt Delia's apartment took twenty minutes. The taxi driver helped them with their cases, accepted the fare and the tip which Pam gave him and went happily on his way. Jasmine had little time, and at that moment even less inclination, to absorb the atmosphere and decor ^f the apartment. When, after a drink of tea, she and Pam finally fell into bed, the sky outside*the window was beginning to lighten. Two men shouting in Maltese to each other over the clatter of trucks and the rattling of crates outside aroused Jasmine from a relatively short, but deeply satisfying sleep. The sound that woke her completely was the voice of a woman—who, Jasmine concluded, probably lived in one of the apartments below them —explaining to someone which vegetables she wanted to buy. Jasmine was too restless to go back to sleep. Curiosity to see the entirely strange country in which she now found herself urged her out of bed and over to the window. Looking through the partlyopened curtains and the mosquito netting she found beneath them,

she saw that opposite their apartment block was a block of twostoreyed apartments. It was outside these that the van was parked, laden with vegetables and groceries. A crowd of women holding shopping baskets, were inspecting the goods on sale. Pam stirred and, seeing Jasmine at the window, yawned and stretched lazily. 'I can see I'll have no peace until you've taken soundings of your new surroundings, so -' she scrambled out of bed and felt for her slippers, 'come on, let's go up to the roof and see the view from there.' " Jasmine found her slippers hurriedly and before she could remonstrate that they were only wearing their night attire, Pam had disappeared. When she saw Pam ahead of her, Jasmine called out that she had had no time to find her dressing-gown, but Pam answered over her shoulder that it didn't matter. The flat roof was already warm to their feet and Jasmine revelled in the heat of the sun which wrapped around her flimsily covered body. Pam, plainly acclimatised in both mind and body to the customs and accepted behaviour of the place, pattered quite unselfconsciously across the roof and pointed down, saying, 'That's Bugibba.' Jasmine saw a curve of white rocky bay against which the sea lapped gently. But it was the deep, deep blue of the sea that made the greatest impact on her mind. As the water grew deeper, so the sea's colour appeared to merge into a beautiful intriguing green. At that hour, there was no one in the sea, but a few people walked along the promenade. There was a catch of breath from Pam, who seized Jasmine's arm. 'There he is,' she whispered, 'down there, coming this way. It's too good a chance to miss. You've got to meet the man some time. You can't make your proposal of marriage over the telephone !'

'But I can't meet him like this,' Jasmine wailed, looking down at herself. It was all right for Pam, she thought. Her nightdress reached just below her knees. Her own, which had been bought on a crazy impulse, was a pink and white shortie nightdress with briefs to match. Pam had not listened to her protest. She was waving madly and calling, 'Mr Lancaster ! It's me, Pam Simms, Aunt Delia's niece. Remember?' The man looked up, startled. He stopped in his tracks, glanced at Pam, then slid his gaze to the girl beside her. His eyes, even from that distance, seemed to narrow slightly, then he made a sharp turn left into the apartment block and with his long legs, took the stairs upwards. 'No,' Jasmine protested, as her friend seized her arm, tugging her, 'I can't, not like this. I must, change first, put something on ...' 'No time,' said Pam, pulling at her determinedly. 'He'll reach the flat before we do.' Pam was right. He had found the entrance door standing open and had simply walked inside. No invitation, Jasmine thought acidly, would be needed for such an autocratic being as this man. He looked as if he owned the world and the infinity of space around it. She pushed the wind-ruffled rich red- brown hair from her cheeks and held her head high, not only to gain stature in order to overcome the disadvantage of her scanty attire, but also to stare the man in the eyes. That he was not, at that particular moment, interested in her eyes but in the flimsy shortie nightdress and the frilly undergarment, not to mention the slender shapeliness beneath it, was plain by the direction of his bold, appraising gaze.

'Pam,' Jasmine said with desperation, 'I must find -' A dressinggown, she had been going to say, but Pam caught her arm. 'Mr Lancaster,' she said, her straight fair hair swinging as she turned from her friend, 'meet Jasmine, Jasmine Hayman. We work together and she lives --' 'With you and your mother.' The deep, incisive voice interrupted like that of a man who could not bear to be told what he already knew. 'Your aunt has been in touch with me.' His speaking voice was edged almost to the point of rasping, like someone whose anger was being held in check. How dared he be angry? Jasmine thought irrationally. I'm the one who should be furious—by the shameless way he's staring at me. Although— she glanced down at herself—aren't I the one who's being shameless? 'She told me you had a——' his eyes roved again, seeking and finding the young, full outline, then lowering to study the legs which tapered from slen-der thighs to neat ankles, 'proposition to pat to me. Now I've seen the person who, I'm told, intends to put that proposition, I can hardly contain my excitement at the thought of what that proposition might be.' His grating sarcasm and the lazy narrowness of his eyes injected a deep insincerity into the statement. Finding her toes were curling with humiliation, Jasmine turned and dived into the bedroom she shared with Pam. Hanging on the door was an emerald green embroidered silk robe. It must, she decided, belong to Pam's Aunt Delia, but at that moment she did not care. Aunt Delia, she realised, dragging the garment on, must have a generously proportioned shape. On her way back to the living-room, she wrapped the gown about her slenderness. At the moment that she faced the man across the room, she realised Pam had gone.

The man stood, hands in pockets, watching her with mocking eyes. There was the rattle of cups and the hiss of the kettle from another room which Jasmine assumed to be the kitchen. 'Well?' An eyebrow was raised and cynicism grooved the lines from nose to mouth. 'Well—nothing,' was her sharp reply which equalled, she hoped, his arrogance. 'Consider the proposition dead and buried. Buried,' she enlarged furiously, 'as deep as nuclear waste!' 'Now you really have got me interested,' he responded with sarcastic amusement. 'Nuclear waste, even when buried, continues to emit noxious substances.' At her frown, he elaborated, 'Your "proposition', even though you've buried it, will nag at my imagination until you put it into words.' Pam carried in a tray of coffee and cups. She looked from one to the other. 'I'll just put this down,' she said, 'and go——' 'Stay, Pam, please,' Jasmine pleaded. Then her gaze swung to the man who stood, arms folded, regarding her so provokingly that anger exploded and swelled like a mushroom cloud. Wrapping the dressing gown more tightly about her, she faced him fully. 'I was going,' she said, speaking with precision, 'to ask you to marry me.' Instead of the outrage she had expected and hoped for, all that greeted her was a narrowing of the eyes and a minute assessment of herself from top to toe. 'Now that proposition,' he said softly, 'was worth the effort it cost me to dig and delve. Result? Pure gold, with not a milligram of nuclear waste in sight. I've had some propositions put to me in my time, but never marriage.'

'I haven't put the—the proposition yet,' Jasmine . retorted, confused and scarlet-cheeked. 'I spoke in the past tense, meaning I'd change my mind. It wasn't my idea in the first place,' she babbled on, aware of the fact but hoping that words would cover her deep humiliation. How could her grandfather have put her into stich a situation? A man of her choice, he'd hoped? But hadn't he any imagination? Hadn't he visualised that she might ask any man to marry her—it didn't matter whom, so long as he was free—merely to get her hands on the money? Maybe, she thought with a quick blush, he hadn't considered she would be so avaricious as to sink to such depths. But she didn't want the money for herself. Most of it she would give to Michael. The rest would be put away for her own future, because, she could not expect, nor want, any man she married in such a way as she would be doing—to fulfil the requirements of a will—to remain her husband for ever. 'Jasmine,' Pam urged, 'don't be silly. This is the opportunity you've been wanting ...' Jasmine swung round. 'Pam, please -' 'No, let your friend speak,' Sloan Lancaster interrupted. 'She might fill in with some vital clues which you would withhold.' He accepted the cup of coffee which Pam gave him, but he did not look for a seat. Jasmine, however, felt the need for one and lowered herself to a cushioned stool. 'You're right, Mr Lancaster,' Pam agreed eagerly. 'I'd tell you, although Jasmine wouldn't, why she needs the money.' 'Pam!' Jasmine protested, but Pam insisted.

'I'm going to tell him, Jasmine. She wants it for -' 'Pam, Pam Simms, is that you?' A woman's voice; holding a faint accent, called from the apartment below. Pam tutted and went out on to the landing. 'Hallo, Mrs Galea. We arrived so late last night, we didn't have time to -' 'Is your mother with you? Your Aunt Delia, then?' "This time I've brought a friend.' 'Come down, dear, and have a drink with me. Tea? Coffee?' Pam returned briefly, cast a helpless resigned look skywards and went down the stairs. Jasmine looked at the visitor's implacable face and shook her head. This man would not permit himself to be used as the key to anybody's fortune. He was no malleable, docile, anything-you-saydear member of his species. There was, she sensed, beneath his surface coolness, a layer of intractability which both daunted and frightened her. The sooner she got this man out of the apartment, and more important, out of her life, the better. 'Will you please forget every single word we've exchanged on the subject, Mr Lancaster?' said Jasmine, running her fingers slowly, then faster, over the silk of the emerald-coloured robe which she hugged to her body. 'Aunt Delia got it wrong, Pam got it wrong -' ^ 'And even you got it wrong?' he jeered. 'You said it yourself. You were going to invite me to marry you. Am I to forget that?' She nodded vigorously. His eyes watched her agitated stroking of the dressing-gown fabric and she was sure they flickered spitefully as he interpreted her state of anxiety through the nervous movement.

'Look, Mr Lancaster, I want to go and dress. I want to start enjoying my holiday in this country I've never seen before/ 'And I want to carry on the discussion/ He sat now, slowly and indolently, leaning back in the chair. 'The money Pam was talking about—is it my money you're after?' 'No, no, of course not. I don't know anything about your financial position, except -' His eyes flickered, but they told her nothing. 'The money,' she sat down, still holding her cup and saucer, draining the coffee and putting the cup down, 'the money Pam was talking about is -' she traced the outline of one of the embossed patterns on the gown, 'is -' something had to give her the courage to continue. Yes, it was there, in the challenge of his dark-eyed gaze. 'It's tied up in my grandfather's will. In his lifetime he had the mistaken impression— because of a family situation—that unless I actively chose the man I married, made the first move -' 'And asked him to marry you?' Jasmine nodded, thankful that the man's perception was so keen. 'He believed,' she continued, 'that that was the only way I'd find a man to marry whom I really loved.' Sloan Lancaster seemed amused. 'And do I take it you love me?' Colour swamped Jasmine's cheeks. 'Of course not! How could I possibly ... I've only this minute met you ... All I know about you-is that you're a writer, of repute I'm told—not that I've read any of your books ...' Aware that her tongue was racing on, getting her into trouble, she stopped abruptly. He did not seem put out by her faintly slighting reference to his professional reputation. 'Am I to take it,' he asked, 'that all you would require of me is to take part with you in a marriage ceremony, give you a plain gold ring, my protection and my name?'

His name—the honour of being given this gifted, celebrated man's name! The thought had not occurred to her. 'Please forget the whole thing. I said it earlier and I'm saying it again. It's an imposition to expect someone like you to agree to -' 'Imposition? It's impudence.' He spoke evenly, with an unreadable expression. She was unable to guess whether he had spoken in anger or amusement. He rose, straightening to his formidable height, pulling back his shoulders and running smoothing hands over his slightly disordered hair. It looked as though he had already taken a morning swim. His silk sweater, with its turn-over collar, revealed a breadth of shoulder and toughness of muscle which hinted at the prowess of an amateur athlete in addition to the powerful if slightly cynical intellect of his brain. 'And it's impudence,' his voice had softened but not with tenderness, 'which appeals. It's outrageous —after all, who are you? A little Miss Nobody,' he seemed to enjoy her pout of anger, 'a secretary, maybe?' Jasmine nodded. 'Living in a bed-sit in the outer environs of London?' Again she nodded. He must know from Aunt Delia where she lived. 'Yet you appear from nowhere, here on the sundrenched island of Malta, following me almost to the door of my vacational retreat, and ask me to marry you!' Jasmine took a deep breath, thrust back her shoulders and challenged, 'So from your towering, intellectual heights, you look down on me and regard me as an insect that's invaded your clinically clean world, your sterile mind, and decide to squash me out of existence!' 'Sterile mind be damned!' He stood now, overwhelming her with his powerful bearing. She had .cast doubts on his ability, his originality

and his calibre' as a writer. For a passing moment she had fancied herself his equal, but she should have guessed it would not last, that he would better her with words. Weren't they his trade, his tools? His eyes sparked down at her. 'The audacity of the little bitch with the bright, defiant eyes, the come-here-and-kiss-me-look lips. First she proposes to me, then she insults me, insults what the world celebrates and hails each time a new book of mine appears.' Slow steps brought him nearer. 'She hasn't got around yet to doubting my masculinity, my ability to propagate my own kind. But wouldn't she be delighted if my inclinations in that respect were nil, if I evinced no need of a woman in my life? This, my little Miss Nobody, is how much I need the female of the species.' , Before her parted lips could utter a word of protest that all she wanted was a ring on her finger, his lips had taken hers, forcing them wider, in a way that had her gasping at his audacity. Her body, in its stirrings, became a stranger to her, her heart tripping with the breathless excitement which coursed through her veins like champagne at a celebration feast. The robe she wore, without her hands to hold it in place, fell loose, slowly unwinding. Her scantily- covered body grew heated with the increasing warmth of his. He was proving to her beyond doubt that he was male, with all the drive and vigour a woman could want. He was proving, also, that she possessed in her curving, softly yielding femininity all that he needed to arouse his desires. At the moment that her inhibitions started to dwindle and her limbs, of their own volition, felt the startling need to entwine with his, he put her from him. ' He smiled faintly at her lost expression, which arose from a feeling she could not even herself decipher. Eyeing her long legs stretching from the hem of the shortie nightdress, her thighs revealed so

fetchingly from the elasticated frills of her minute briefs, -he said, 'The proposition will be given my most serious consideration. Having" handled the blossom, I find myself intrigued to discover the taste of the fruit which the tree might bear.' He was at the door. His faint smile lingered as he faced her. Jasmine wanted to fling herself at him, pulling at the high neck of his tan silk sweater until she strangled him. His trailing look made her aware of her own somewhat abandoned appearance and she dragged the emerald robe around her to hide herself from his mocking eyes. 'Don't call me, Miss Hayman,' was his parting shot, 'I'll call you. Maybe.'

CHAPTER TWO 'WELL?' Pam returned, clattering noisily up the stairs. 'Is it yes or no?' 'Ask the sun, ask the sky, ask the sea out there.' Jasmine gestured furiously towards the window. She was dressed in slacks and shirt and washing the cups in the small kitchen. 'At least he knows now,' Pam tried to encourage. 'Wasn't it lucky I saw him when we were on the roof?' 'You might have let me get dressed!' 'Don't be so crabby, Jasmine. This is supposed to be a holiday.' Immediately contrite, Jasmine turned. 'I'm sorry, Pam. I didn't mean to be bad-tempered, but that man, he -' She dried her hands on her apron. 'I hate him, Pam. I can't stand the sight of him- He --' 'Wow, Jasmine, he really has got you going! Maybe there's hope after all.' 'There's not the slightest --' She took a deep breath and brought out a smile. 'Pinch me next time I lose my temper. Let's forget him for the moment. What shall we do today?' 'Come for a walk and breathe some real Maltese air.' Jasmine agreed as the holiday excitement which had hit her the moment she had stepped from the plane returned in full force. 'We'll eat some breakfast later,' Pam decided. 'Okay with you?'

'Since I'm the stranger here,' Jasmine conceded, 'and you've been so often, I'll fall in with whatever you suggest and I'll follow wherever you go.' 'Like Mary's little lamb,' Pam laughed, and led the way outside. The sea was not far from the apartment block. The road curved, then ran parallel to the sea front until it reached a place which Pam called Bay Square. 'I meant to remind you to bring your sunglasses,' Pam said apologetically, shielding her own eyes with her hand. The sun, which shone on, the white stone of the pavements and the buildings on both sides of the street, made the light dazzling to the eyes. Reaching the sea front, Jasmine noticed that while a handful of people swam, others leant on the railings of the promenade, watching the swimmers. Across the road were souvenir shops, jostling each other for custom. Jasmine had to curb her desire to rush over to them and begin her search for going- home gifts. It was, she told herself, far too early in their holiday to do so. There was the chime of bells as a van appeared. 'Ah, good,' said Pam. 'I'll buy something to eat from the man. It would save us going back to cook breakfast.' She crossed to the van and stood at the double doors which were thrown open, emerging at last with a bag which contained something called cheese and peacakes. 'They're what we would call a pasty,' she explained, 'with melted cheese or peas inside a flaky pastry covering.' Sitting on the beach, Jasmine ate her fill, enjoying the new taste. They washed the food down with cans of Coke. After a rest, they returned to the apartment to change into their swimsuits. On their way out they met their neighbour from the apartment below. After

giving Jasmine's hand a warm shake the woman, whose name was Mrs Galea, said to Pam, 'John's coming home today.' To Jasmine, 'John's my son. He's sweet on Pam. Ever since he first saw her she has been the only girl for him. He lives only for her visits.' At Pam's pink-cheeked protests, Mrs Galea, whose English was good, insisted, 'It's true, Pam, and you know how much you, like him. This evening,' she called after them, 'he will probably come knocking on your door.' They swam in the bay and Jasmine revelled in the sun-warmed water. Since the beach was rocky, she had had to ease herself into the sea, sitting first on a rock, then sliding down until she was submerged sufficiently to swim. It was her first time in the water and tiredness soon made her limbs go heavy. There were rocks protruding from under the water and she stubbed her toe on one of them, crying out involuntarily. 'I've had enough,' she called to Pam, who lifted a hand and intimated that she would soon be joining her on the beach. Drying herself, Jasmine looked round, hoping no one was near as she wanted to ease down her swimming top to, dry herself completely, There was, however, someone nearby. Leaning forward against the railings which divided the promenade from beach was a tall, lean, dark-haired man. His short-sleeved shirt was open to his waist revealing a glimpse of black chest hair. Jasmine's heart leapt, recognising instantly the man who stood watching her as though she were a prize- winning animal at an agricultural show. Her head flounced back to face the sea and she flung the towel around her. Should she carry on undressing herself, then dress fully, or should she let her inbuilt shyness have its way? Tentatively her hands went to the hooks on her swimming top, then returned quickly

to hold the towel in place. She would, she decided, wait for the man to go. Fingers were lifting the towel, and were brushing her back as they accomplished the task her own more modest ones had shunned. Her head swung round and she stared in disbelief as she saw Sloan Lancaster crouching behind her, calmly unhooking her bra top. 'Will you stop!' Her voice was a squeak instead of a shout, she was so angry at the man's audacity. 'As the woman who has offered to sacrifice her freedom to me, not to mention her virginity, which I assume by her maidenly protests she still possesses, I believe I can claim the right to carry out such an intimate action as unhooking your swimming top, which hid little enough, anyway?' The pale blue top fell on to her wide, tapered thighs and she dragged the towel across her chest. Now he was crouching beside her, looking with mild amusement at the empty triangles of the swimming top as if visualising the piquant shapes which had, until he had intervened, been partially covered by them. 'It wouldn't be a sacrifice, Mr Lancaster,' she blurted out. 'It would .just be a simple ceremony giving me a piece of paper which would give me access to the money my grandfather left me.' 'You're a cool little baggage, aren't you?' He sat beside her. 'Do I take it you're now actually proposing to me?' 'No, no!' Her eyes sought desperately for Pam, found a bobbing head, a waving hand, and arms lifted in strokes which indicated that their owner had no intention of returning yet. 'Oh!' The towel had slipped down her back as she had lifted a frantic arm in an effort to urge her friend out of the water.

The eyes of the man beside her had taken full advantage of the prolonged glimpse of the intriguing shape of her. He lifted eyes which were full of sensual invitation. 'You're not proposing?' he took her up. 'Then what do you anticipate the next move to be? That I should propose to you?' Jasmine closed her eyes, started counting to ten, reached three and said, with careful calm, 'That wouldn't satisfy the conditions of the will. You see, my grandfather stipulated that I must do the proposing.' A lazy smile creased his face. 'I'm beginning to enjoy myself.' He reclined, leaning on his elbows. 'Go ahead—propose. See what my reaction would be.' She looked the long length of him, from his crossed, sandalled feet to his thighs outlined by the tautness of his slacks, noted the hard hips, the tough- built torso revealed beneath the unfastened buttons of his shirt, and felt a warmth steal over her. Thefeeling was becoming more familiar to her body each time it happened, and, curiously, it happened only in the presence of this man—-the wish to feel him close, his arms around her as they had been when he had kissed her earlier that day. His challenge had nudged her to the edge of anger. The sight of him had her heart faltering, her pulse hurrying, the words slow to reach her lips. He had upset the whole metabolism of her body and mind and she knew then that this was a man to whom she could never propose in cold blood, expecting of him only his ring and his name. And the reason why? she asked herself. Because it would be so dangerously easy to fall in love with him. The thought bewildered her. Wasn't that what her grandfather had had in mind when he had inserted that condition into his will—that she should find a man she loved and ask him to be her hus,- band?

The irony was so painful she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. 'I couldn't possibly propose -' 'Hi!' There was a shout from the sea, and Pam's slim figure was emerging. I'm coming to rescue you, her look said. But it was the last thing Jasmine wanted! Without a word, the man beside her got to his feet. As he walked away, Jasmine watched, her eyes strangely moist, her heart unbelievably heavy.

John- came knocking at the apartment door. He smiled uncertainly when Jasmine appeared. Then Pam came from the bedroom and John's face lit up. His right hand came out and Pam's left hand found his. He hugged her to him, then released her for the introduction. 'Jasmine, my friend John, Mrs Galea's son. John, Jasmine Hayman who lives with my mother and me/ John nodded and Jasmine found herself responding to his quiet warmth. 'I am so glad/ John said, 'to meet any friend of Pam's, especially when you are so close to her and her mother.' He looked down at the girl beside him and there was more than affection in his eyes. Pam's cheeks were tinted pink, and it was plain she was pleased to see him. 'Will you come out with me, Pam? Or/ John glanced at Jasmine, 'were you intending to spend all your time with your friend?' The note of doubt told them his true wishes—that Pam might find an evening or two for him. 'I am home for good now. Soon I shall return to work.'

'Your mother said you'd been staying with an uncle in Sicily,' Pam remarked. John nodded. 'Helping him in his shoe shop. I have earned some extra money which I shall be able to spend on you. So/ again the doubtful look at Jasmine, 'are you going to come with me, Pam?' 'Don't worry about me,' Jasmine told her friend. 'Honestly, I'll be okay here. It's all so new and strange I won't be bored for a minute.' She touched her hair. 'I'll wash this.' 'Dry it in the sun,' Pam advised. 'Go up on the roof. Only do be careful of all those washing lines. I meant to warn you about them this morning.' 'I saw them in time. Now, you go and get ready, Pam, and forget all about me/ Pam smiled her gratitude and Jasmine spent the next few minutes talking to John. He told Jasmine about some of the places she should visit during her stay in Malta. 'It may not have the breathtaking beauty of some islands/ he said, 'but there's romance where you look for it, and history everywhere. You will find our people very friendly. Also,' his faint accent "charmed, 'coming from your often cool England, you will love Malta's sun. At certain times of die year it gets so hot we almost—I think you would say—fry!' When they had gone, Jasmine's determination to appear content at being left alone fell away. For a few moments she felt lost. Then she remembered the friendly neighbour downstairs. It was a comforting thought that Mrs Galea was nearby should she need her. 'Dry your hair in the sun,' Pam had suggested. Better to wash her hair while the sun still shone, Jasmine decided. Later, with her hair hanging damply, she picked her way across the flat roof of the apartment block, bending to avoid the washing lines.

The sun, lower now, retained its warmth and for a few moments, Jasmine stood, towelling and combing her hair. Then "she sat carefully on the wall which had been built to hip-height at the edge of the roof. Her hair fell, shoulder length and tangled, in a rich brown cloud. Dropping the towel and pushing the comb into her jeans pocket, she looked down to the street below. With immense care she swung first one leg over to dangle, then the other. Pam had told her that morning that it was something she herself often did. Her Aunt Delia had said it gave her palpitations to see her seated there, but Pam always laughed. Now, feeling precarious and a littler daring, but completely confident of her own ability to remain balanced, she gazed up and down the street, then out across the Mediterranean. Marvelling at the air's warmth despite the slowly setting sun, Jasmine's eyes drew back to the coastline. They wandered, along the promenade which she could see by straining slightly forward from her perch. A man walked with energetic strides alongside the railings. The sight of him had* her heartbeats racing. He seemed to have a purpose about him and when a couple stopped him, he came to a halt with apparent reluctance, nevertheless talking amicably to the man and woman. Automatically Jasmine reached for her comb and ran it through her tangled hair. Her own thoughts confused her since they seemed to be prompting her to attempt to attract his attention, to tell him by telepathy that she was there,,. alone and suddenly very lonely. Why she should want this arrogant man's company she did not know, but want it she. did—and badly. The comb, running through the fine strands, slipped from her fingers to her shoulder. Her hand moved quickly to grab it before it fell quite out of reach.

The movement had been counterbalanced by the compensating reaction of her feet pressing against the outer side of the wall. Her flip-flop sandals had always gripped before, even on the stony beach that morning. Now, however, one had, as a result of the pressure by the wall on its heel, pushed forward and become dislodged. The sandal went plunging down, bouncing on the balcony roof of the apartment below, and falling out of sight outside the apartment building. The man across the road paused in the act of talking, gazed astonished at the white object which lay abandoned and forlorn, then lifted his eyes to stare at the girl on the roof who was gazing helplessly down in an effort to find her lost sandal. He excused himself quickly from the people to whom he had been talking and, checking on the traffic, crossed the road to disappear from sight. Jasmine's instinct was to swing back over the wall and make for the sanctuary of Pam's aunt's apartment. Her limbs, however, had grown so tense with fright and apprehension she found she could not move. Her fingers grew white with gripping, her breath constricted in her throat. At the moment a faintness overcame her and a small cry escaped from her lips, a band made seemingly of iron came round her waist and she was lifted bodily to safety. The band, which had turned into a muscle-taut, deeply tanned arm, forced the lower part of her body against that of the owner. She hung over the arm like a pile of washing which might have been plucked from those roof-top clothes lines. 'Keep your head down,' was the harsh command. When the roof had stopped revolving, Jasmine lifted her head until she stood upright. The arm still held her and now her head went back to rest on a hard shoulder. Her body was turned and her cheek found Sloan Lancaster's chest. It was an action initiated partly by the

surprising necessity to find something stable against which to rest her faintly trembling limbs, and partly by the overwhelming desire to feel herself cradled in those strong arms. The arms came up but their hold was loose. Angry, although without reason, she moved away and looked sulkily at the man who had snatched her from the roof-top wall. 'That was quite unnecessary,' she said. 'Pam told me she's often sat there.' 'Pam is often foolish,' was the incisive reply. 'She is not! She's one of the most sensible -' He shrugged. 'Then when she comes to Malta she must undergo a personality change.' Sarcastically, 'It must be something in the air of the island.' 'It's romance,' Jasmine hit back, 'something you wouldn't know about. You're too -' 'Old?' An eyebrow quirked. 'Your word,' she threw at him, looking him over with what she hoped was an all-knowing, contemptuous examination. When he failed to shrivel ( under her gaze, laughing instead, she became even more irritated. 'I was going to say you're too cynical and hard to be able to experience the sense of wonder a young and less worldly person feels when coming to a country like this.' 'If you mean like tempting fate as you were by sitting three storeys up with my legs dangling over the street below, then thank God I'm not younger and less worldly. As for my sense of wonder, you have a damnable cheek to accuse me, a writer, of not possessing one.'

This was acrimony she had not foreseen and her heart sank at the deterioration in relations between herself and this man. His good opinion of her was becoming more important with every meeting. Her shoe was poking from his slacks pocket and she reached out to retrieve it. He trapped her hand against his waist and she felt the edges of his leather belt pressing into her palm. The look in his eyes had darkened into unreadability as the sun had lowered its golden self below the rocky bays, leaving behind its reflected, rippling glory. There was f sensuality in the fleshy but muscletautened feel of him that turned the action into near-intimacy. Involuntarily her fingers probed and dug, arousing in her feelings she never knew existed inside the unknown terrain of her own body. 'Getting the feel of the male you're intending inviting into bed with you ?' His cynical remark had her reaching for her shoe with her free hand, then snatching her other hand from his hold: With a lightning reaction he had snatched the sandal back. 'Let me act the Prince Charming you wish I were. I'll slip your sandal on to your tiny Cinderella foot.' 'Must you always be so sarcastic?' It was an accusation and an unconscious appeal. 'Do you go around treading on everyone's dreams?' Her dreams—of a lover to whom she had given her- heart with such abandon it would be no terrible ordeal whispering against his lips, 'Will you marry me?' 'Such as?' He rose and she had to look up at him. Her face, bathed in the sunset's afterglow, revealed to him all he cared to know if he bothered to look— her vulnerability, her uncertainty, the whisper of

longing for love, love of a man such as he, only kinder, more tender... 'This——' her arm lifted, indicating the fading into the darkness of the haunting history of the place, its tumultuous past which, if you listened very hard, could surely be heard resounding between the ancient buildings. 'This exciting place. Its—' she shook her head—'I can still only call it romance.' Seriousness straightened his mouth. 'Come inside.' He made for the stone stairs which led into the apartment block, ducking to avoid the clothes lines. Jasmine retrieved her comb which had fallen to the floor of the rooftop and followed Sloan. He looked round the apartment. 'You're alone tonight?' 'Pam's out with John Galea, her boy-friend.' 'Then you're free to come to my villa.' 'I don't know that I want to go to your villa.' Her words belied her inclinations. 'Stop arguing. Are you changing or coming like that?' 'Like that' meant her tee-shirt and jeans. 'I'm changing. Please find a seat.' 'I'm not a stranger here. I've known Pam's aunt for years.' Five minutes later Jasmine was back. Her dress was sleeveless, simple and in a multi-coloured fabric. His eyes registered neither displeasure nor approval. Determined to elicit some response from him, Jasmine asked, 'Am I dressed to fit in with the social circles in which you move?'

His glance flicked her indifferently. 'Do you think that being a writer necessarily entails "moving in circles", whether social or geometrical?' She had thought so, but she covered her embarrassment by saying, 'I don't know what kind of life you live. It might be simple or it might involve endless entertainment of people on your own high intellectual level.' 'You wouldn't be attempting sarcasm?' He watched the tell-tale colour with interest. 'You've omitted to mention that I might live a private life— in the real sense of the word.' Tiring of the conversation, he snapped, 'Come in.' Following him- down two flights of stairs, she asked, 'Are we walking there?' He had been on foot when she had seen him striding along the promenade. 'It's- too far. In my car it will take about fifteen minutes.' His car was parked a few moments' walk away in a narrow street. He opened the passenger door and as the light came on Jasmine saw that the interior was comfortable and attractive, but did not possess the luxury she would have expected of such a man. As he swung the vehicle towards the sea front, he explained, as if reading her thoughts, 'I hire a car here for the summer.' Now they were driving along the sea front. It was busy with traffic in both directions. Everyone, it seemed, came out at night, either walking or driving. The sea was like black velvet except where the moon silvered the gentle waves. Soon the car turned away from the sea and they were moving along a drive which led to a shadowy flat-roofed building. The headlights

picked out the line of palm trees which formed a screen across the front'of the building. Moonlight played over the palms' long leaves and curving branches. It reflected off the white stone walls of the villa, revealed that it was two-storeyed and that it possessed a stone balcony. The front entrance door was recessed into an archway and there were unmistakable signs of Eastern splendours in the design, despite the fact, that the building had plainly been constructed in modern times. It was the coolness of the place that Jasmine noticed first, and she cupped her elbows trying to suppress a slight shiver. 'I should have warned you/ Sloan said. 'The stone interior walls help to take the edge off the heat of the summer sun. Those are there to help in the circulation of the cool air.' He indicated archways covered only by faintly stirring drapes. He pushed through one, holding the opening for her to pass in front of him. They were in a dining area with a long polished table of dark wood, and chairs to match. Floor-standing cauldron-like ceramics held tall, exotic-looking plants. There were silver candelabra, delicate china figurines. A table lamp threw soft light on to white walls on which hung intricately embroidered tapestries. Through another archway was the living room. Tiles had been built up to form seating areas, scattered with large embroidered cushions. Shelves were tiled and tiered, displaying modernistic vases and brilliantly-coloured pot plants. 'It's beautiful,' Jasmine commented. 'Where do you work?' !

'In a small room near to this one.' He smiled slightly. 'With a door I can lock.'

'Keeping out the world?' She had meant to challenge, but to her chagrin he agreed. 'Intruders into the worlds I create.' 'So—no wife, no offspring shouting "Daddy" and pounding on the doors of your own personal universe?' 'You're so perceptive,' he commented sarcastically. 'So if I -' She stopped, annoyed with herself. She had meant to let the subject drop. It was plain she did not fit into his way of life. 'If you -?' he prompted, an eyebrow arched. She shook her head, but he waited. 'If. I -' She hesitated, but knew she was committed. 'If I were to propose, you'd keep me all the time at arms' length.' 'If I were to accept, yes, all the time,' he answered, a smile pulling at his mouth. 'Except in the bedroom.' An angry flush preceded her crushing reply. 'There would be no question of—of that.' 'Of what?' His eyes assumed a false innocence. The flush deepened. 'You know very well. Shared bedrooms, shared bed.' 'Once you were married to me—if I agreed to take you on—you wouldn't have much choice.'

'No, no! A ring, I said, all I'd want is a ceremony and a ring. I need not even use your name. I'd retain my own to save you any embarrassment or adverse publicity.' 'You consider the publicity would be "adverse" if I married you?' 'I'm a nobody. You called me that yourself. My background is so simple, my way of life so uncomplicated, the media would make derogatory comments about your taste in women.' He frowned, hands finding his pockets. 'You have odd ideas of the function of the press. It's mainly to sell as many copies of its publications as possible. It may be that they would find you the more newsworthy of the two of us. The complete absence of artifice in your personality, your non-possession of what they would call "glamour", might prove more v interesting to them than the kind of female they've probably assumed I would eventually marry.' Jasmine jerked away and extended a finger to stroke the petal of an exotic flower. It broke off at her touch and floated to the carpet. 'Sorry,' she said, bending to pick it up, but he said, 'No, leave it.' He was beside her, his fingers loosely round her outstretched wrist. She straightened and faced him, lifting her eyes and meeting his boldly. 'Maybe it's an omen,' he commented lazily, 'telling me that I should leave the hothouse plants alone and concentrate for a while on the wild flowers in the meadow?' His grip tightened and she was pulled nearer. His breath fanned her forehead. Even as his mouth descended, the full implication of his words sounded again in her ears. 'For a while', he had said. But with the kind of marriage she intended to have in order to gain access to her grandfather's money, how could she blame a man, any man, for turning to another woman for what his wife refused to give him?

'Refused'? The word hung hazily in her mind as she grew increasingly lost in his kiss. She wasn't refusing him now, was she? His hands slid to her back, moulding her to him. Willingly she went, finding the hard touch of him against her exciting and heady. This man's hands were magic, this man's kiss was potent enough to make her forget her vow to keep him at a distance, because all she wanted was his ring, his name and not his body linked with hers in marriage. He tipped her chin and looked into her eyes. Was he asking her a question? Her lips parted to ask him and he took the action as an invitation. He was making her mouth his property again. Now his hands were wandering, seeking softly curving places, possessing them with his caressing palms. 'Sloan?' Jasmine heard herself breathe his name. Or had it been another person speaking?/Jasmine?' he answered, and she knew that it had been herself. 'Will you -' Her arms around his neck tightened and she stood on tiptoe. 'Marry me?' she murmured in his ear. As the question left her lips, she stiffened, aghast that she had allowed the words to be spoken. The arms around her stopped in their caressing movements. Their muscles hardened, then relaxed. A few seconds later she was put a stride's distance from him. His hands sought his pockets and he looked at her appraisingly, his gaze lingering where his hands had moulded and stroked. 'What suddenly gave you the courage to propose? Was it the sight of my holiday home?' She was shaking her head, but he continued, 'A glimpse, maybe, of my high standard of living?' Jasmine stared at him, horrified that he considered she could be so grasping. She had grossed the river by stepping stones when it was a

rippling stream. The question had bubbled out of her as a result of the awakening delight she had experienced in his arms. Now she had made her proposal as the will had demanded, and she could not retract it. She could not cross back, because Sloan's cynical baiting had turned the river into a raging torrent. The rage transferred itself to her feelings, but there was no turning away now from the humiliation of having had to ask a man, this man, to marry her. 'I asked you,' she choked, her eyes storm-filled, her body fighting against the current that was dragging her this way and that, 'if you would marry mew .Will you give me an answer?' He contemplated the rise and fall of her breasts, her clenched fingers arid her pale face. He closed the gap between them. One hand lifted to rest disturbingly around the back of her neck. He impelled her towards him and the rest of her followed. His mouth pressed, softly at first, then with an exploratory, sensual movement, against her moist lips. When he lifted his head, he answered softly, 'No, my sweet, I will not.' With an involuntary cry at his callous, crushing rejection, she tore away. He said, with a mocking smile, 'You'll just have to try harder, won't you?'

CHAPTER THREE 'TIME to get up!' Pam's voice broke into Jasmine's dream. She was being shaken awake and she flopped over on to her face. 'Go away,' Jasmine moaned, her answer muffled by the pillow. fI haven't been asleep long/ 'It's gone eight,' Pam told her. 'You've slept for hours. You were in bed when I got home with John.' Jasmine didn't tell her, I heard you come in but I pretended to be asleep. In fact, I didn't sleep for hours, and when I did I had terrible dreams. Like the one when I'd proposed to Sloan and he refused and I turned and ran out of his villa, but he caught me and forced me into his car. He held me so tight I'm sure that if it had been true the bruises would show. Then when we got back here, and we hadn't said a word all the journey, I realised I'd been in the wrong in expecting him to accept, a man as eminent in the literary world as he is ... So I said, 'I'm sorry, Sloan,' and the tears were running down my cheeks ... Had it been a nightmare? Turning on to her back, Jasmine looked at her wrist. Yes, there were bruises. So she hadn't dreamt it, it had happened. 'Breakfast's ready,' Pam called from the kitchen. As Jasmine took her seat at the table, Pam said, 'I'll take you to Valletta this morning.' The bus to the capital city passed through countryside which seemed at first to be dry and dusty. Between stone walls were fields here and there which were terraced so that each crop received as much rain and sun as it could capture. Walking from the bus station, Pam indicated to Jasmine that they should turn towards the market place. They walked between stalls which showed, their wares with pride. Souvenirs were offered,

while handmade lace, clothes and jewellery tempted tourists and residents alike. Jasmine put a hand to her head, feeling the unaccustomed heat causing a faintness. Pam looked at her. 'Thirsty? I know a little place where we can get something to drink.' At a small cafe nearby they drank milk shakes and Jasmine began to feel better, but as they emerged into the sunshine again, the faintness returned. I'll have to sit down, Pam,' she faltered. Pam looked around and said, 'I know the place to go.' Jasmine was led into a cool, peaceful building which, Pam told her, was St John's Co-Cathedral. The quiet magnificence of the interior helped Jasmine to forget for a while the heat, noise and bustle of the market place. There were gold carvings and richly decorated arches, while all around were historic paintings and tapestries. Feeling rested, Jasmine braced herself for their return to the heat of the merciless sunshine. They caught the next bus home and ate a light lunch, after which Jasmine rested on the bed. Later, Pam joined her for the customary afternoon siesta. After an hour or so, during which Jasmine surprised herself by sleeping, Pam suggested going to the beach for a cooling swim. It was after their evening meal that Pam said, 'This evening, well take a walk along the sea front. In the evenings,' she explained, 'everyone dresses up for the nightly stroll. Young people come from all over the island to meet there. John has promised to come.' Jasmine found herself wishing that she had a partner, ' too—a broadshouldered, good-looking man called Sloan Lancaster. The sense of humiliation she still experienced when she thought about his cool

rejection of her proposal the night before was overridden by her longing to see him again. How would it feel to have him walk at her side along the promenade, while John walked with Pam? Inwardly she sighed, because she accepted that she would never know. Having rejected her once, he would laugh if she ever suggested again that he might help her by marrying her. Despite the fact that he had said she would just have to 'try harder', her pride would not allow her to spread her sensibilities in front of him. so that he could tread all over them with mud- stained feet. In the evening, the atmosphere seemed different. The inhabitants and the tourists seemed more full of life and laughter than in the heat of the day. As they wandered along, John held Pam's hand. Jasmine felt a pang of loneliness, despite her companions' insistence that she walk beside them instead of alone. The bars and cafes were crowded. The promenade railings were lined with smiling young men who, seeing Jasmine without a partner, called after her, offering to fill the place beside her. This must have jogged Pam's conscience because she whispered to John and pointed to someone in the near distance. John broke away and approached a young man of medium height and black hair who had already found Jasmine with his eyes. The young man nodded eagerly and left his friends to join them. 'Hi, Ernest,' said Pam. 'How's your mother and the others?' 'Very good, very healthy,' Ernest replied. 'Will you introduce me to your friend?' 'Jasmine, this is Ernest, a family friend of John's. Ernest, meet Jasmine Hayman. She's come over with me from England for a holiday. We're staying . at Aunt Delia's flat, of course.'

Ernest said, with deep politeness, 'May I accompany you, Jasmine, on this walk? I should like to talk to you and be your friend.' Jasmine smiled and Ernest said, 'You, Pam, go on ahead with John. Jasmine and I will follow.' As they walked, Ernest talked. 'It is a good time of the day,' he said. 'Cooler and not so tiring. See,' he pointed across the street, 'the older people who live along the sea front take their chairs out on to the pavement and talk to each other. Gossip, you say, I think?' He smiled. 'Or maybe they will sit on their balconies and watch the cars and the people out for the evening, The traffic—it's so heavy on the road,' he pointed, 'it is difficult to cross.' Jasmine wondered at the congestion caused by the cars. Drivers hooted and shouted at each other. As she recognised one of the cars which moved slowly along the road, Jasmine's heart tripped. The driver had already found her and his eyes were cold. His glance went to her hand and she had not even noticed until then that it had been taken lightly in the fingers of her companion. Her face burned as if the island sun had already made its mark on her. Sloan's expression turned contemptuous and he redirected his attention to the road. Jasmine tried to forget the look in Sloan's eyes, but it proved impossible. The feeling of annoyance which had gripped her on guessing what had so plainly been in his thoughts— that she had been out to get a man at any price—persisted and spoiled her enjoyment. It was strange, she thought later, lying in bed in the room she shared with Pam, that she did not classify-Sloan Lancaster as 'any man'. Nor. would she have dreamt of proposing to the first unattached man who crossed her path. Sloan had somehow been 'special' from the moment she had met him. It had not only been because of his profession and his status.

Something about him had drawn her, netted her like a helpless fish, and no matter how much she floundered, she could not escape him. Before leaving Ernest she had arranged to meet him on the beach at noon next day. Pam had decided not to accompany them, explaining that John would be unable to get away from work. The beach was less , crowded—probably, Ernest said, because people had gone to cafes and restaurants to eat. It was rocky underfoot once again and ' Jasmine lowered herself downwards carefully. Swimming in the benign waters around this island was unlike anything she had done before. She swam towards the shore and, with her feet, found a rock on which she could stand to take a rest. Hands on her hips, she breathed deeply, then looked down. The water was so clear, she could see that if she were to step off the rock she would plunge down out of her depth. Her feet moved involuntarily to a safer perch and there was a sharp pain in the sole of her foot. Lifting it quickly, she found a small, black spiky creature clinging to the rock. Gazing at it while standing on one foot upset her balance and she fell helplessly into the sea, arms flailing, her mouth opening in an effort to fill her lungs with air. When she realised she was out of her depth after all, panic took hold, but reason finally overcame fear and she eventually made the shore safely. Limping back, she collapsed breathless on the beach beside the pile of towels and clothes. Ernest joined her and he took a towel, rubbing at his neck and hair. When he saw the pain on her face as she examined her foot, he bent down to look and frowned sympathetically.

'I should have warned you—you've trodden on a sea urchin. One of its spikes is embedded.' 'So that's what that black thing was,' Jasmine commented, still staring at her upturned foot. Then she felt a towel being rubbed over her shoulders and back. Ernest was drying her and as she glanced up to thank him she saw the smiling look in his eyes. It was just a little too friendly—after all, she had only met him the evening before. Hurriedly she took the towel from him. 'Now you are dry,' he said, 'I'll see to your foot.' Ten minutes later he was no nearer removing the spike than at the beginning. 'I need something to help me. My fingers are too big, my nails too short.' 'Ernest, it's late. You must get back to work.' He clapped a hand to his head. 'I shall lose my job! But what about your foot, Jasmine? I can't leave you here.' Footsteps came crunching and a long shadow was cast across them. A cold voice asked, 'Can I be of assistance?' Jasmine identified the clipped voice at once. Despite the heat, it was as though cold water was trickling down her spine. So she would have to 'try harder' would she, to persuade him to marry her? His words still filled her with mortification. 'I can manage, thank you,' she answered with icy politeness. He paused, shrugged and walked away. Ernest asked anxiously, 'You know him?' and Jasmine answered that she did. 'Then you should have accepted his help. So why -?' 'Please, Ernest, you've been very good, but you mustn't lose your job because of me.'

He pulled on his clothes and said, 'This evening Jasmine—will you be walking along the promenade again?' Jasmine had to force her thoughts away from the pain in her foot. 'I don't know, Ernest. It depends. If my foot's still hurting -' Then can I come to see you, talk with you?' He bent down to touch her hair. 'You see, I like you a lot, Jasmine.'Her frown was of pain and worry. She did not want to get involved with anyone, except— no, she wouldn't think of him. He had walked away when she had needed him most. All right, so she had dismissed him, but he needn't have gone, need he? In the light of the increasing complications in her life, her reasoning did not at that moment strike her as irrational. 'Thank you, Ernest.' Her frown persisted. 'But my foot hurts and that's all I can think of at present. Plus the fact that you're late for work.' He lifted his hand and sprinted off along the beach. Jasmine continued inspecting her foot, trying in vain to squeeze out the deeply embedded spikes. If she didn't succeed in removing them, how could she walk back to the apartment? Sighing, she looked around helplessly. Leaning forward on the promenade railings was Sloan Lancaster. So he had not gone away when she had refused his help! His eyes, were on her and in spite of her vow not to appeal to him for help, her eyes pleaded with him to come to her assistance. Her silent plea must have stirred him to compassion, for he ducked under the railings and made his way to where she sat. 'You need me after all?' he queried, his gaze busy probing the contours, bays and inlets of her sparsely-clothed figure. 'Please help me. Ernest had to go back to work and I can't manage on my own. My foot's starting to throb.'

A cheek muscle moved and Sloan's glance grew flinty. 'His name's Ernest, is it? It didn't take you long to find a substitute for the man who refused your proposal. When's he marrying you?' Jasmine swallowed back the angry retort and conjured up a tremulous smile. 'Mr Lancaster, will you please do something?' He stood a few paces away and did not move. 'Come here and let me look.' 'But I'd have to put my weight on my foot. C-can't you come here?' 'I could. But I won't/ Carefully she got to her feet. She would npt let the man get the better of her! Putting all her weight on to her good foot, she stepped towards him, bring- ing her injured foot forward. Instinct made her foot refuse to accept any pressure and she fell across the void between them, straightinto his arms. He dragged her ctose and she buried her face in his shoulder. A muffled, 'You're a devil!' came from her and a murmured answer against her hair agreed mockingly, 'At last you've glimpsed my horns!' His hands slid over the smoothness of her midriff, and down, down her back until she pressed away, yet still supporting herself by holding on to his tanned arms, 'Seductive witch,' he murmured, and with his hands under her armpits, he lowered her until she sat. He crouched down, lifting her foot into his palm. With his other hand he used his thumb to gauge how deeply the sea urchin's spikes had penetrated. 'I'll need tweezers to extract these.' 'There are some in my cosmetics bag back at the . apartment,' she offered.

He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, revealing a sun-browned, strong body. Jasmine stared. 'Are you going swimming?' she asked plaintively. 'My foot's- -' 'In Malta,' Sloan answered, 'it gives offence if someone walks along the street in a swimsuit.' 'But can't I put my top and jeans on?' 'You could, but I'm not prepared to sit and wait while you wriggle into them. Hold out your arms.' She obeyed and he slipped his shirt on to them, easing it over her shoulders. 'Right.' She was lifted high until her arms were forced to curve round his neck. Her pulses raced at the feel of his skin, abrasive against her bare flesh. 'My clothes!' she exclaimed. Her arm stretched down. He lowered her to his knee, gathered her belongings and piled them on top of her. Then he straightened. 'That should help to cover your modesty. The rest of you,' his gaze was directed at her thighs and legs, 'will have to take its chance.' There were amused glances from passers-by, a few frowns, a few greetings. Sloan Lancaster, it seemed, was a familiar figure in the area. Reaching the stairs that took them to the apartment, Sloan said, 'They've all assumed you're my betrothed. Here, no other man but the woman's fiance would dare to carry her through the streets as I have done you.' 'Don't feel under any obligation,' she replied tartly as he slid her to stand on one foot but keeping his supporting arm round her waist. She hopped to a seat, wondering where Pam had gone. Sloan had disappeared into the bathroom. 'The tweezers are in the top drawer of the dressing table,' Jasmine called, 'in a zipped bag -'

He emerged holding them and crouched down again. 'Now, you'll have to grit your teeth. This might hurt.' She nodded apprehensively. 'Unfortunately there are two spikes. Lean forward and grip my shoulder, if you like.' 'No, thanks,' she dismissed, turning her head to one side, but when he started pressing with his thumb nails, one on each side of the spikes, she gasped and put her hands over her face. When the tweezers went to work, she gritted her teeth. She would not scream in front of this man! 'Oh,' she moaned, unable to contain the pain any longer, 'oh, please, please ...' Blindly she reached forward and gripped his shoulder, keeping the other hand over her face. Although her fingers tightened, feeling the bone beneath the shoulder muscle, he was like a rock. As she felt the tweezers move to extract the second spike, her fingers dug so deeply she was sure she must be hurting him, hut he did not utter a word of complaint. The pressure on her ceased suddenly, but she could not let herself relax. Sloan hadn't said it was all over, which meant there was more to come. When her foot was lifted higher and there was a fleeting pressure as if lips had briefly made their mark, her fingers slowly left his shoulder and her eyes fluttered open. 'A salute to a brave person,' he said, releasing her foot and standing. 'It's finished?' she whispered. 'They're out?' 'The operation's over. The patient survived.' For the first time there was a genuine smile on his face. He was transformed from the aloof, dispassionate observer into an ordinary human being, drawn along by the powerful current of the mainstream of life. At the sight of his bare, broad shoulders and the chest hairs that matched the dark hair on his arms, there was a response inside her

that frightened her by its nagging need. Hoping to distract his toodiscerning eyes, she said, 'Your shoulder—I hope I didn't hurt it?'He rubbed it briefly. 'You've left your mark on me for ever.' His mockery hurt and she frowned. 'I'm sorry if I have, but you did tell me to hold you.' 'Yes,' he spoke softly, 'I told you to hold me. Now, can you stand on that foot?* 'I'm not sure.' 'Come on, try.' Carefully she stood, putting pressure on it; gently at first, then with more confidence. He watched as a smile of relief and gratitude flooded her face. 'Good,' he commented. His hands stretched towards her and for one crazy moment she thought r his arms would go round her. Instead he peeled his shirt from Her shoulders, pulling it on to cover his own. A shiver brushed over her as she looked down at herself. On the beach her swimsuit had merged with the background. Here, in the living-room, it seemed almost indecently out of place. An agitated hand spread over her throat, while her other arm attempted to cover her midriff. Her eyes were large as she waited, transfixed by his appraising eyes, for his reaction. 'I'll get a robe,' she said hesitantly. His smile was, as usual, faint and irritating. 'Are you apologising for your near-naked state? Never do that to a man with good red blood flowing through his veins.' With narrowed eyes he looked her over. 'There's a wild, untamed animal in me, my sweet, that would, at the slightest encouragement, pounce on you and make you mine, every inch of you, every feature, every limb/

The coldness was back, trickling down her spine. As if he sensed her sudden inexplicable fear of him, he added as he prepared to leave, 'Don't worry, I won't lay a hand on you. Yet.'

CHAPTER FOUR IT was towards the end of the first week of the holiday that Jasmine saw Sloan Lancaster again. Pam had taken her sightseeing and for walks to beauty spots. Sometimes John had joined them and occasionally his friend Ernest, too. One afternoon they had walked to Salina Bay. It was a little more sheltered from the wind which now and then sprang up and blew across the island. They had walked across dry and dusty-yellow fields, along white tracks lined with white stone walls. It was, in the heat of the summer, as if the sun had bleached the colour from everything. There were tomato and grape crops growing, each placed in the fields at regular intervals from each other. The wind had whipped up the dry mud and blown it against their legs. By evening, after their return to the apartment, it had become even windier, and few people ventured out to the sea front. Pam said she had a letter to post to her mother back home, and as they walked along the promenade to the post box they were splashed with sea spray from the giant waves. It was a wild night and the young men who, on fine evenings, leant against the railings calling to the girls, were missing. Some had taken to their cars, however/ and Pam had warned Jasmine to ignore any driver who might call to them. Pam walked nearest to the road and Jasmine gasped when a car almost ran her friend down and then asked her if she wanted a lift. Pam strutted on with her head in the air, momentarily leaving Jasmine unprotected. A figure came running towards them and Pam, staring ahead with suspicion, recognised her boyfriend and ran into his arms. Jasmine felt even more alone, despite the fact that Pam and John waited for

her to catch them up. The cars drove by; but it was plain that Pam felt much safer with John's arm around her. Tact made Jasmine lag behind. Another car slowed down and a man called to her, Fear quickened her footsteps, but the man got out and stood in front of her. He caught her hand. 'A slim wrist,' he said, 'on a pretty girl. Come with me...' 'Pam! John!' Jasmine cried. 'Can you stop this man -!' There was a screech of brakes from a car behind them and Jasmine felt herself being swung away and pulled close - against another man's side. She fought for her freedom, terrified now. It was growing darker as the sun moved down to set and she was a stranger in an unknown land ... 'Quiet, little fool.' The voice was familiar, even the curtness was not resented, and Jasmine relaxed against Sloan's side. There was a string of words in a foreign language which Jasmine took to be Maltese, and the man who had approached her appeared to be apologising and trying to explain his innocent intentions. By the time the man had gone, Pam and John had joined them. John was apologising now. 'It is not unusual,' he explained to Jasmine, 'for any man to try to talk to a pretty girl, whether he's on foot or in a car.' He smiled. 'In your case, I cannot blame them. But I should have asked Ernest to keep an eye on you. If he'd been with you, this would not have happened.' Jasmine glimpsed the deepening of Sloan's frown and said, 'Please don't worry about it, John. And,' she took a chance, 'please, Pam, you go for a walk with John. Now -' just a little uncertainly she looked up at Sloan, 'now Sloan has come, he'll look after me, won't you, Sloan?'

An eyebrow flicked upward, but to Jasmine's relief, Sloan nodded. When Pam and John had gone, Sloan said, 'Should I take your welcome of my company as a compliment, or was my sudden appearance not only fortunate but convenient?' Jasmine pulled away from his side. 'The second,' she said abruptly. 'I don't want to be a nuisance to Pam now John has come.' She added stiffly, 'But thanks for coming to my rescue.' 'My car's along the road. Can I succeed where the other man failed? Will you join me in my car, lady?' Jasmine looked along the promenade for her friend, but despite the fact that few people were about, she could not see hen The wind was blowing her dress so much that she had to fight to keep the skirt in place. Her hair blew in her eyes and the sea spray was unrelenting in its apparent determination to soak her to the skin. 'I haven't any choice, have I?' she asked, looking up at him arid longing to push the hair from his eyes as well as her own. He smiled. 'How do you know I won't use you for the purpose for which some of those young men were hoping to use you?' 'You said you wouldn't touch me.' 'I added "yet". Remember?' The wind scurried around her body, making her shiver. Sloan took the jacket from her arm and helped her on with it, covering the top of the sundress which she had worn all the afternoon. They were approaching Sloan's villa in the semi- darkness. 'One day,' she said, 'I suppose I'll see your house in daylight.'

He braked in front of the entrance door. 'You foresee a future to our acquaintance?' Acquaintance! He hadn't even referred to it as a 'friendship'. 'No, I don't,' she snapped. 'In fact, I don't know why I came with you this evening.' 'I thought it was because you didn't want to be a nuisance to Pam and her boy-friend?' Jasmine knew why she had really agreed to go with him—because the man fascinated her so much she would go wherever he beckoned. 'That's true,' she agreed provocatively. 'I decided instead to be a nuisance to you.' As he opened the car door the roof light came on and she saw his tight smile. The elegance of his living-room made her conscious of her own lack of it. What was a girl with her uncomplicated background and simple way of life doing in such lavish surroundings? The concealed lighting muted the glowing colours of the decor. The furniture fabric had a velvety, seductive feel, the exotic flower arrangements scented the air with faint perfume. Obediently she sat in the armchair he had indicated. In a dream she accepted the glass of liquid he placed in her- hand. Glancing up, she caught his musing, slightly taunting smile, and her skin prickled. She could almost feel the caress of his eyes over the shoulders she had bared by removing her jacket. He sat on a cushion placed on a tiled seating area. He still seemed amused at something about her and she fidgeted under his gaze. 'What's the matter?' she asked tensely. 'Is there something wrong?' 'You're different.'

'From what?' Her disquiet grew. 'From our first meeting? From this morning?' 'From my other—women friends.' She shifted edgily. 'Have there been many?* 'They'd fill a book.' Then he smiled at her deep frown. 'Jealous?' 'Why should I be?' she asked hoarsely. 'Because you want me to marry you.' Expressed that way, it humiliated, which had no doubt been his intention. 'I told you,' she said with a hint of desperation, 'it would only be for one purpose -' He interrupted brusquely, 'I know it off by heart.' For a while she was silenced. There was no sound, not even the ticking of a clock. She did not know how long she could stand his brooding gaze. Now and then he sipped his drink, as she did hers. When the glass was empty, she put it down. He asked if she- would like another. Jasmine shook her head and enquired boldly, 'Have you a girl-friend now?' 'One you would supplant if I accepted your proposal?' Did he have to phrase the suggestion in such humiliating terms? He shook his head. 'However, I have a woman in England.' He moved to an armchair, stretched out his legs and lowered his head back. 'A woman!' she choked. 'As if a woman were a saleable commodity!'

He looked at her with mock innocence. 'Aren't they? Isn't that what you are? Isn't money your sole motivation in finding a husband— that is, the release of that money ?' 'Maybe it is,' she answered agitatedly, 'but you don't understand. You wouldn't understand even if I explained.' 'Try my understanding,' he said, looking at her through half-closed eyes. His cynical scrutiny incensed her. 'What I do with that money once I get it is none of your business!' His eyes were as hard as the rocks on th£ sea bed. When she looked at him it was as painful as stubbing her toe on one of them. 'Do you never bring your girl-friend here to Malta?' she hit back, knowing he would resent her intrusion into his affairs. 'Never.' 'You keep her out, then? You "lock your door", as you said?' 'I do,' was his bland reply. 'But I'm here.' 'Yes.' His eyes never left her. 'Mainly because you forced your way in.' 'I did not! You brought me here.' 'What else could I do with you? Dump you in the sea?' 'If that's all you think of me ...' Jasmine stood quickly, making for the door.

Sloan was in front of her, grasping her arms. 'You came here to be a nuisance to me. Your words.' She tried to twist away, but his grip tightened, making imprints which would later turn to bruises. To avoid his eyes, she strained to inspect her arms, but he shook her. 'Look at me, Jasmine.' It was a command and her willpower had deserted her. She looked at him. It was as though her face were a visual display screen and he was reading the message there. It was a message she could not herself unravel, for she was behind it. What was he reading, 'what were her eyes, her faintly tremulous lips, her impudently jutting chin, telling him as he interpreted and analysed? His face to her was like a blank screen. It isn't fair, she thought, that he should tell me so little about his thoughts and emotions. Nor did his actions divulge his feelings except, maybe, that he wanted a, woman in his arms, a warm mouth to kiss, and arms around his neck which clung,: fingers which pushed in responsive pleasure through his hair. Her flesh was tingling, her skin coming alive as it made contact with his bared arms, , the hard chest beneath the unbuttoned shirt. As his arms pressed her still closer, there was the invigorating abrasion of taut muscles against the yielding pliability of her body. Her very bones were surely melting, her head spinning in space. When he lifted her, carrying her to a couch she had not even noticed, lowering her on to it and placing himself beside her, there was in her movements no uncoiling spring of resistance pushing him from her. Instead there was a reaching out of her arms, a flush of desire over her cheeks and a light in her eyes. Opening inside her like an exotic plant to the sun was a sensation she had never known before— the longing to belong to this man and no other, because now she knew that she loved him and that whatever he asked of her she would give.

'Why,' he murmured, nuzzling her ear and cupping in his hand the thrusting fullness of her breast, 'do you want this money your grandfather left you, sweetheart?' Despite the endearment, the question shattered the dream world in which she had been floating and brought her hurtling back to reality. While she had been mindless, weightless almost, with newly-discovered love, Sloan had merely been exploring her sensuality, his brain continuing to function with cold, reasoned normality. Feeling her withdrawal from his possessive caresses, he lifted himself from her and stood, hands in pockets, shirt hanging free, looking devilish and heartbreakingly attractive in the subdued, seductive light. Pushing at her hair, Jasmine sat up, pulling back the shoulder straps of her dress which had slipped down her arms. With the back of her hand she felt her burning cheeks. 1 told you/ she answered heatedly, 'that it's entirely my business what I do with that money.' 'If I act as the key to unlock the trunk that contains the golden hoard of treasure, I think I deserve an explanation as to why you're so anxious to lay your hands on it. And why,' he added sneeringly, 'you're so willing to allow me to lay my hands on you.' 'You're despicable!' She stood, confronting him. 'You're no better than those men who want to get a girl in their car for one reason only!' 'No better,' he agreed with a hard glint of amusement, 'and no worse. Physically, basically, I have the same instincts and desires. I respond in the same way as they do to a pretty, willing young woman.' 'Now I know why I'm here,' she threw back. 'Not because I "forced my way in", as you said, nor because you didn't know what to do with me, but because you wanted a woman.'

'I asked you a question.' His eyes glinted again, this time with anger. 'Why do you want this money?' Her anger matched his. Now she knew why he had brought her to his villa—for what he could get from her in the way of satisfying his desires—nothing would make her tell him the truth. 'I want it,' she invented, 'for myself, only myself. So now you know.' His mouth twisted, his eyes were spiked with contempt. 'Mercenary little bitch, aren't you?' he snarled. She winced but stood her ground. 'If,' he persisted, 'I agreed to your proposal, you'd not only go through all your late grandfather's money but mine too.' 'I wouldn't touch a single penny of your money.' 'No, I guess you wouldn't need to,' he sneered. 'You'd have enough of your own to last you into old age and beyond.' 'If that's how you think of me,' to her horror her voice broke, 'I don't know h-how you could considers relationship between us, wwhether casual or legal. Or how,' she hurled at him from the door, 'you c-could even defile your hands by touching me as you did tonight.' Rushing blindly to the entrance door, she fumbled for the catch and fled down the drive, fearing that any moment he would catch up with her. A swift glance back told her he had not followed. The journey from the apartment had seemed so fast in the car. On foot, in the dark, in an unknown country, it was slow and, at times, frightening. The wind had persisted, the cars still moved along the street, tooting and occasionally stopping, with the driver's head stretching across with an invitation of a lift.

A car did stop and Jasmine was reminded of the incident earlier that evening, when the man had actually left his driving seat. Again it seemed to be happening. A young man was getting out, coming towards her... As she recognised the features of the person approaching, her body went limp with relief. 'Ernest,' she exclaimed, 'I'm so glad to see you!' His arm went round her and he escorted her to his car. 'You would like a lift home? How come that you are alone, Jasmine? Where's Pam?' Jasmine explained that Pam had gone for a walk with John and that a friend had given her a lift and ... A car swerved out from behind Ernest's car, overtook it and passed into the darkness. So Sloan had followed her after all. Watching over her or spying? Jasmine told herself she didn't care. It was nothing but hate she felt for him now, and even if he changed his mind about her proposal, she would never accept him as a husband.

The second week of the vacation was filled with hours of swimming, alternating with lying in the sun. Jasmine took the daily precaution of covering herself with suntan oil to prevent her skin from burning. With John and Ernest as escorts they visited" souvenir shops and cafes by day, attending discotheques and local dances at night. One morning they went in Ernest's car to see some of the many beauty spots on the island. They drove the short distance from the apartment to Salina Bay again, but John was the only, one of the group to take a swim.

Over the other side of the bay, Ernest explained, was a main road. At the end of the bay, shallow walls in the shape of a large square had been built, so that at low tide, water was left inside the square. The water would then evaporate, leaving large deposits of salt. In Maltese, he explained, Salina meant salt and the water, even at St Paul's Bay where they had also swum, was salty enough to make the swimmer buoyant. Swimsuits, Pam added, even dried hard from it. On the day before Jasmine and Pam's departure from Malta, Jasmine experienced a fierce longing to see Sloan Lancaster again. His face had haunted her night and day since the moment she had run from him. He had made no effort to contact her, and she realised that he might not know that their vacation had been limited to only two weeks. Now and then she had seen his car among the many others along the sea front. Sometimes she thought she had. seen his dark head towering above other people's as they walked along the promenade or visited gift shops. But every time it had happened, she had decided it had been an illusion. She had forced her eyes to move, only to find then! swinging back to where she thought she had seen him, but the man, or the illusion, had gone. 'Pam,' she said that evening, 'I think I should -' 'If you like,' Pam had said hesitantly, 'you could call on -' They had spoken at once and laughed, Jasmine with relief, Pam at seeing that relief in her friend's face. 'You like him, don't you?' said Pam. Jasmine frowned. 'Pam, I -' She shook her head, wishing she could explain, to herself as well as to her friend, how she felt about Sloan Lancaster.

Pam sighed. 'It doesn't seem to have worked out as we planned, does it? Didn't you even try -?''Yes, I tried, but When I asked him if he'd—that is, I proposed to him,' it hurt badly to speak those degrading words, 'he—well, he -' 'Refused?' Pam stared. 'But how awful for you I I'd have wanted to hit him. After all, he hasn't any ties.' 'Somewhere there's a woman, though. He tQld me.' 'Then if she means something to him, why doesn't he marry her, or at least get engaged?' 'Likes his freedom too much, obviously. He says when he's here, in Malta, he shuts out the world and writes and writes.' 'He didn't shut out you, Jasmine.' That, she thought, was her only hope. But what use was hope now, when tomorrow she and Pam would be gone, back to England, leaving him here, with no chance of seeing him again? 'You could at least say goodbye,' Pam commented, and Jasmine decided she would do just that.

Raising her hand to lift the heavy black door knocker to say that 'goodbye' was one of the most difficult actions Jasmine had ever taken. Ernest had brought her in his car to the end of the drive leading to the villa. Now she was alone and any moment— she could hear footsteps from inside—she would be facing the man from whom she had run so precipitately a few evenings before.

His greeting could hardly be called welcoming. 'What are you doing here?' he demanded, showing no intention of standing aside to let her in. His polo-necked shirt was a dark red, his slacks brown and wellfitting. His thick brows were compressed in a frown. 'I've come to say goodbye.' Did she have to sound so lacking in confidence, so abashed by this, man's cool manner? His frown gave way to mild surprise. 'You're leaving Malta without achieving your objective?' 'What might that have been?' She hoped her own coolness would intimidate him, but she hoped in vain. 'To use me for your own self-seeking ends.' 'Sloan, I was asking nothing more of you,' she deliberately spoke in the past tense, hoping to imply that she now accepted that nothing would make him change his mind about either her personality or her proposal, 'than for you to go through a simple ceremony with me and put your signature to- -' He seized her arm and pulled her into the villa. 'You're making a mockery of the marriage ceremony.' How. could I be, she wanted to cry, when I love you, when I want to be a proper wife to you, when I want to bear your children...? The anguished phrases stayed inside her mind, fading unnoticed like words scrawled in expelled breath on cold glass. 'I'm sorry if that's how you see it.' She added, her voice muffled, 'On reflection, maybe you're right. I'll leave the money to rot in the bank.' Then she remembered Michael, recalling the dark shadows round his eyes, and how every evening he sprawled exhausted in the

one tattered armchair the living- room possessed. How his baby brother cried for attention and how frequently his other brother and his sister quarrelled... Jasmine returned to the present, straightening her sagging shoulders. 'I can't forgo that money, Sloan. I must have it.' 'Must? Must?' Her change of mind seemed to •have infuriated him beyond reason. 'To enable you to give up work, to buy jewellery, furs, a large car. To lift yourself out of the social circle to which you belong into a world of sophistication and elegance and artificiality--' 'No, no! Look, forget it, will you? I told you before to forget I ever mentioned it. If the money stays out of my reach,' she shrugged, 'okay, so it stays out of my reach.' And Michael's, the persistent voice in her brain added. Turning to the door, she said, 'Goodbye, Sloan. It's been nice knowing you.' Her shoulder was grasped and her body swung to face him. He pulled her stumbling behind him into the living area. 'Find another man!' he rasped. 'The one into whose car you climbed so readily the other evening when you ran out on me: Climbed into his bed, too, I imagine.' 'That wasn't just any man,' she threw back. 'That was Ernest, a friend of John's, Pam's boy-friend. Ernest was with me when I trod on that sea urchin.' 'I do remember the name,' he returned dryly, his anger abating as his acceptance of her statement grew that she had known the car driver. 'So why not put your proposal to him?'

Jasmine walked across to the shelf on which the exotic pot plants grew. Her fingers felt the smooth coldness of the tiled surface. 'It's always been my .belief that, in marriage, there should be compatibility of intellect as well as—as mutual attraction.' 'You told me,' Sloan said to her back, 'that it would be no ordinary marriage. A ceremony, a ring —nothing else.' He had caught her out. Somehow she must con- real .the fact. 'It—it wouldn't be fair, would it, to tie such a young man down to a—a marriage like that?' 'So in your eyes, I'm old.' The sharpness of his question had her swinging to face him. 'I didn't say that. Of course you're not old. You're just --' 'Right' had been the word she had so nearly spoken. 'You're worldly, sophisticated, independent. You can look after yourself. The women in your social circle wouldn't let a little matter like marriage to a wife in name get in their way. Nor would you, if you wanted them— well,' she stole an embarrassed glance at him, 'physically.' 'You're insulting me, my sweet.' The endearment was spoken with such coldness she shivered, in spite of the heat. Her lips moved in an apology of sorts, but he continued relentlessly, 'Suppose I wanted you—physically, after the wedding ceremony.' He moved a pace or two nearer. 'What would Jasmine Lancaster do then, hmm?' Her wide eyes reflected her dismay. 'Yes,' he went on, 'you'd have my name, which I would give to you. You would be my next of kin who would, if I were stupid enough to die intestate, inherit my money and my possessions.'

'I'd claim nothing/Sloan, I swear. After the ceremony -how cold that word was beginning to sound, 'nothing would alter as far as I'm concerned.' Once more she was pleading, she realised, thus breaking her vow never to do so again to this man. His ice-cool detachment maddened her, her own entreaty sickening as it rang in her ears. 'Forget it,' she choked, 'forget it, will you?' Her voice rose to nearhysteria. 'I can't stand it any more, the—the humiliation of pleading with you to—to marry me. I hate you for .it, do you understand?' Her throat was choked with tears, her hair awry as she rubbed a hand over it in her despair. 'Proposing to a man you hate would not be fulfilling the condition encompassed in the clause in your grandfather's will.' His accurate reasoning, spoken so unemotionally in the face of her distress, broke through the dam of her control and she lunged forward, gripping his shirt in two bunches, pulling at the material with such strength that he grasped her wrists to still her movements. 'Let go,' he commanded, but her response was to remain like a statue staring wildly, despairingly, into his eyes. His grip tightened until she cried out. 'Now let go.' She began to sob. Tears slid down her burning cheeks and her will to fight trickled away. As her muscle tension slackened so her hold on his shirt loosened and his punishing grip relaxed. When the moment of release came, she sank in a heap to the floor, her body racked with sobs. The thick-piled rug grew damp with her tears, but she did not care. Nor did she care that she lay in a heap at the feet of the man who had spurned her pleas, tamed her temper and finally crushed her pride out of existence. As her sobs grew less he spoke.

'It's a deal, Jasmine. I'll marry you.'

CHAPTER FIVE 'WHEN'S the wedding going to be?' Pam asked eagerly as she sat with Jasmine in the living-room drinking a final cup of tea. Pam's cases stood near the entrance door ready to be carried to the taxi which would take her to the airport next morning. 'He didn't say, except that he wanted to finish his book rather than interrupt it at the climax of the story.' Sloan had used more cynical words, but Jasmine did not feel inclined to repeat them to Pam. He didn't want to disrupt the smooth course of his book, he had siiid, by taking such a cataclysmic step as getting married, returning to the book a wiser and a sadder man. At which statement Jasmine had wanted to throw something at him, but she had stayed, oh the surface, commendably calm. 'I suppose that when he does return to England, he'll be handing the book in at his publisher's office?' Pam hazarded. Jasmine replied that she imagined so. 'Though how,' Pam continued, 'he can even think about his work when he's just become engaged …' She sighed and shook her head. 'There's no romance about our engagement,' Jasmine told her flatly. She remembered how Sloan had lifted her from the rug to her feet and handed her his handkerchief to dry her tears. From the moment of his acceptance of her proposal, he had turned once more into an aloof stranger. Which was an improvement, she supposed, on the merciless, ice-cold man he had become when she had loosed her fury on to him earlier. He had asked, 'You're due to leave tomorrow?' When she had nodded, he had told her to cancel her booking on the aircraft and remain in Malta. 'You can stay on at Delia Dawson's apartment. Since I'm now officially your fiance, I shall become responsible for

your welfare. If necessary, I'll pay any rent for the flat that she might want.' Having told Pam this, her friend exclaimed, 'Aunt Delia ask for rent? She wouldn't dream of it. She knows you very well, and she knows Sloan Lancaster, too. She'll let you stay here as long as you want, especially once she knows you're going to marry him.' 'It's not an ordinary marriage, Pam, I keep telling you that. You know very well why I'm -' 'I know, I know,' Pam broke in, 'but love will come, I'm sure it will.' 'I'll have to resign from my job,' Jasmine reminded her. 'Sloan insisted.' 'There you are, then!' Pam exclaimed. 'He's prepared already to take responsibility for you. He must feel something.' Deciding not to spoil Pam's dreams of romance, Jasmine smiled and said nothing. Her thoughts returned to Sloan's living-room, when she had sat curled in the chair, her head resting listlessly on a cushion. He had walked about the room, detached, unreachable, his eyes looking inward. All compassion seemed to have left him. The arrangement to which he had just agreed—marriage to her—had become a business deal and like the participants of such a deal, there was not a glimpse of emotion between, the two parties concerned. Cold reason blew like a freezing wind through every look he gave her. He had called her mercenary, and it seemed that, in his opinion, mercenary she would remain. 'Will you hand in my letter of resignation to the personnel office on Monday for me?' Jasmine asked.

Pam nodded, sighing again. 'You don't know how lucky you are. I'd give a lot to be in your shoes.' Again Jasmine decided not to disillusion her. Nor did she say, I wish it were you and not me who's going to marry Sloan Lancaster. She didn't say it because, curiously, she did not wish it. She wanted no one to marry Sloan Lancaster but herself. In the early hours, when sleep still had not come, she watched the orange flame eat its way through the green spiral of the 'Moontiger' which, with its strong-scented smoke, kept the mosquitoes at bay. It was then that she admitted to herself that she was deeply in love with the man. It's ironic, she thought, turning restlessly, how Grandfather was right after all. I have asked the man of my choice to marry me, but that man must never, ever, discover how much I love him.

Now Pam had gone and Jasmine was alone in the apartment, alone on a warm golden morning that promised to grow even warmer as the day progressed. She had gone to the airport and waved her friend off. Just before leaving, "Pam had hugged hex and promised on her return to contact Aunt Delia. 'I'll let you know her answer,' Pam had said, 'but you can be sure that it will be "go ahead" and stay for as long as you like.'Clearing away the breakfast dishes, Jasmine wondered what to do with herself during the hours ahead. Deciding it was time she washed a few items of clothing, she did so and climbed to the roof to hang them to dry. Mrs Galea was there before her, pegging sheets and towels to her own clothes line.

'Has Pam gone now?' Mrs Galea asked, as Jasmine fixed her washing to Aunt Delia's line. 'And you're staying on. Pam told me your good news when she came to say goodbye to me and John. I'm so happy for you, dear,' Mrs Galea's hand patted her arm. 'It all happened so fast, didn't it? It must have been love at first sight, just like me and my husband. But that was many years ago. I suppose. Mr Lancaster didn't want you to go back home without him? He must love you very much to -' 'Mrs Galea, he -' 'He does indeed, Mrs Galea,' said a voice behind them. Sloan's climb to the roof must have been covered by their voices. His arm went round Jasmine's stiffening back and she glanced up at him rebelliously. When she saw his smile, the light in his eyes, the slightly unruly appearance of his hair and clothes, as though they had been worn all night, her heart swirled and billowed like the clothes on the line. His head lowered and he kissed her for good measure. Mrs Galea made a little crowing sound of delight. Jasmine, however, almost gasped with pain as the needle-sharp bristles around Sloan's mouth and chin pressed into her tender skin. Breaking free of his lips, she ran protesting fingers over the black stubble. 'You haven't shaved!' she accused, and Mrs Galea, chuckling, left them. Sloan's manner altered at once. 'I've been up all night.' 'Working on your book?' 'What else?' He strolled towards the parapet and leant against it. He scanned the faintly ruffled sea, the dusty shore, the white, flatroofed buildings. 'I was caught up on a wave of that elusive thing, inspiration. Even if I'd gone to bed I wouldn't have slept until I'd put the words down on paper and out of my system.'

'So that's what I can expect,' Jasmine commented, smiling and pushing the surplus clothes pegs into her apron pocket, 'when I'm married to you. An empty space in the bed and the sound of a tapping typewriter down -' Too late she realised what she had said. Her hand covered her mouth, consternation widened her eyes. Slowly Sloan turned, but without changing his position. 'Why, have you changed your mind about sleeping with me ?' 'No I My mind accidentally jumped a couple of gears. I must have imagined for a mad moment that the man I was going to marry was the man I loved.' He moved at last, strolling towards her, hands in pockets. His shirt was open to the waist, his sleeves were rolled up. Perspiration made the shirt fabric stick to his skin, glisten on his forehead and around his sensual mouth. 'Whether you love me or not doesn't matter a damn/ he said, gripping her upper arms and jerking her against him. 'You're becoming my wife. The matter's settled and no more arguments. Emotional disturbances cause earth tremors in the mind of a creative writer. I'm not going to allow you to create the conditions which swallow up large chunks of the worlds I invent, never to be seen again. And any vacillation on "your part with regard to marrying me, now you've coerced me into doing so -' 1 didn't coerce you,' she replied indignantly. 'The final decision was yours.' He searched her face in a faintly licentious way. Jasmine tried to free herself, feeling the pain of his grip begin to numb her flesh. 'Don't worry,' she said between her teeth, 'I won't back down. I want that money too much to -'

His mouth hit hers like a hammer, pressing her teeth into the softness of her inner lips, forcing them apart until his teeth ground against hers. His kiss forced her head back and she tasted the tiredness of him, felt the moisture of his upper lip and chin, smelt the tang of perspiration from his body. The whole combined to excite in her wayward longings, an urge to abandon civilised behaviour and join as one with him in the most primitive of ways until no barrier of any kind existed between them. Sloan must have felt her overwhelming wish to surrender, because he lifted his head, jerking her upright and laughing, devil-like, in her face. It made her want to swing her hand and hit him, but he must have sensed her wish, pinning her hands to her thighs and allowing his fingertips to press around the flesh there. Jasmine tore from him, her breasts against her tee-shirt lifting high and low as her lungs attempted to function properly. 'If that's love after marriage, I don't like it, do you hear?' she lied. 'From now on keep your hands off me.' His heavy eyes gleamed as they examined her face again? no longer calm like the sea below but storm- lashed and outraged. 'I could arouse you with my lips without touching you with my hands,' he declared softly. He approached and she retreated. 'And if you deny it, my sweet, I'll give you a demonstration at the slightest lift of your disdainful, impudent nose.' 'It's not you I want,' she answered insultingly, 'but your signature on a marriage certificate and a ring. Nothing more.' As he started to advance again she turned and fled. In the living-room, he sprawled in the armchair into which he had thrown himself. His legs stretched wide, his arms rested on the chair's arms. His head was back, his eyes closed—or half open, Jasmine could not tell for sure. She busied herself about the room,

dusting here, tidying there. When she stole a glance at him over her shoulder, she saw that his- breathing was regular and his head was turned to one side. Unaware as he was, she watched him sleeping. The impulse to touch him was so strong she was forced to grip her elbows. His hair fell over his forehead, perspiration stood in beads on his chest, dampening the hairs. His slacks were creased, his feet inside his leather sandals dust-covered. He had unfastened his belt and it hung loosely from his lean waist. So powerful was the feeling to crouch beside him and rest her cheek against his thigh, to take his drooping hand and press it to her cheek, the tee- shirt she wore became soaked with her own sweat and she went into the bedroom to change. Searching in the cupboard she found a strapless sundress and pulled the tee-shirt over her head, tugging when its dampness clung to her skin. With her back to the door she stepped out of her jeans—:and felt two hands close over her shoulders, turning her round. Dark eyes looked her over, a dark head bent. Lips found the piquant points of her shapeliness and she stood helpless, tense with longing, staring into mocking eyes. 'So it's not myself that my bride-to-be wants? She doesn't want my hands on her,, she doesn't like the kind of "love" I offer?' Jasmine could not move. Even her lips were stiff and held in bondage, not by superior physical power, but by his dark gaze. 'There's not much more of my future wife for my eyes to see, and having seen, desire.' His palms slid down her arms to her wrists, holding them loosely. 'Don't you think, my beauty, you should put on a few more clothes? If a neighbour called, mightn't they get the

wrong idea? And wouldn't your reputation lie in ruins in this traditionally-minded country?' Gathering the fragments which were all that was left of her pride, she swung away, saying accusingly, 'I didn't invite you into the bedroom. You should have been more gentlemanly and stayed in there while I dressed.' 'A gentleman where an almost naked woman's concerned?' His laugh rang out, turning him, with his unkempt appearance, into the near-devil he looked. 'Believe me or not, I came to ask you where the shower was. I had the added bonus of a beautiful girl disrobing. Can you blame me for staying to watch —and touch? Especially as the girl has as good as sold herself to me. What some women will do for money!' 'Would you get out?' Her sundress was on, and she felt safer now she was clothed. When he didn't move, she pointed to a door leading off the living- room. 'The shower's in the bathroom through there. You can use the large towel, if you don't mind mixing the breed.' 'Mind? My love, it's something I have every intention of doing after we're married.' Her eyes sought his warily. Surely he was teasing? His smile was so enigmatic, there was no way of telling. Some time later he emerged, wet hair smoothed down, his body shining clean, his face unshaven. The black stubble did not seem to worry him, nor did his nakedness to the waist. He held up his dripping shirt. 'I washed this in the basin. Where are the pegs to fix it to the clothes line?' Jasmine took some from a drawer and handed them to him. His footsteps sounded loud overhead and when he came down from the roof, she asked, 'Are you going to walk about all the time like that?'

'I've a spare shirt in my car. Why, does my bare torso annoy you?' 'Annoy me?' She looked boldly at the solidity and strength of him, her gaze faltering suddenly as her senses were assailed by the increasingly insistent longing which fountained inside her every time she saw him. 'Of course not,' she declared, hoping he would not detect her attempt at bluff. His smile told her he had. Having perceived her apparent vulnerability, he played with it, moving towards her. His arms opened wide in silent invitation, his mouth curving with that same enigmatic smile. Once again Jasmine was held in bondage, by the sheer magnetism of the man. Her legs would not move, allowing her to step backwards, simply because her brain was telling them to stay right where they were. If her pulses throbbed any more, she thought, she would surely shake with the hammering of them. 'Let yourself go,' he urged softly. 'Go ahead, put your arms around me. That's what you want to do, isn't it?' Jasmine did not move. 'Kiss me, just like I kissed you.' The tension of her body was at breaking point, yet she shook her head. A single glance into his hooded, faintly taunting eyes broke the spell and she half ran towards him, curling her arms about his waist. First her cheek found his chest, then her lips crept round to touch his flesh, cool and dry now, after his shower. One arm held her to him, the other hooked her chin upwards. When his mouth covered hers, she welcomed it, softening her lips and allowing him access. The rub of his stubble made her face tingle. He lifted his head. 'You taste sweet and fresh and unspoiled. Yet I can't believe there's been no man before me.'

How should she answer? There's someone called Michael... He loves me, but I don't reciprocate ... All the same, I want my grandfather's money so I can help him,... 'There's a boy-friend,' she said. 'Is it serious,?' Was there the faintest cutting edge to his tone? 'I'm kissing the man I'm going to marry, so it can't be, can it?' 'That's no answer.' A short pause, then, 'No, it's not serious.' She had meant to speak tonelessly, conveying indifference, but by the narrowing of his eyes, it seemed Sloan had interpreted the statement as arising from sadness. Her eyes searched his. 'I said it's not serious.' 'Should it matter to me even if it were?' Abruptly she disengaged herself from his arms. 'If you want to back out....' 'Have I given the slightest indication that I want to?' She shook her head. He felt his stubble. 'A razor —ah, yes, John downstairs. I'll call on Mrs Galea.' At the door he turned. 'Don't worry. I'll explain the situation so that she won't think I stayed the night;' His smile was mocking, but he gave her no chance to retaliate. Ten minutes later he returned, clean-shaven and wearing his shirt. 'Come on,' he said, 'we're going to Mellieha Bay.' Jasmine looked out of the window. 'It's a bit windy for sunbathing.'

'It's reasonably sheltered there, and the beach is sandy. I have a picnic lunch in the ear which my housekeeper packed for us.' 'I didn't know you had a housekeeper. What's her name?' 'Mrs Vella. She comes in every day and treats me like another son. I've told her about my approaching marriage, and she was delighted, as I knew she would be, being a true Maltese. They dearly love announcements of weddings.' 'Will we——' She was treading on delicate ground. 'Will we marry here, Sloan?' 'No. I aim to finish my book first, then take it with me back to England to my publishers. We can be married then. I assume you'll be satisfied with a straightforward ceremony?' He had spoken without expression and she bent to flick dust from her sandals. Anything to avoid looking at him ... 'Quite satisfied, thank you.' The bay was occupied by tourists, the inhabitants still being at work. Jasmine, who had changed into her swimsuit before leaving the apartment, found the water cool and invigorating. She revelled in being able to swim where there were few or no rocks, and without occasionally stubbing her toes. Sloan swam for a while, then he came towards her, grabbing her flailing legs and pulled her along. Finally she relaxed and enjoyed the sensation of being towed on her back. His hands moved along to find her thighs and it was not in her to stop him. When possessive hands moved higher, she forced herself to protest, trying to prise his fingers from her tingling flesh. 'We're not married yet!'

He released her. 'There's a promise in those words,' he said, and dived under the water. When he waded out and dropped down beside their belongings, Jasmine decided to carry on. She was not consciously displaying her figure, but she was aware that Sloan watched her every moment. There were shouts as a group of young men ran splashing into the water. They spoke in their native language, Maltese, and by their looks seemed to be making flattering comments about her. 'Hi,' one of them said in English. 'Are you a visitor?' He swam towards her, and was followed by one of his friends. He reached out to touch her shoulder. 'Are 'you a mermaid?' Jasmine kicked up her legs and they laughed. 'No mermaid—a girl, a nice girl. You come out with me tonight?' Pam had warned her that she should be careful not to encourage attention from the young men. They were, as Sloan had said, traditional in their approach to their own women, and would not look upon her in the same light. Someone threw a ball and, in an effort to distract their minds from her, Jasmine reached out, leaping in vain. They laughed and repeated the exercise. An arm looped itself round her waist and she was pulled roughly against a man's hard body. The man whose body was far more mature than those of the young men—Jasmine recognised the fact as his legs swung up to support her—spoke to the group in fluent Maltese. They backed away, and from their expressions it seemed that they were apologising. Their frowns disappeared into smiles as they watched with male pleasure as Sloan dragged Jasmine from the water and pushed her

across the beach. All the time she tried to resist, but he held her wrists firmly. 'What did you say to them?' she demanded. 'That you were my woman and would they kindly look for their own.' He looked down at her dripping figure as they sat side by side. 'You don't know what they were doing, do you? Why they were throwing that ball above you?' Jasmine thought a moment, then coloured. 'To— to see my—my -' 'Shapeliness, yes. All your attractions, which are, I must admit, even to my—impartial eye, considerable.' His grin mocked and she picked up a handful of sand and threw it at him. He brushed it, still grinning, from his neck and shoulders. " There was laughter nearby and the group of young men were passing on their way back to change and return to work. Jasmine grabbed a towel to hide herself from their interested eyes, and they laughed even more. Sloan reclined on an elbow. 'Dry your hair. The sun will dry the rest. Then we'll eat.' Faintly irritated by his autocratic tone, Jasmine obeyed, but only because it was the most sensible thing to do. He raked in a large beach bag and brought out bulging rolls, pastries and fresh fruit. When they had eaten their fill, he pushed the remains of the picnic into the bag and put it aside. Sighing with repletion, Jasmine lay back, delighting in the sun's heat, the drying breeze, the toss and tumble of the waves. When fingers walked down her profile, she snapped at them as they reached her mouth, missing them. Opening her eyes, she smiled up into the golden brown ones above her.

Her breathing stilled at the look in his. His smile faded and a strange seriousness took over. Her eyes squeezed shut. She did not want to see the question there, since she knew that if he ever asked it of her, it would be a near-impossibility for her to tell him 'no'. A movement told her he was lying full-length, too. An arm came across her, pressing on her midriff. Its . very possessiveness annoyed her. 'Take it away,' she told him, but there was no response. Repeating the order, she waited, but the arm remained. A feeling swept her, of gladness that he had ignored her request. Small flames were being lit inside her, and when his arm moved higher, enabling his hand to find and fondle her breast, her whole body was in danger of catching fire. When she could not stand the touch of him any longer without responding in kind to his caressing hand, she jack-knifed upright, succeeding at last in dislodging his hand. Looking down at him, she waited for anger, but a lazy smile came her way. Gazing around, Jasmine saw a silver-domed church standing out against the skyline, among a group of flat-roofed white apartment blocks. Now and then, the sun was hidden by clouds and the air grew cold, making her shiver. 'Sloan, I'm going to dress.' His outspread fingers indicated that she should do whatever she wanted. In a few moments her sundress was on and buttoned from top to hem. Her sandals were fastened, her hair combed. 'Tonight,' said Sloan, in the car, 'I shall take you to a village called Balzan, which is near to the centre of the island. It's holding its annual festa. Would you like that?' Jasmine nodded her acquiescence and he drove her back to the apartment. The heat of the afternoon was growing intense. 'Have

your siesta,' he told her, 'and conserve your energies for this evening's outing.' Before he left her at the apartment door, he tilted her chin and kissed her waiting mouth. 'You were expecting that, weren't you?' he said, smiling. 'No,' she said, but to her consternation, her head nodded. Sloan laughed jeeringly at her ambivalence and called as he left, 'I'll come for you later.' Since she had arrived in Malta, Jasmine had grown used to the afternoon rest. The temperature was too high to do much else, and it had become a habit to imitate the island's inhabitants and sleep for an hour or two. Hooking open the door so that a breeze swept through from the living-room balcony to the bedroom, she lay in the heat watching the white curtains billow in the gentle wind and listening to the buzz of a fly trapped in the room. Even the habitual noises of people calling to each other,-of traffic bumping past, of ice cream and pasta vans playing 'Waltzing Matilda' or 'Edelweiss' began to fade as the somnolence of the siesta took oyer, and Jasmine slept. When she awoke, perspiration covered her, even though she had removed her sundress and lay uncovered. The door to the apartment was pushed open and the gentle breeze grew to a strong gust. Thinking it was Mrs Galea, who sometimes called to see her, Jasmine said invitingly, 'Come in/ When Sloan appeared in the doorway and leant indolently against the frame, she exclaimed indignantly, 'Get out!' 'First it's "come", then it's "go". Make up your mind, my love.' 'I'm not your love!'

He wandered over to sit beside her. 'I used the expression out of habit.' His eyes, as they slid over her in her state of deshabille, were tinged with derision. Jasmine was glad she was wearing the equivalent of the swim- suit she had worn on the beach that morning. Sloan, however, seemed to find the two small pieces of clothing of even greater interest than the swimsuit. His fingers ran from her throat to the cleft between her breasts. He lifted his hand and said, 'You're very damp.' 'And your—your audacity is outrageous! You've got a cheek to come in here -' 'You didn't say that this morning.' The statement silenced her for a moment, then she attacked, 'If you call a woman "my love" out of habit, how many women have fallen under your devastating spell in the past—and been kicked out of the way by your well-shod feet?' His hand fastened round her throat. 'Sarcasm when you're so vulnerable, my precious, is not something I would advocate. Especially when the man you're directing it at is both virile and in a lustful mood.' His finger moved over the wisp of material which covered her swelling shape, finding the point of greatest excitation. Her breathing quickened and her hand attempted to brush his away. The attempt, however, was so feeble he smiled tauntingly, reading her mind and knowing that, in her heart, she did not want him to stop. He moved until he was beside her, his mouth covering her willing lips, his hand seeking her midriff, her hip, her thighs. 'Now you

want me,' he said, his mouth feathering her cheek, her ear, her throat. 'Admit that you want me-' 'Oh, Sloan,' her sigh was ragged with surrender and desire, 'I want you, I want you…' 'More than you've ever wanted your boy-friend. Say it.' Repeating his words as if she were under hypnosis, she did not realise that her admission had placed her relationship with Michael Brent on a far more serious plane than it was in reality. His hand continued on its exploring, stroking tour around her body, resting here, lingering there, until she cried out, 'I want you, Sloan, I want you!' Slowly, deliberately, he moved away. 'You're not going to have me, Jasmine mine. I give nothing of myself to a girl like you, mercenary, avaricious. My sign&ture* you said, my ring, my name, that's all you want.' He got up from the bed, rebuttoning his shirt. 'And that's all you're going to get.' Bewildered, she stared at him. His mood had changed so drastically she could not believe it. 'So all that was an act/ she commented bitterly, staring at his back to which his shirt was clinging in the heat. 'Act?' He pretended to consider the word. 'Maybe - I'd call it— mechanical? A reflex action most men would feel when walking into the bedroom of a near- naked girl.' She turned and grabbed her pillow. 'You rotten, miserable -' The pillow hurtled through the air. He swung and caught it, hurling it back. It hit her hard in the stomach and she cried out at the pain.

Recovering her breath at last, she sat up, pushing at her damp hair. 'What have I said to make you change so much? You came in here a—a lover and you've turned into -' 'A miserable swine. You,' he thrust his hands into his slacks pockets, approaching the bed, 'told me a' lie. "Not serious", you said, when I asked about your boy-friend, yet you tacitly admitted just now that you've been so intimate with him you "wanted" him.' Jasmine remembered then, what she had said. 'You tricked me with your clever questions. I didn't mean that at all.' 'Haven't I told you it's no concern of mine if your relationship with him was—is serious?' 'Then why are you angry?' 'I hate liars.' So even if she now told him the truth, that she was not 'mercenary', as he thought, that she didn't want the money for herself but to help Michael, he would hate her because she had lied. With as much dignity as she could find under his derisive gaze, she walked to a chair and picked up her bath robe, pulling it on. 'I'm going to take a shower.' 'Make it a quick one. My housekeeper has left us a salad meal before we leave for the festa/ At the bathroom door, she turned. 'I'd rather go hungry than eat at your house!' A shoulder lifted. 'Okay, go hungry, but you're still coming, even if you only watch me eat.'

The bathroom door slammed behind her.

CHAPTER SIX JASMINE did not 'watch Sloan eat'. On seeing the attractively arranged table and colourful food, she discovered that her appetite was as good as his. He had watched with amusement as she tackled the food Mrs Vella had prepared. As the meal progressed and he had drunk the chilled wine/Sloan's mood had appeared to mellow. Jasmine, drinking orange juice, watched her host over the rim of her glass. Whether it was, in fact, the wine that had softened Sloan's hard mouth, or whether the 'act' of which she had accused him of putting on earlier—and which he hadn't really denied—was being performed again, she was unable to decide. Now they were driving to Balzan and the festa. Sloan parked the car in a dimly-lighted lane and they walked, side by side, to the village. They found themselves behind the brass band, together with a crowd of other people who stood and chatted as if waiting for something to happen. People leant from balconies overlooking the narrow side street, or stood in doorways. The brass band started playing and moved slowly forward, the crowd behind them growing as more people joined the procession. The watchers on the balconies threw strips of paper on to the heads of the procession and Jasmine, like many others, found herself covered in them. A few floated on to Sloan's hair and shoulders and, laughing, she reached up and removed them. The quarrel they had had earlier was forgotten as the excitement grew of sharing with the Maltese people one of their festas. The procession turned many corners and as it followed the band, the crowd arrived in a wide main street. Sloan's hand had, grasped Jasmine's and he smiled down at her as if he, too, was enjoying

himself, although he must, Jasmine thought, have seen many such festas in the past. Lights and strings of richly coloured decorations had been strung above the street from house to house and still more paper was thrown down. Jasmine removed her hand from Sloan's to brush the paper from her own hair and face. She found herself being pushed with the crowds past open doorways and she glanced inside, catching glimpses of crystal chandeliers and trays of drinks ready for any friend who might call. When the band reached the town square, the players dispersed. It was then that Jasmine realised she had lost Sloan. Panicking, she looked everywhere, calling his name, but the noise of the laughing, shouting crowd drowned her cries. Someone called her name and she turned, eagerly, only to find that it was not Sloan but Ernest. John was beside him and they waved. Thankful to have found familiar faces in that sea of strangers, she pushed her way to them and Ernest, seeing her white face, put his arm round her and pulled her close. John allowed himself to be swept along by the crowd and Jasmine, seeing him go, urged Ernest to follow his friend. 'I'll be all right,' she said. 1 was with Sloan, but I lost him.' 'Isn't that him over there?' Ernest asked, pointing over people's heads. 'He has seen us and it seems as though he is angry about something. What would that be, Jasmine?' 'How can I get to him, Ernest?' she pleaded, leaving Ernest's question unanswered. 'Sloan!' she called, but her voice was lost in the confusion. Ernest was right about Sloan's anger. Sloan must surely have seen her lips form his name, even if he had not heard,

yet with a look of contempt he had turned away. Surely he didn't think it was Ernest she wanted, instead of himself? 'Please get me to him,' she pleaded again, and Ernest promised that he would do his best. After pushing their way through the groups that had formed, Ernest pulled her to a stop. 'He is not alone, Jasmine. There is a—a girl with him. I know her. She's Marie Abela, daughter of a friend of John Galea's mother. She has often been seen around with him and is hoping one day to be his——' Ernest stopped himself, saying apologetically, 'But of course she can never be his wife, now that he is to marry you. Yes, I heard through Mrs Galea, who has been telling everyone.' No wonder Sloan refused to look her way, Jasmine reasoned, seeing the smiling girl at his side. She was full-shaped and dark-haired with glowing eyes and inviting lips. And Sloan had dared to be angry when he had seen Ernest's arm round her— in protection and comfort, nothing more! Whereas his arm, resting round the dark girl's waist, was there for a very different reason. Jealousy gripped her. It was so intense it was like a physical blow and faintness swept over her. 'Could I sit down?' she asked. 'Over there is a wall.' Ernest Jed her to it. There were soft-drink stands and food kiosks nearby and he said, Til get you something.' 'Only a drink, thanks.' Soon Ernest returned; holding a plastic cup filled with sparkling liquid which Jasmine drank to the end. Sloan had disappeared and, when the fireworks began, she wanted to cry instead of shouting with pleasure with the crowd, as one rocket after another shot skywards. The fireworks display began in earnest. They exploded above the buildings, lighting the upturned, happy faces of the crowd. In the cascade of constantly changing colours Jasmine, whose attention

was only half on the display, caught sight of Sloan. He was much nearer now, but still the girl was beside him. She looked bored and seemed to be pulling at his sleeve. He, however, brushed her hand away and swung his eyes round. At the moment that his eyes met Jasmine's there was a short lull and she lost sight of him. Her heart, having risen with hope, plummeted like a rocket falling to earth. Ernest was still beside her and he . was enjoying the colour and sky patterns as if he were a child again. No sooner had one firework died than another was bursting into brilliance. An arm came round her and by the grip on her waist she knew that Sloan was beside her again. Despite the pain which she realised he was deliberately inflicting, she turned a happy smile up to him. Momentarily he looked down at her, but in the series of bright flashes she could see that his face held no expression. At least, she consoled herself, that was better than anger. Ernest, seeing that her escort had returned, lifted his hand and disappeared discreetly into the crowd. Talking was impossible over the noise. Then it rose to a crescendo with the last bout of fireworks which exploded into dots of multi-coloured fire heading in all directions. When the set pieces—wheels of fire rotating madly, a horse and cart, its 'legs' running and the cart's 'wheels' rotating—died away, people began to disperse,- the noise abated and talking was once again possible. It seemed, however, that Sloan was in no mood for talking. He looked down into Jasmine's face as she gazed up at him, the lights from the bursting cascades lingering in her eyes. Her pleasure in finding him again brightened her smile, and Sloan seemed to come to a decision. Was it that this was not the time for angry

words? It appeared that this must have been so, because his hold on her -relaxed and he urged her round to follow the crowds back to the square. The band was playing again and people wandered about, listening and talking at the same time. Sloan drove with care among the crowds who spilled over on to the streets. He returned Jasmine to the apartment and said, 'Tomorrow, we shall talk.' 'I suppose you mean,' she retorted, 'tell me that as an engaged woman I shouldn't have allowed another man to put his arm round me? Just what kind of a person are you?' He stared ahead into the darkness. I could "talk" to you, too. What about the young woman I saw you with? It didn't take you long, did it, to find a replacement for me?' His determined silence finally silenced her. 'Thank you for taking me to the festa' she said, as she got out of the car. 'It was wonderful, Sloan.' There was so much more she wanted to say, but he gave her no encouragement. His only answer was to nod briefly and drive away.

Jasmine slept late and woke with a start, wondering if Sloan had called at the apartment without her knowing. She dressed quickly and ran down to Mrs Galea's flat, knocking on the door. As soon as it was opened, Jasmine asked, 'Have I had a visitor, Mrs Galea? I slept on and I thought I might have missed someone knocking.' Mrs Galea smiled and invited Jasmine into her living-room. 'I suppose you mean Mr Lancaster, dear. No, he has not called. I usually leave my door ajar, because I'm a little bit nosey,' she tapped her nose, 'and I can see who comes and goes. I can tell you he hasn't

been. I'm having a quiet cup of coffee.' She eased herself into a chair, having invited Jasmine to do the same. 'Will you have one with me?' Jasmine nodded, taking the proffered cup. The anxiety that had started to peck at her ceased under the breeziness of Mrs Galea's chatter, in addition to "tile stimulating effect of the hot coffee. Maybe Sloan had slept late, too. 'John has had a letter today from Pam,' Mrs Galea said. 'They keep in touch, you know. Anyway, h€ says she sends her love to you, and that her Aunt Delia does not mind you staying on here at all.' Jasmine thanked her for the information, then they talked about the festa and how much Jasmine had enjoyed it. 'There are a lot of festas in my country, especially in the summer,' Mrs Galea explained. 'People come from all over the island on such days just to be with their relatives.' The telephone rang and Mrs Galea answered. She spoke the caller's name and Jasmine waved to her neighbour and returned upstairs. After an early snack lunch, she decided that it was too good a day to let it pass without getting into the sun. From the roof, the sea looked calm and inviting and in no time at all she was dressed in her swimsuit and down on the beach. A short swim satisfied her and she sat towelling herself, allowing the sun to dry the rest of her. There was a. shout from the promenade. Ernest was raising a hand and half-running to join her. It's my lunchtime,' he explained. 'I wondered if I might find you here. So you found your Mr Lancaster last night.' His finger pushed pieces of rock around. 'Yes, thank you.' Changing the subject quickly, Jasmine asked, 'Are you going to swim?'

'Just a quick one.' Under his. jeans, he was already wearing swimming trunks. 'Will you join me?' he enquired. At Jasmine's shake of the head, he ran to the sea's edge and waded in. He soon came out, however, and sat drying himself. He found a discarded peach stone lying nearby, picked it up and threw it at Jasmine. It hit her on the arm and she grasped some small dusty rocks and tossed them over him. Ernest laughed, then pulled a face. 'How can I put on my shirt with dust on my back?' So Jasmine twisted round and brushed his back clean. Then she leaned over and shook out his dust- covered shirt. 'When the sun has dried my trunks a little, I will dress,' said Ernest. 'I have just remembered—today I have the afternoon free. I needn't go back to work. Will you come with me to Ta' Qali, the craft village? They sell wares there from different parts of Malta. I should love to take you, Jasmine. We can go in my car -' 'Jasmine will come with me to Ta' Qali/ The imperious voice came from behind them and Jasmine turned angrily. 'You're always creeping up on me!' she exclaimed, her pleasure at seeing Sloan diminished by her anger at the way he looked so accusingly at Ernest, and with such censure at herself. 'What do you suspect I'm up to—adultery or something?' 'Hardly,' was his dismissive reply, 'since we're not married yet.' Ernest looked with dismay from one to the other. 'I meant no harm, Mr Lancaster. It was innocent fun between us, nothing more. And if I had taken her sightseeing, it would only have been because I am so proud of my countrymen's—and women's—craftsmanship.'

The expression on Sloan's face showed that he was not entirely placated by Ernest's comments, although it seemed that he had grudgingly believed them. 'Suppose I'd rather go with Ernest?' Jasmine challenged, uncaring that she might be making matters worse. 'Do not worry, Jasmine,' said Ernest, fully dressed now and getting up to go. 'I didn't really have the afternoon off. I invented it, just to take you. If your -' he looked from one to the other and must have decided that, with such enmity between them, it was unwise to assume they were still engaged, 'if Mr Lancaster is taking you, that's fine.' He was backing away as he talked, then he turned and ran, as if glad to escape. Sloan dropped down beside her. His short-sleeved shirt was of fine white cotton and even where it was buttoned, the dark chest hairs showed through. He rested back on his arms and the lithe lines of his body, the hard hips and muscled thighs had Jasmine's heartbeats speeding. Nevertheless she could not lose the sense of injustice that" simmered inside her. 'You're dog-in- the-manger,' she accused. 'You don't want me yourself, yet you won't let other men near me/ 'Who said I didn't want you?' An eyebrow, lifted quizzically. 'Haven't I conveyed to you by every means in my power that I find you as luscious as a ripe peach? That I'd like to sink my teeth into you and enjoy the ripeness and your succulence?' Staring at the sea, she said, 'That wasn't the kind of wanting I meant.' He did not reply. Her swimsuit had dried and she pulled on her peach-coloured, round-necked top, wriggling into her white skirt and zipping it. 'Are we going now?' she asked his relaxed, outstretched form.

'Would you like to go to the craft village?' His hand was shading his eyes. She said, yes, please, and he stood up, extending a hand to help her to stand, too. The village was a row of huts, each selling its own kind of craftware. First they visited the glass- making factory. Jasmine watched, fascinated, as the glass, was placed in a furnace, then handed to the shapers. One was shaping 'sea-horses', another blowing^ a bowl into shape. The colour was of the sea, with sparkling gold and topaz streaks. The temperature inside the 'glass' house was unbelievably hot and Jasmine, to Sloan's amusement, mopped her brow. Sloan bought her a bowl of bulbous shape, narrowing at the neck and widening, petal-like, at the top. The colour was blue-green and was the exact colour of the seas around the island and in which she had so often swum. They went from there to a shop selling pottery, then to another selling exquisite, hand-made Maltese lace. There was a silver shop where intricately- fashioned filigree silver was on sale. Jasmine started to buy herself a silver neck chain with a silver shell- shaped filigree pendant. Sloan's hand came out as she counted out the money and he used his own money instead. She thanked him with a grateful look which he returned with an ironic quirk to his lips. From Ta' Qali, they drove to Mdina and to Jasmine's eyes the fortified old capital looked majestic, situated as it was on the top of a hill, the dome of the cathedral being the most striking feature. The entrance to Mdina was through a stone archway and surrounded by strong, high stone walls. 'Once,' Sloan told her, 'cars were not allowed to enter and it was, called "the silent city", but now cars are allowed to drive in.'

'All the same,' Jasmine answered, listening, 'inside these walls the silence is still there, isn't it?' First they visited the cathedral and the interior was, Jasmine whispered to Sloan, magnificent. The ceiling, as in other churches of Malta, was covered with paintings and the altars richly decorated. Sloan suggested a drink and took her to a cafe which was reached through wrought iron gates. There they discovered a green and fertile garden. It was a welcome sight after the dusty streets they had just left. In the lower part of the garden there was a small fountain. They, however, chose to sit in the upper part which offered shade from a stone wall supported by pillars. Over another stone wall Jasmine saw a panorama of Malta, stretching finally to the sea. The stone wall, Sloan explained, was the city wall, or bastion, visible from the road below. The traffic on the road looked tiny and as Malta itself lay sweltering in the heat, it looked to Jasmine like a mass of yellow rock, with occasional patches of dark green where crops grew. After a drink of fruit juice for Jasmine and beer for Sloan, he suggested that they return to the car. On the way back Jasmine sat with her eyes closed, only to find, when the car came to a final stop, that her head had slipped to rest on Sloan's shoulder. Startled, Jasmine looked round, discovering that they were parked outside Sloan's villa. 'Time, I think/ he said, smiling down at her, 'for your siesta. When you do eventually return home, you'll find yourself nodding off in the middle of your working day, because of the siesta habit you've slipped into here in Malta/ Jasmine managed a smile, but it hid the turmoil his words produced. 'Return home/ 'working day'— what did he mean? 'Have you changed your mind about marrying me?' she asked, looking at him.

He reached out and touched each eyelid. 'What would you do if I said I had?' She could think of nothing to say. 'Would you marry that nice, very eager-to-please young man called Ernest?' 'There's nothing between Ernest and myself but friendship.' 'Which is better than nothing. There's not even friendship between us, is there, but you seem to be determined to marry me.' Jasmine said, her throat contracting, 'Take me home, please. Now, this minute.' 'What, all the way back to England?' His amused tone infuriated her. 'The apartment, that's what I mean! You can keep your brilliant, celebrated, handsome self, Mr Lancaster, and give it to another woman!' She made as if to get out of the car, but he gripped her hands. Breaking free after a struggle in which she got hurt, she wrenched the car door open. Sloan was round to her side and pulling her back from her race down the drive. Her twisting, ducking figure was swung into his arms and she was carried, crying, 'Put me down!' into the villa. A well-endowed, dark-haired woman appeared from the kitchen and looked with astonishment at the spectacle. 'Whatever is going on, Mr Lancaster?' she asked. 'Mrs Vella, meet my fiancee, Miss Hayman. Jas- mine, this is Mrs Vella, my treasured housekeeper/

Under Mrs Vella's startled gaze, Sloan climbed the stairs with his furious burden and carried her into a bedroom. He dropped her on top of a large bed, went out and locked the door from the outside. Jasmine scrambled off the bed and hammered on the door. 'My presents, the things I—we— bofight...' 'They'll be taken care of,' Sloan called from outside. 'Have your siesta, my love, and awake refreshed for the barbecue we're going to this evening/ 'I'm not going to any barbecue with you,' she answered, only to hear fading laughter in reply. An examination of the room revealed the elegance and taste which echoed the furnishings and decor of the rest of the villa. A gilt chandelier hung centrally from the ceiling, an antique chest of drawers was topped by an equally antique mirror. The carpet was a slate blue and this colour was repeated in other places in the room. A painting, plainly of some value, was on the wall facing the bed. Through a door was a blue-tiled modern bathroom. The blue-quilted expanse of bed looked inviting as heat-weariness and the after-effects of sightseeing overtook Jasmine's mind and body. Even with the window opened wide on the other side of the mosquito netting, the afternoon heat was stifling. Tugging her top over her head, which left her with her swimming top in place, she lifted the quilted bedcover and slipped underneath it. 'I won't sleep,' she thought, and moments later she was being swept away on the current of a dream.

A noise awakened her. It was the sound of a door opening, a sensation of someone standing beside the bed. Jasmine stirred,

opened her eyes and found herself looking up into those of a smiling man. Still in the mists of ebbing sleep, she smiled back. 'That was the sweetest smile you've ever given me,' said Sloan. 'You must take your siesta on my bed more often.' His eyes moved and lingered as if intrigued. Jasmine came fully awake. 'His bed'? Was that where she was, in Sloan's bedroom? And what washe looking at with such interest? Dismayed, she saw that, in the heat of the afternoon, she had thrown off the quilted cover and was lying there in her swimming top and slacks. What, it seemed, amused him most was the fact that the bra top had, in her twists and turns, slipped from one shoulder, revealing most of one impudent, swelling breast. Before she could guess his intention, he had bent and kissed the softness of her, just as he had once before in her own bedroom at the apartment. 'You've no right to do that,' she remonstrated. 'I'm almost a married man, yet I'm not allowed to kiss my promised bride? Since when has that rule been in force?' 'Since I invented it,' she retorted, replacing the shoulder strap and rolling off the bed. Quickly she pulled on her top and took a comb from her slacks pocket, running it through her disordered hair. He came round the bed and stopped her, pushing the comb back where it was. 'I prefer you all tumbled and soft and desirable from sleep,' he said, bending to kiss her surprised mouth. Her stomach rumbled and he laughed. 'I'm hungry,' she said. 'I had an early midday meal. When does the barbecue start?' -. 'I thought you weren't coming with me?' He held her away, looking her over.

I've changed my mind.' She grinned impishly up at him, 'I might as well get what I can out of my ♦visit to Malta, before I return home, go back to my job and find myself "nodding off in the middle of my working day." Isn't that what you said?' ~ 'As I've said before, you're a cheeky minx. Maybe I've changed my mind, too. After all, two can play that game.' 'What I do after we're married is my business, she said, pulling away from him. 'All you've agreed to is to go through the marriage ceremony with me -/ 'You know something, Miss Hayman?' His eyes were narrowed and he looked dangerous. 'You shouldn't push your luck too far. There's a good bed over there. I could, here and now, decide to use it and anticipate the marriage vows/ 'Marriage vows?' She had forgotten the words, of dedication to one's marriage partner, the promises, the pledge. 'Yes,' he jerked her against him, 'to love, honour, cherish -' 'Till death us do -' Somehow she could not speak the final word. It was .unthinkable to contemplate parting from this man. It hit her like a hurled boulder just what she had brought upon herself. And all because of that money of her grandfather's. Was it worth it? Was it worth the agony of going through the wedding ceremony, ironically with the man of her choice as the will had dictated, and even more ironically with a man who could easily, so very easily, have come out of her dreams? 'Having doubts?' The perceptive eyes searched hers. 'Want to withdraw your proposal?'

'No. Yes. I don't know.' She tore away and went to the window. 'Let me think.' For some time she analysed and weighed up the situation. To change her mind would be to say goodbye right now, pack her bags and fly home—never to see Sloan again. It would mean condemning Michael to years of responsibilities which would prevent him from living a life of his own for an unknown length of time.' 'No, I don't want to withdraw.' It took you long enough,' Sloan remarked, his eyes hardening, 'to decide that you couldn't live without that money.' 'Yes,' she answered bleakly, knowing exactly what he was thinking. It seemed to take him a few moments to recover his good humour. 'Come on,' he said at last. 'It's time we were going.'

The traffic was congested and Sloan sat drumming the steering wheel. They had not left at once for the barbecue. Sloan had said, as he had led the way downstairs, 'Since you're so hungry, I'll ask Mrs Vella to make a few sandwiches and some coffee.' They had sat on the villa roof, gazing at the view of the sea as the sun had begun to sink, leaving the air a little cooler. 'Where's the barbecue being held?' Jasmine had asked. 'At the Prelude Club.' Jasmine had looked down at herself. 'I can't go looking like this!'

Sloan had looked at her, surprised. 'You talk as if you were wearing rags. Anyway, it will be dark before long, so who will see?' However, she had managed to persuade him to take her back to the apartment so that she could change. - Now she sat beside him, knowing that in the attractive dress she had chosen to wear she would be a match for any woman who might claim a close friendship with Sloan. Determinedly she refused to let herself think about the girl she had seen with him the evening before. The Prelude Club was a low-built white stone building, with terraced gardens. Tables had been spaced out over the three levels, each level being separated by a low line of shrubs. The third level overlooked St Paul's Bay. After being shown to their table, Jasmine said to Sloan, 'I'd like to see the view, but I don't want to go alone.' Smiling winsomely, she put her head on one side. His fist came out playfully. 'You can't do without me, can you?' 'No, I can't,' she answered in the same light tone. Only she knew the truth of her words. Together they walked down to the third level and watched the sun setting over the dark promontory of St Paul's Bay. The first evening lights over >the land shone out and were reflected gently in the tranquil water. Below were rocks that led eventually to the sea, and which had picked up the now muted shades of the sinking sun. Returning to their table they heard, music drifting through the french windows. Flames had been lit along the top of the walls around the gardens and on the grill behind them the evening's cooking had begun. Jasmine's eyes opened wide at the choice of food presented to them. There was chicken or steak or fish. Another table held sausages, rice, Scotch eggs and many different vegetables.

Her hunger returning, she ate with unselfconscious abandon, and Sloan's laugh was both indulgent and teasing. On the table there were two bottles of Maltese wine, one a dry wine, the other white and sweet. Sloan kept her glass well supplied, not even asking if she wanted more. As the wine disappeared down her throat, so Jasmine's enjoymentof the evening increased. All the time she sensed Sloan's amusement and it seemed as if he were waiting for something. Inside, dancing had begun and Sloan took her hand, pulling her with him. They danced closely and in the dimmed lighting, it was, to Jasmine's faintly dazed mind, as if Sloan were staring, through her eyes, into her very soul. What was he looking for? she wondered. An invitation, a weakening on her part, the slightest sign of encouragement? It was on the way back that she discovered how much the wine had affected her. When Sloan drew up outside his villa for the second time that day, it seemed to Jasmine, in her slightly befuddled state, the correct thing to do. Her eyes were sparkling like the sun on the sea, as she turned to him and said, 'You've brought me home.' 'I have, haven't I?' His voice was dry. 'A little prematurely, perhaps ..He eyed her unguardedly smiling face. 'Or maybe not.' In the living-room, she looked around. 'Very tasteful, Mr Lancaster, but- -' she gave him an out-of-character, sophisticated smile, 'it needs softening just a little, don't you think?' His eyebrow quirked. 'Do I think?' 'Well, of course, I couldn't expect you to see such things from a woman's point of view.'

He gazed, with a kind of detached interest, at the puckered brow on the youthful face, as, with the new role the potent wine had given her, she looked about her consideringly. That bedroom I slept in this afternoon—it was yours, wasn't it? I think,' she threw herself into the armchair, 'it needs to be made more—well, feminine.' Sloan bent and pulled her from the chair, tugging her against him. 'Do you need to be made more feminine? You're behaving like an experienced, sophisticated hussy, yet all this time you've been pretending your knowledge of the male of the species is restricted to kisses and strokes and nothing more. Is it an act on your part, or has the wine peeled off that layer of innocence and revealed the real you?' Her finger traced an arched eyebrow, then moved to the tensing, expectant line of his lips. 'That's for you to discover, isn't it, Mr Lancaster?' Her ears listened to the provocative note in her own voice and her brain told her something was not quite right. Why was he speaking as though he thought she knew all about love and lovers? The bemused state was receding, giving way to chillingly sober reasoning. Sloan, however, could not see into her mind and he continued to treat her as if she were inviting him to take her up to that bedroom ... His kiss seared her lips, and the cloud on which she had been floating returned, only now it had gained wings and was lifting her to mountain peaks of pleasures and desires her body had never known. The narrow shoulder strap of her silky cream dress was eased down by determined fingers. The strap hung low and loosely on her arm and the top which it supported was pushed away to reveal the untanned whiteness of her smooth, swelling shape. Again she knew

the exquisite pleasure of his lips' touch, possessive, exciting, filling her with a melting submission to his demands that had her head hanging back, telling him without words that all of her was his if he wanted her. 'Now,' she whispered, 'now, Sloan, I'll be yours.' She dragged her, head upwards and her hands gripped his arms. 'Take me now, make me yours. I'll do anything you ask of me.' In the lowered lighting, his face and head represented to her lovedrugged eyes a magnificent carving, like some rediscovered godfigure from a millennium ago. 'Good God,' his eyes burned a trail of contempt from her face to the piquant, pink-tipped breast, 'you must want that money badly!' The voice was icy, and it was as though a winter gale was swirling round her body. He straightened her, thrusting her away; With fumbling fingers Jasmine restored her shoulder strap to its rightful place, covering herself from his scathing gaze. He was human now, no doubt about it. No gods of the past would look as devilish as he did as he content plated her dispassionately, as though she were a woman of doubtful character. 'Please tell me what you mean,' she said, her voice unsteady. No cloud on which float any more, only a poorly-made raft on which she had been pushed ruthlessly out to float on a shoreless sea. 'So my bedroom's not "feminine", enough, for your tastes? So you'll be altering it, will you, when you come here to my villa and take up occupation?' He moved towards her, his attitude threatening. 'I won't be sharing my bedroom. On your own admission you told me you did not want to share my bed. When we marry, that's that. There'll be nothing more between us. Do you understand?'

She wanted to cry out, but, Sloan, I love you. I think I always have. I only said that because I didn't want you to feel any obligation towards me ... Taking a breath, she grabbed at her pride, lifted her head and hit back, 'That's true. After we're married, we need never meet again.' 'Until the divorce proceedings.' 'What divorce?' she asked faintly. 'Ours. Don't think you're going to tie me to an unwilling wife for ever. I'm a robust, lusty male, full of the drives and needs which nature gave me. What use would a wife like you be to me?' 'You're contemptible!' 'Am I? I don't think so. I'm speaking the truth. All you want is my name and my ring. I'm tired of hearing you repeat it.' . Jasmine could find nothing to say in her own defence. He had used against her every weapon he could find. Her legs threatened to give way and she crumpled into the chair into which, only a short time ago she had thrown herself with such confidence and self-assurance. It had been a false sense of euphoria, produced by drinking so freely and so unwisely the wine Sloan had given her. 'I think,' she. said, with her hand to her eyes, 'I want you to take me back to the apartment. I think, also, that I never want to see you again.' The response was so long in coming, she looked up and found him watching her broodingly. 'Tell me again why you want this money/ 'Why,' she flared, 'so you can call me "mercenary" again?'

'Tell me!' Now she stood and faced him. He would have the truth. 'I'll tell you why I want my grandfather's fortune. I want it for my boy-friend.' If the lighting had been just a little brighter, shemight have seen whether the colour really had left his face. 'What a good thing I took you to that barbecue/ he sneered. She closed her eyes, remembering her happiness at being with him at such a carefree, laughing event, the colour and excitement, the beauty of the setting sun over the Mediterranean Sea. Sloan went on cruelly, 'The provision of the wine by the management was fortuitous, too. It proved to be a weapon by which I've been able to discover your. real personality. And by heaven, wasn't it fortunate that I did so now, before our involvement became too close!' He seemed to be fighting for control, but the battle must have been fiercer than he had thought. A stride brought him near enough to grasp her arms and Jasmine gasped with the pain of his grip. 'You miserable cheat!' he rasped. 'You lying little tramp! It's not serious, you said. Not serious, yet you're throwing yourself at me to get at the money. You want it for your boy-friend, so your relationship must be closed—very close, otherwise you'd lose out on the fortune, wouldn't you? Why don't you marry him?' In a strained voice, she said, 'I told you, I don't love him.' 'Nor do you love me. I'm just a means to an end for you. Maybe it's because I'm a better catch, a bigger fish. Wife of Sloan Lancaster, well-known writer, a respected figure in the literary world.'

He threw her from him and she staggered back to find the armchair behind her. She dropped into it. Her head lifted and her heavy eyes sought his. 'Please, please. I'll ask—' 'Nothing of me. But be on your guard, my darling wife-to-be. I shall, without doubt, be asking plenty of you.'

CHAPTER SEVEN SLOAN returned her to the apartment block, leaving her at once. 'Pack your case,' he instructed. 'Tomorrow afternoon we shall leave for London.' On her way upstairs, Jasmine heard voices raised in laughter. As always, Mrs Galea was happy and busy making others so. There was a young, high- pitched voice among the deeper ones. Jasmine hoped to creep past Mrs Galea's apartment, but not out of unfriendliness. After her bitter quarrel with Sloan, she just did not feel sociable. Mrs Galea, however, was as usual on the alert for visitors and called out, 'Jasmine? I recognised your footsteps. Come in and meet Ernest's sister—her name is Mirielle. Now isn't that pretty?' Jasmine made an enormous effort to banish the sadness from her face and widened her mouth in a smile of greeting. She nodded at John Galea and at Ernest, then shook hands with an attractive, darkhaired girl. 'You are Jasmine?' the girl asked. 'You know my brother, don't you? He has told me how nice you are and how he has taken you places.' Jasmine glanced at Ernest and saw, as her eyes swung round, how intently John was staring at Ernest's sister. It seemed that Mirielle herself was conscious of John's look and did not seem to object to it, since she turned an attractive pink and smiled into John's eyes. Oh dear, Jasmine thought, what about Pam? 'And have you enjoyed your evening with Mr Lancaster?' Mrs Galea asked. 'Yes, you see I know your business. I am a terrible gossip, as I expect you have guessed. You were at the barbecue with him. I have a friend who works at the Prelude Hotel and she telephoned to

say that a neighbour of mine was there with Mr Lancaster. You see, Mr Lancaster is well-known on our island.' 'He is so famous,' said Mirielle. 'His books, I'm told, are so good they sell all over the world. But,' she shook her head, 'they are not my kind of book. I like romance and love.' The young men laughed. 'You, would like it in your life, too,' said Ernest in a brotherly fashion, and Mirielle lifted her hand as if to hit him. Again her cheeks were pink and John was smiling. He moved to Mirielle's side and for a few long seconds they gazed into each other's eyes. Mrs Galea looked anxiously at Jasmine. She was, Jasmine thought, probably thinking of Pam. Then she saw Mrs Galea shrug as if saying to herself, What will be, will be, so what is the use of worrying? 'Mrs Galea,' said Jasmine, 'I'm leaving tomorrow. Sloan and I— we're going to London.' She had Mrs Galea's entire attention now. 'To be married?' Jasmine nodded. 'Oh, my dear,' she moved from the chair and hugged Jasmine, 'I am so pleased to hear it. We all are, John, Ernest, aren't we?' John nodded and Ernest, too, but a little less spontaneously. Jasmine felt touched by his reluctance to see her go, but theirs had only ever been friendship, nothing more. John came to her, side and whispered, 'If you see Pam, give her my—very kind regards. I have always enjoyed her visits here.' Jasmine noticed the past tense and the absence of the word 'love', but she nodded and smiled understandingly.

Sleep would not come that night, so Jasmine wrapped herself in a robe and pulled on her sandals and climbed to the roof, where she sat on the parapet, her back to the street. Daylight was lightening the sky and the sun, starting its day's journey, began, faintly at first, then with a stronger touch, to gild the white stone buildings into a tinted yellow. If only her heart was rising with the dawn of the day as the sun was doing. If only her heart was warm, instead of cold—Jasmine's heart almost stopped as she saw a man's tall figure walking along die promenade, not briskly as was his habit, but slowly as if sleep had eluded him, too. The sun was above the horizon now and it outlined the strong profile, revealed the muscled strength of the long legs in tight- fitting slacks and the breadth of chest under the highnecked white sweater. His shoulders, which she had only seen straight, and his head which was always held high, were thrust forward. His hands were hidden in his pockets, his eyes were studying the promenade pathway as if seeking for fossil specimens. Some pulling power Jasmine did not even know she had must have reached him, making him lift his head and stare up at her. The passing of the night had brought about no forgiveness within him where she was concerned. The dawning of another day had brought him as much joy as it had brought her, which was none, none at all. Yet it was, in its own way,, a special day, when they would travel back to their home country together, then in a day or so, become man and wife. It was laughable, Jasmine thought bitterly, fighting the tears and glad he could not see, through her expression, her state of mind. In a few days she would bear his name, wear his ring—and here they were, staring at each other as if they were not only strangers, but

enemies, too. Slowly she rose and her tired legs carried her out of his view, down the steps and into the apartment.

The journey was over. They had stepped out of the aircraft and on to British soil. It had not taken long to go through Customs. While Sloan went to hire a taxi to take them to London, Jasmine called Pam to let her know that they were at Heathrow. 'We might be late,' Jasmine warned. 'I'll wait up,' Pam promised, 'as long as you don't mind if my mother goes to bed.' In the taxi, watching the dark shapes of houses which lined the route for much of the way, looking dull-eyed at the build-up of traffic, and at the closed shops* Jasmine could not help wishing that they were back in the sunshine they had left behind, when the man beside her was not the stranger he had become since their quarrel the night before. For most of the time Sloan was silent. However, he spoke now and then, and his questions showed that the events of the next few days were on his mind. 'I expect you'll contact your relatives?' he asked, haven't any, at least none who'll be interested in my getting married.' 'Your parents?' He sounded surprised at her statement. 'My father died some years ago,' she told him. 'He. was over twenty years older than my mother. After his death—well, I don't think my mother cared whether she lived or not. She became very ill. Less than two years later she——'

'I understand,' Sloan interrupted, having no doubt guessed the pain it was causing her to talk about the loss of her parents. After a long silence, during which he, too, stared out of the taxi window, he said, 'Tonight I'll stay in my London apartment.' Seeing her surprise, he added, 'Yes, I have one of. those, too, as well as a house in Somerset.' Another pause, then, 'Tomorrow I shall get a licence and make arrangements for the marriage.'' Not, Jasmine noticed sadly, 'our' marriage. 'Shall we fix the wedding for four days from now?' She nodded. 'Which brings us to Tuesday. After that you'll be able to contact your solicitor about obtaining the money from your grandfather's estate. Will you need help from me?' He spoke so disinterestedly about her affairs, it was as if she were a stranger who had gone to him for advice. 'No, thank you,' she replied, with an attempt at briskness, but with a long flight behind her, plus a sleepless night into the bargain, and the tension of the next few days hovering over her, her voice was wavering and, to her chagrin, tearful. Her head jerked back to the car window, but, as an arm came lightly round her waist, exerting a slight pressure and bringing her sideways, she turned back ready to resist. Sloan patted his shoulder and she looked at it. It seemed so inviting, and she was suddenly so tired—of fighting, of having to control her feelings for the man beside her—that her head flopped down to rest where he had indicated. When she awoke, the taxi had come to a stop. Dazed with sleep, she looked around and recognised Pam's and her mother's house. They were parked outside. The driver waited patiently, having turned discreetly deaf.

'Tomorrow,' Sloan told her, withdrawing his arm and brushing his shoulder free of hairs, 'I'll phone you. Around ten?' Jasmine nodded. It sounded as though it was a business appointment they were making. 'I'm sorry,' she said tartly, 'for using your shoulder as a pillow.' His shrug dismissed it as an everyday occurrence. 'You must have been bored stiff!' 'Stiff is the word,' he answered, stretching his arms and flexing his shoulder muscles. Jasmine remembered that he too must have spent a restless night, otherwise why should he have been walking along the promenade in the early hours? 'The promenade'. Already it seemed a lifetime away. 'If I need to contact you,' she said, 'what should I do?' Sloan took out a notebook and wrote on an unused page. He tore it out and gave it to her. She said, with an attempt at sarcasm, 'You might have autographed it for me.' In the taxi's dull lighting, his eyes flickered at the challenge. He retrieved the paper, scrawled across the empty space,' 'Sloan Lancaster, with love and sincere good wishes for your future.' My future, she thought, as if he were not part of it! He saw her indignant expression and smiled mockingly. 'Remind irfe to give you a signed copy of my latest book.' He got out, went round and opened her door. For a few seconds she looked up at him, first expectantly, then with anger. She had asked him, wordlessly, for a goodnight kiss. She had asked in vain. Defiantly she exclaimed, 'Go, to -' then stopped, remembering the taxi driver.

'I shall,' Sloan replied blandly. 'It's what you're condemning me to, isn't it, after our marriage on Tuesday?'

The following few days were filled with activity. It was just as well, Jasmine mused in the occasional half hours she had to herself, as it prevented her from wondering whether what she was doing was right, was justified, was fair . Michael had welcomed her delightedly, his happiness changing to dismay when he heard of her coming marriage. 'To free that money?' he asked, bewildered. 'But why? You aren't destitute, you've got a good job. It was a stupid condition to impose. I don't know what your grandfather was thinking of. Do you --' he had put his baby brother on the floor, 'do you love this man you're marrying?' 'Yes, Michael, I do. It—it just happened that way, for me, at any rate.' He had not seemed entirely satisfied with her answer, but he had shrugged. He had taken the news more resignedly than she had thought possible, considering the number of times in the past he had said he loved her. Pam told her she had often been round to his house helping him in her, Jasmine's absence. 'I'm not as good at handling the kids as you were,' saidPam, 'but they seem to like me arid just now and then do what I tell them!' 'Well,' said Jasmine with a sigh, 'everything will soon be all right for Michael. My money will get him a full-time housekeeper, even a bigger house, if he wants.'

Pam frowned as they sat on their respective beds before settling down to sleep. 'Have you told Michael? No? Then how do you know he'll accept the money? He's got his_ pride, like every other member of his species!' 'He may have, Pam, but I think he'll be reasonable enough to realise that the money won't be entirely for him, but for his brothers and sisters. To help him help them.' 'I wish,' said Pam, 'that Michael's wretch of a stepfather would come back and accept some of his responsibility.' 'I doubt if Michael would let the baby go, even if the stepfather demanded custody. And if he did fight it in the courts, then I'll have given Michael the ability to fight back. It's amazing what money can do I' It even has the power to make me marry a man who, although I love him, most decidedly does not love me I It was a thought that appalled her.

The ceremony was over and even the small lunch party which Sloan had arranged at a local hotel had elided after the usual toasts and speeches. The guests were leaving, then only Pam and her mother remained. Pam hugged Jasmine, whispering, 'It's really happened. You're Sloan's wife.' Mrs Simms hugged her, too, then, when Sloan had straightened from receiving Pam's congratulatory kiss on the cheek, Mrs Simms followed her example.

'I'm sure you won't mind-us being so familiar with Aunt Delia's great friend/ said Mrs Simms, shaking his hand for good measure, 'on a day such as this. Wait till I write to Delia and tell her that Mr Lancaster's married Pam's best friend 1', She turned to Jasmine. 'We'll miss you at home, dear, but I expect you'll come and see us sometimes.' 'Oh, but -' Jasmine looked- from mother to daughter. Having told Pam that she wasn't sure, but she might be coming back to live with them, she had assumed that Pam had told her mother. Jasmine looked up at Sloan. 'Mrs Simms, I don't know where- -' 'It's only natural, isn't it/ Sloan broke in, addressing Mrs Simms with a smile, 'that a man would want his wife to live with him, whether it's in his house or his London apartment?' Astonished, Jasmine stared at her new husband. How could she live with him, yet not ... Just what did Sloan have in mind? she thought, her face pink with indignation. Mrs Simms assumed the flush was the result of being a radiant bride and remarked, smiling, 'You look beautiful, dear. But then every bride should on her wedding day. Come along, Pam. We must let these two lovebirds go on their way:— wherever it is they're going!' There was a deep silence when they had gone. Jasmine raised guarded yet questing eyes to Sloan's. The lost feeling that was sweeping over her would not be overlooked by hint, but she could not help it if he now knew how much at his mercy she felt. He gazed at her reflectively, then, as the hotel's staff swept in to dear the tables and rearrange the room, he said, simply, 'Come on.' 'Come on where?' she demanded, following in his footsteps. At the car he had hired and which stood in the car park, he said with a sardonic smile, 'To change about the well-known biblical

quotation, 'Whither I will go, thou goest; and where I will lodge, thou lodgest.' The smile went, his eyes grew hard. 'You're my wife now.' The words trembled on her lips—in name, Sloan, only in name. That's all I wanted. But they would not be spoken. Nothing would come—because she wanted to go with him—to the ends of the earth and beyond. Sloan's apartment was in the heart of London. . The car turned into a quiet courtyard around which were grouped red-brick buildings constructed, Jasmine estimated, possibly two centuries before. On stepping out of the lift and following Sloan, she marvelled at the expensive wall decorations, the plasterwork on the ceiling, the rich pile of the carpet. The apartment itself was furnished with quiet good taste, the window drapes-being caught back in a loop with net curtains to maintain privacy. There was in the bedroom a double bed, cupboards and drawers. The whole spoke of elegance with more than a hint of luxury. . 'The bathroom,' Sloan indicated. 'Kitchen.' An arm lifted towards a room containing floor-standing units, working tops and everything a woman— housekeeper, wife, even mistress?—could wish for. A fining-table stood in the centre of a raised area leading off the living room. Candles in silver holders waited to be lit, the table was set for two. Wine glasses were beside each place setting, flowers in a small bowl added colour and a drifting scent. 'All yours?' Jasmine breathed.

'While I pay the rent/ Sloan answered dryly. 'My own house is deep in the English countryside. I thought that, in the circumstances, this was nearer and quite adequate for our purpose.' Purpose? Jasmine thought. What 'purpose'? And where was the other bed on which she would sleep? Or-^she looked around—did Sloan intend sleeping on the couch tonight? They were questions she dared not ask in case the answers werer too alarming. She looked round the living area, feeling alien and lost. If arms had come round her, cradling her, if a mouth had found hers, searching for a response to a loving need deep inside the man who was her new husband, then the; surroundings would have ceased to intimidate, even to matter. They might even, in her imagination, have been turned into the mystic, solitary beauty of a deserted island. There was an arctic silence. Liquid was poured, ice cubes rattled, then a sound of swallowing. No question as to whether she would like to join him. 'I'd like a drink, too,' she said, her voice small amidst the expensive elegance. 'To bolster your courage?' the voice mocked. Jasmine swung from the window through which she had been staring. 'Isn't alcohol an escape, too?' she challenged. He smiled strangely. 'You think I want to escape?' He raised another glass to his lips, having given her a drink. His eyes looked at her from over the crystal rim and because his head was slightly back, his gaze was hooded. There was nothing about her he missed. The ivory silk of the pleated dress moulded itself to the parted fullness of her breasts, swinging provocatively from her hips and over her thighs, suggesting rather than revealing, coaxing more than beckoning.

Jasmine drank, and the liquid burned its way into her senses, heightening them. She saw Sloan, too, attractively male in his suit of fine cloth and perfect cut, his dark hair thick and curving down almost to meet and merge with a lifted brow. The breadth of shoulder and lean thrust of hips glimpsed under the loosened jacket offered refuge and unbounded love—if she had been the woman of h is choice. But she had chosen him, and because of that, everything that attracted her about him, everything that made her want to throw herself into his arms and tell him she loved him, was out of her reach. Looking round distractedly for a table she put her half-finished drink on a glass top. His clattered on to the mantelpiece over the covered-in fireplace. 'Let's eat,' he said, and picked up the telephone. 'I—I thought I cooked the meal,' she said, to make conversation. The very thought of entering that spotless showpiece of a kitchen frightened her. 'There's a meal plus service available when I want it/ he said. 'On normal occasions/ he flickered her a smile, 'of which this is not one, I make something light for myself.' 'I didn't know you could cook,' she commented. She sat on the leather-seated dining chair to which he had shown her. 'But then I don't really know much about you, do I?' Her smile was small but slightly taunting, and she unfolded her table napkin. 'Except what I've read in the papers/ * Sloan put a match to the candles arid the flames' reflections played over his unreadable face. 'That can be remedied, my darling.' The endearment was so devoid of warmth, Jasmine felt a shiver course through her.

The meal was over, the room maid had departed wheeling a stacked trolley. Languor and animation warred inside Jasmine. The champagne and the coffee were battling for supremacy. She occupied a two-seater couch, her legs curled under her. Sloan sat opposite on another two-seater couch, flicking through a pile of magazines. Jasmine's head rested on an embroidered cushion. Her red-brown hair had lost its neatness, her makeup had faded, since it had been renewed only once that day. Somehow, such superficial touches as cosmetics seemed not to matter now. Her fingers felt for the gold band on her wedding finger. It had happened—she had married Sloan Lancaster. Smiling to herself, she closed her eyes, wondering, If I told him he was the man of my dreams, what would he say? 'What are you thinking?' She looked at him, seeing that his eyes were on the fingers touching the ring. 'About the money that I've put within your reach at last?' 'Nothing was farther from my mind.' The languor had won, threatening to turn into sleepiness. 'Liar.' Tension, like a garden rake, tore at the roots of her relaxation. Puzzled, she stared at him. 'You're gloating over the acquisition of the wedding ring.' He put aside the magazine. 'And your boy-friend's probably drinking himself silly at the prospect of so much money in his girl-friend's bank' balance.' He stood, pushed hands in pockets, and stared impassively down at her. He was not angry. He spoke in a normal tone of voice. 'What will his girl-friend do, I wonder? Buy herself a

car and let him drive it? Purchase a semi-luxury flat where they can both live?' 'I wasn't even thinking about the money,' she protested, anxious despite his failure to exhibit any kind of wrath. 'You were fondling the ring. You've hankered after it long enough. Well, now you've got it, you can pay me for giving it to you.' Still she frowned, but reached for her handbag. 'I didn't realise—but of course, if you want me to pay for it, I've no objection at all. Will ,a cheque do?' 'In kind.' He repeated, seeing her continued puzzlement, 'You'll pay me in kind.' He seized her wrist, jerking her so hard she hastily uncurled her legs, finding the floor and facing him. 'Go in the bedroom and prepare for bed.' 'Sloan,' she reasoned, humouring him, 1 told you—it wouldn't be that sort of marriage. Just a ring --' The word seemed to enrage him and he pulled her round to face the bedroom door. 'Get in there. When a woman solicits me, as you have done, I usually take first and pay afterwards. This time, it's in reverse order. And I'm making damned sure I get what I paid for.' Shaking now, she stood in the doorway. I've got a pain, Sloan.' She put a hand to her stomach. That was where she had thought it was, but it was higher, in fhe region of her chest, like a knife through her heart. Not a physical pain, but ar* emotional one, and purely primitive. It was fear. 'Do you get a "pain",' he sneered, 'when you and your boy-friend go to bed together?* 'We don't, Sloan.'

He turned his back on her. 'Don't lie again.' Her case stood on the floor and she took out a long, expensive nightdress, a transparent green- blue, the colour attracting her because it was like the sea in .which she had bathed in Malta. Pam, who had been with her in the shop, had urged her to buy it. 'It will make him love you on sight,' she had sighed romantically. He didn't even see it. After showering in the bath- room, she had entered the bedroom through a communicating door, and climbed into bed, pretending to sleep. He must have sensed her readiness, because he came in from the bathroom as she had. He wore a robe and went to the dressing-table to pick up a hairbrush. 'Are you undressed?' he asked. She had tried to pretend she was asleep, but he had rapped out the question again. 'I'm wearing my nightdress/ she answered at last. 'Take it off.' 'Please, Sloan,' she pleaded again, 'I didn't mean it this way.' 'Take it off.' His back was still to her, so she sat up, pulling the gown over her head. She had never felt so exposed in her life—or so cold. The shivering increased as he approached the bed, unwrapping his robe. When he stood before her, his body exhibiting every vestige of his masculinity, she stared the length and breadth of him, but she could not say a word. Plead with him to be careful? she thought. It was like asking a mountain to move. Tell him it was the first time for her? It wouldn't

turn him aside from his avowed intention. He pulled back the bedclothes and his eyes ran over her. They were completely empty of love, tenderness or even pleasure. His glint of contempt told her that, to him, hers was just another woman's body. He was beside her then, stretched full length. His hands were on her, hard and cruel. 'Sloan,' she cried out, 'not like this!' He did not respond, except to hurt her more. His face hovered above hers and where his mouth should have been was a hard, red line. He was looking at her mouth, which was soft and trembling. But— and she could not believe it—he did not kiss her. He did nothing, in fact, to arouse her, only to hurt and —she supposed, in a frightened daze-to punish. Then it was over and he was lying beside her. He was unmoved by the tears which ran down her cheeks. 'I t-told you, Sloan, Michael and I had never --' 'Well, now I've made it easy for him.' A spiteful smile curved his lips, and she wanted to hurt him back. 'It was rape,' she accused. His shoulders moved dismissingly. 'You're vile!' He lay still, but it was plain his energy was returning. 'You didn't help me. I was tense, I was frightened. You knew, you must have 'known, but you didn't care.' 'You didn't care about using me. Why should I care about using you?' 'You didn't even kiss me.'

"One doesn't kiss a woman of the streets, if one can avoid it.' He swung out of bed and pulled on his robe. He looked down at her, his eyes filled with something she could not read. Was it hate? Slowly she shook her head. 'You know I'm not that, Sloan.' 'You wanted the money, you found a willing man. You wanted marriage, not gentleness. A ring, not love. You've got what you wanted.' 'You agreed to my proposal.' For a moment he did not answer. Then he said, 'In a moment of weakness, when I saw your tears, a woman's tears ...' his half-closed eyes were brooding, 'when I thought you wanted the money for yourself, needed it even.' She pulled the covers over her to try to stop the shaking which had started again. He went across the room. 'Where are you going?' she asked, her voice muffled. 'To wash the touch of you from me,' was his cruel answer.

He had slept beside her all night. She herself had been restless, yet holding herself still for fear of disturbing him and bringing his needs to life again. There was no relaxation in her. Despite the brutality of his taking of her, and his merciless refusal to tame his animal drives even after he knew she was as innocent as she had declared, something * had awoken within her which, cried out for appeasement. 'Vile' she had called him, yet she loved him still.

However badly he might behave towards her, nothing would alter that love. Surely, after even a few days together, he would melt in his attitude, begin to believe her when she told him that Michael meant nothing, that she would be giving him the money for his family? Even if love for her did not grow in him. some kind of affection for her would surely blossom in his mind, if not in his heart? At last she must have slept, because when she opened her eyes, she was alone. His voice came from the living-room. 'Jody?' he was saying. 'No, the book's not finished yet. I'd hoped to complete it before coming back— but—er—other things intervened. Yes, I'll push on. I know you're spending a fortune on promoting it. I give you my word, just a few more weeks. What were the "other things"? Oh, nothing of importance. A woman? Now that would be telling.' A click ended the conversation. Another call was being made. 'Alma?' His voice had softened. 'Yes, I'm calling from London. No, don't come over, sweetie. I've—er—a little problem on my mind. All right, if you say so—in my bed. What's she like? Look, it doesn't matter to you. It's not permanent. No, none of my women are. See you some time. Yes, I'll call you again next time round.' When he came into the bedroom, Jasmine was sitting on the side of the bed, her matching negligee only partially covering the nightdress. Looking up at him, she saw that he was fully dressed. There was a briefcase in his hand. He looked as though he was a businessman off to his London office. 'Goodbye,' he said. She stood, her eyes wild. 'Where are you going?'

He looked at her burning cheeks, her disordered hair, her searching eyes. 'Where do you think? Back to Malta.' 'What—what about me ?' 'You?' His eyes flicked her, and she knew there was little about her he could not see. The negligee was as transparent as the nightgown. 'You've got what you want. Go and live with your boy-friend. He must have been holding off until he was sure of that money.' He affected a shrug. 'Having--experienced you myself, I must admit I fail to grasp his motives in not making sure of you by staking his claim.' She ran to him and grasped his shoulders. 'Sloan, let me explain...' He .jerked free. 'Some other time, darling/ he drawled. 'See you again, maybe.' The door closed behind him but she wrenched it open. 'Sloan,' she cried out, 'don't go, don't leave me, you don't understand…' The swish of the lift doors coming together answered her.

CHAPTER EIGHT JASMINE left Sloan's apartment that morning and returned to the Simms' house in north London. She used the key she still had in her bag and let herself in. Both Pam and Mrs Simms, Jasmine knew, would be at work. . There were, as usual, the pile of breakfast dishes awaiting attention. Jasmine ran upstairs to her room, which had not been touched since her departure the day before, and found a tee-shirt and jeans to wear. When mother and daughter came home at the end of the day, they found a tidy house and Jasmine in the kitchen, making their evening meal. Mrs Simms paled at the sight. Pam gasped and exclaimed, 'Oh, no!''You haven't walked out on him already, dear, have you?' Mrs Simms asked, aghast. Jasmine shook her head, keeping her face averted. 'He walked out on me, Mrs Simms.' 'Where to?' Pam asked. 'His house in Somerset?' 'Back to Malta.' She busied herself at the sink. 'He just went, like that.' Mrs Simms found a chair. 'But I thought—I really thought it was a love match after all, after the way he looked at you yesterday at the wedding.' 'He's—he's just good at pretending, Mrs Simms/ Jasmine's voice faltered and broke and she tried in vain to stop the tears. Pam rushed over to her friend, putting an arm round her shoulders.

Mrs Simms got up and patted her back. 'There, there, don't cry, dear. Have a nice cup of tea.' 'Mum's cure for all ills,' said Pam, attempting lightness. 'Sit down. Now have a drink of tea. Here's a hanky.' Jasmine held up her own and dried her eyes. 'Sorry. It just happened.' 'You're so upset, that's why,' said Mrs Simms. 'And I'm not surprised. You loving him, too. You do love him, dear, don't you? I could tell by the way you looked at him.' Jasmine's smile was watery. 'Well, you were wrong about Sloan, Mrs Simms. You see, he's got another woman. I heard him phoning her this morning, before he went. He thought I was asleep.' 'You'll just have to look on the bright side,' said Pam. 'You're married to him now, which is what you wanted, isn't it? That's what the will said, too. Marriage to a man…' 'Of my choice.' She smiled at her cup of tea. 'I suppose Grandfather did it for the best. It just hadn't worked out. that's all. But yes. I can get the money now. Tomorrow I'll go and see the solicitor, show him the marriage certificate and then, I hope, he'll give me a cheque.' 'Are you still going to give it to Michael?' Pam asked. Jasmine nodded. 'Well; most of it. I'll keep a little for myself. I just don't know if Sloan will give me any money or not. Anyway, I can have my old job back. Mr Brown wrote to me in Malta, saying so.' Pam nodded. 'He was asking after you today.' She made a face. 'I told him you were ecstatically happy. I really thought you were, you know.'

jasmine smiled. 'I just didn't want to spoil your romantic dreams, Pam, but I knew it wouldn't be a—a loving marriage.' 'It is, on your part,' Pam protested. 'What's the. use of one loving and one hating?' Jasmine said, then looked up hastily, hoping she had • not given too much away. -~ 'Don't be silly, dear.' Mrs Simms patted her hand. 'Mr Lancaster—I mean, your husband——' to her daughter,- 'it sounds, so strange. He doesn't hate you. I mean,' she looked girlish, 'after all, last night was your wedding night and——' Seeing Jasmine's unhappy frown, Pam said sharply, 'It's Jasmine's business, Mum.' Mrs Simms held up a placating hand. To her friend, Pam said, 'When are you going to tell Michael?' 'Will he be in this evening?' 'He's in every evening, except when I've been round to take over and give him a break.' 'I'll go after tea,' Jasmine promised.

Michael welcomed her with a kiss on her cheek and warm congratulations. Jasmine did not tell him about her new husband's absence. The childrenthrew themselves upon her and she hugged them one by one. 'Have you come instead of Pam?' Fran, the eight- year-old asked. When Jasmine nodded, the response was a disappointed pout. 'I like Pam. She's fun.'

Michael shooed them out and turned to Jasmine. 'It's good to see you back.' Jasmine looked at him anxiously, but his smile was more brotherly than loving and she sighed with relief. 'You know the money's available to me now?' She showed Michael her wedding ring. He looked at it, saying, 'I hope you've done the right thing. Is it a lot of money, Jasmine? What will you do with it? Now you're married to a man who's as well known as your—your husband,' Kfc plainly found the word difficult to say, too, 'you'll have all the money you need, won't you?' Jasmine seized on the statement. 'That's it, Michael, that's the whole point. It's ironic, isn't it? I've fulfilled my grandfather's condition and here I am, not needing the money any longer!' She forced an eager brightness into her smile. 'So—so could you help me, Michael?' She was choosing her words with care. 'I want to use it to help people—someone. Someone who really needs what money can give.' Michael frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. Jasmine looked around, 'Things like—well, new furniture, like you do, new carpets, things in the kitchen.' Realisation seemed to be dawning in Michael's eyes. 'Even—a housekeeper?' she went on. No, that was too loaded a word, too reminiscent of the wealthier sections of the community. 'A woman who comes in every day, to look after little Kevin while you're at work, and the other two when they come in from school. And you too. She would cook an evening meal for you.' Michael sat down as though he needed support. 'Are you trying to tell me,' he said slowly, 'that you're offering me the money?'

. 'Some of it, Michael, only some of it. You see, I'li have to keep some of it,.but not much,' she rushed on, urging him gently towards the acceptance she thought she might now receive. 'The—the idea came to me,' she lied, 'this morning. I was thinking, what shall I do with all that money? And then I thought, I could give some of it to Michael. He needs so many things and he's had a raw deal.' Doubt was creeping into Michael's eyes, and Jasmine said hurriedly, 'It's for the children, really, for Kevin and Leslie and Fran-——' Holding her breath, she waited, then asked, 'Will you take some of it, Michael?' He thought for a long time, hands on his knees, staring into nothing. At last he stirred. 'Your husband—have you told him?' 'Yes, yes, I have.' And that, she thought, was not a lie. 'And he— well, he doesn't mind at all.' A light was switched on in Michael's face. The feeling of relief, of release, almost, showed through, as though a burden had been lifted. He stood up and embraced Jasmine, hiding his face in her neck. He was like a big brother who had had his bad debts paid off. 'Okay?' Jasmine asked, when he pulled away at last. 'Okay,' he echoed, and took off the apron he had been wearing.

A week went by, a week in which Sloan had never left her mind. In her sleep, in her daydreams, she relived their wedding night, the misery and pain being erased with the passing hours, to be replaced with a golden glow, like the sun setting over Malta. Malta, where Sloan was, and where she was wanting to be with an increasing, insistent longing ...

In that week Jasmine had achieved a great deal. The money had been released by the solicitor. Jasmine, with Earn, had called to see Michael and a cheque for an amount which had made him stagger had been placed in his shaking hands. He had hugged Jasmine and kissed her, at his insistence, on the lips. It had contained affection and gratitude but nothing else. When Jasmine had turned, smiling to Pam, expecting shared pleasure, there had been a strange look on her friend's face, but it had passed so quickly Jasmine decided she . had imagined it. Later, as she sat reading a magazine in her bed: room, Jasmine had recalled the incident. Had Pam been envious of Michael? Had she, perhaps, thought that she and her mother-might have been given some of the money? Jasmine stood up, conscience-stricken. It had not even occurred to her to offer Mrs Simms more money for living in their house. Nor even to make them a gift of something— a silver vase, maybe, or household linen, or even a piece of furniture. Hurrying down the stairs, she was greeted warmly by Mrs Simms who sat with her daughter drinking the inevitable tea. 'Have a cup with us, dear,' Mrs Simms offered. It was the opening Jasmine had been looking for. When she mentioned the subject of increased rent, however, Mrs Simms would not hear of it. Even Pam smiled and said teasingly, 'Don't be silly, Mrs Sloan Lancaster/ Seeing the surprise and then the pain which passed across her friend's face, Pam had apologised immediately. 'You're not used to the fact that you're married, are you? I wouldn't be, either, if I were in your shoes. One thing I wouldn't do would be to let my husband of one day walk out on me. I'd be after him, calling him all the names I could think of—unless,' her face became dreamy, 'I really

loved him. Then I'd—' She sighed. 'I think I'd just throw myself at him, regardless.' Mrs Simms looked at Jasmine with sympathy and there was a long silence. Have I too much pride? Jasmine wondered. If I did what Pam had just said she would do, how would Sloan react? Pretend I wasn't there? Tread on me, Or even kick me out of the way? Would it matter, just as long as I told him the truth—how much I loved him? 'Mrs Simms?' 'Yes, dear?' Jasmine gestured towards the hall. 'Mind if I use your phone?' Mrs Simms began to protest thlat she knew she could use it any time, when Jasmine broke ih, 'To phone Malta?' There was a combined mother-and-daughter gasp and Jasmine said hurriedly, 'I'll call the operator back afterwards and ask how much -' 'Use it, dear,' said Mrs Simms, reassured. . Together, Jasmine and Pam read the telephone directory for instructions on how to make an overseas call. In no time at all, it seemed to the apprehensive caller, she was connected to Sloan Lancaster's villa on the ^island of Malta. Pam had discreetly left her side. It was Mrs Vella, the housekeeper, who answered. It took her a few minutes to realise the caller's identity. 'Ob, Miss Hayman, of course, my dear.' Over the miles, the woman's accent seemed more pronounced. Had Sloan kept his marriage a secret, even from his housekeeper? Jasmine wondered, or, had Mrs Vella, like herself, failed as yet to grasp the fact that her name had changed?

'You wish to speak with Mr Lancaster? Oh dear— well, I am sorry, but he is out. It is evening here, you see. But of course, it is evening with you in England, tool If you wish, you can speak to Miss Abela, that is, Marie. She is here and would be glad—No? It is Mr Sloan you want?' 'Yes,' Jasmine said wearily, 'it's Mr Sloan I want, no one else.' As she said goodbye and put down the phone, she thought, those words are so true, they hurt me to think them, let alone say them. Wandering back to the living-room, she sank into a chair and put a hand to her face. Her two companions watched her with pity and compassion. 'He's out,' said Jasmine/closing her eyes and leaning back, 'but when he gets back, he won't be lonely. There's a—a woman waiting for him.' Her voice wavered. 'Her name's Marie, Marie Abela.' Pam nodded, saying she knew of her. 'Ernest told me about her,' Jasmine went on, 'that she's been seen around with Sloan and that she hopes one day to be his -' Jasmine's hands covered her face and the tears defied every attempt she made to hold them back. A chair was pushed back and Mrs Simms' voice said soothingly, 'There, there, dear,' her hand patted Jasmine's shoulder, 'you mustn't get so upset. I must say I just don't understand the man.' She resumed her seat. 'All right, so you did ask him to marry you instead of the other way round, but you're a lovely girl, and any man would be proud to have you as his wife.' 'Any man but Sloan Lancaster,' Pam said accusingly. 'If he's got a woman, Jasmine, why don't you retaliate and get yourself another man?'

Jasmine shook her head, drying her eyes. 'Even if I knew anyone I liked a lot, I could never let him be any more to me than a friend. It's Sloan, you see. I think it has been since I first saw him.' 'Have you , told him that?' Pam asked. 'What, never? Never said you loved him?' 'Somehow,' Jasmine sighed, 'in the circumstances, it just didn't seem appropriate/ 'Maybe,' Pam persisted, 'that was why he went off. Maybe he thought you didn't love him, just wanted his ring——' , Jasmine stared at her. 'That was what I kept telling him, but he said he got tired so hearing me say it. I just didn't want him to feel under any obligation. 'There you are, then,' Pam said triumphantly. 'I've solved your problem for you. Go back to Malta and tell your husband you love him!'

It was good to be back in Malta, Jasmine thought, letting herself into Aunt Delia's apartment. It was a little like coming home. It was late and Mrs Galea's door had been shut, which could only mean, Jasmine decided, that Mrs Galea had gone to bed. In the morning she would see her and find some reason to explain her return to the flat. Lighting the 'Moontiger' and watching its orange flame, knowing it would keep the insects atthrough the night, Jasmine recalled her first arrival in Malta. Everything had seemed like a dream—the heat, the friendly people, the blue-green sea which was so clear she could hardly believe it.

Now something else seemed a dream—her marriage to Sloan. Arriving at the airport, she had decided against going straight to Sloan's villa. That -way she would postpone, for a while, the necessity of discovering the frightening truth—that her husband did indeed have a 'close' woman friend at his holiday residence. After a restless night she showered and breakfasted, then called on an astonished Mrs Galea. They talked for a while and Jasmine told her that Sloan had had to return before her to continue with hiswriting. There was a deadline to meet, she explained vaguely and not entirely truthfully. She had arrived so late last night that she had decided not to disturb him in case he had gone to bed. If Mrs Galea thought it Strange that a bride of just over a week did not wish to climb into her husband's bed, no matter what the time of her arrival might be, then she was too polite to say so. In the taxi, Jasmine tried to steel herself td meet the ordeal which, with every turn of the wheels, was coming nearer—that of coming face to face with a husband who didn't really want her. Having paid the taxi driver and tipped him well, to his pleasure and surprise, she knocked at the main entrance door, telling herself that, as Sloan's wife, she really had the right to walk straight in. Except that she did not have a key. Footsteps sounded loud and confident on the tiled floor of the entrance hall. The door opened and Jasmine started to say, with a determined, if nervous smile, 'Hallo, Sloan, I've come to you/ when she saw that it was not, in fact, her husband. The person Who stood there, black-haired, shapely and with hostile eyes, was the young woman with whom she had seen Sloan on the night of the festa. 'Who is it?' the young woman asked, with a trace, of hauteur. 'I am afraid Mr Lancaster is not available to visitors.'

'I'm not a visitor, Miss—?' Jasmine had already recognised the proud tilt of the head and the dark, long hair. So she was still here. Where had she— slept? 'Abela, Marie Abela. I am Mr Lancaster's -' Jasmine could not allow the girl to say the dreaded word. Even if she was talking to his mistress, she would not be kept from the house which she herself was fully entitled to enter. 'And I'm Mr Lancaster's wife. Would you let me in, please?' The girl flushed deeply but did not move from the door. 'Who is it, Marie?' The deep timbre of the voice had Jasmine's nerve ends tingling. Sloan's hands went to the girl's shoulders, moving her slightly. The hands dropped away as his eyes met Jasmine's and the relaxed indulgence went from his demeanour. 'What are you doing here?' he demanded, moving in front of Marie,-but not quickly enough to hide her self-satisfied smile at his tone. Spontaneously and in retaliation. Jasmine acted the possessive wife. If she and Sloan's woman were going to fight over him like two children over a favoured toy, then she would use all her weapons. 'I couldn't wait any longer to see you again, darling/ she said, turning on her most winning smile. 'I've completed my business in England, so there's nothing to keep us apart any longer.' Sloan's look was sardonic as he allowed his wife to enter. He turned to the girl. 'I think we'll call it a day, Marie.' His smile as he addressed her was gentle. Hers in return was this side of idolatry. 'Tomorrow?' she asked huskily.

Sloan hesitated, glancing at Jasmine's rapt expression, 'Maybe. I'll call you. Okay?' The touch of intimacy in his tone struck a knifetip's blow against Jasmine's heart, but her smile held. Leaving Sloan and the girl, Jasmine wandered into the living room. Nothing had changed, but had she really expected it to, in just over a week? It was, she guessed, because she had changed so much in that time that she thought all the world she had known before would have undergone a similar change. At last the outer door closed, but Sloan did not immediately join her. His voice drifted in from the kitchen and a woman's voice answered. It seemed as if he was telling Mrs Vella to go home. The thought of being alone with her husband deprived her of the cloak of selfassurance in which she had wrapped herself. When he joined her, she felt as though the seventh veil had been torn away. He looked her over, his eyes narrowed and cutting. Jasmine had taken care with her clothes, dressing to provoke as she never would have dared before the night she had spent with him. Her sleeveless shirt was stretched to reveal her shape, the white slacks fitting so well they emphasised rather than hid the enticements of hip and thigh. Not an inch of her did he miss, and when his gaze met hers again, she expected cynical comment. When he spoke, however, it was a question he asked. 'Has your boyfriend turned you out? Now he's got your money, doesn't he want your company? Or did he object to being presented with soiled goods?' 'You've got an evil mind!' she retorted, her face flushing. 'I've got many types of mind,' he answered, still looking her over. 'I need to have, being a writer. And if you present yourself to me

dressed like that, what kind of thoughts do you expect me to have— pure as a mountain stream?' 'May—may I sit down?' His hand swept round the room. 'It's all yours, my love. What's mine has become yours. And,' again he trailed his gaze from head to foot, 'what you possess, I possess, too.' This, she thought, was not how she had visualised the reunion, although she had never dreamed of open arms and loving words. But she had expected something, somewhere inside him to have softened. On the contrary, his attitude seemed, if anything, to have hardened. Go back to Malta and tell your husband you love him! When Pam had given that advice, she also must have believed that absence would have made Sloan's heart grow warmer. In the face of Sloan's intractability, how could she ever bring herself to utter the words she had come to say? 'Drink?' Sloan's back was to her, bending over the bottles and glasses. 'The usual?' Jasmine said, Yes, please, and studied the lean figure across the room. She was his, her heart cried, she belonged to him. However abominably he had treated her on their wedding night, her love for him had endured and had even increased. What was she to do about it —about that love? Speaking to his back, quickly, before her courage ebbed, she said, 'Sloan, I came back because—because I love you.' He turned, holding two glasses. One he handed to her, his eyes veiled by long lashes. Then he tipped half the contents of his glass down his throat. 'I wanted to tell you, Sloan/ What had she expected—a declaration of love in return? His eyes hardened and he sneered, 'How convenient! And how very sudden.

It makes everything just fine now, doesn't it? It salves your conscience and fulfils in every way the conditions of your grandfather's will.' . He sprawled in a chair, eyes closed, every line of his body revealing a strange kind of weariness. There were bristles around his chin and cheeks again, as though he had worked the night through, as though living a civilised life was somehow too much of an effort when the words came pouring from him. Her arms wanted to stretch out to him, to wrap themselves around his body, to pull his head to rest against her breasts and give him relaxation and sleep. And then, when sleep had refreshed him . 'Did Marie Abela stay the night?' To her own surprise, her voice was hard. Tension stiffened his leg muscles, hardened his thighs, curled his fingers resting on the chair arms. His head lifted. 'Now who's got an evil mind? Marie is my secretary, not my woman. She's engaged to the son of a highly-placed lecturer at the University of Malta.' He sat forward. 'Do you withdraw your unsavoury insinuation ?' 'Yes, yes.' She sank back in the chair, covering her eyes. 'Oh, Sloan, can't we stop this quarrelling? I'm your wife, Sloan, your—your bride, laugh at the word if you want, but it's true. I've never been married before; never been in such intimate contact with any man. I swear that's true. In fact, you know it is.' The lump in her throat would not be swallowed, but she forced herself to hold back the tears. 'And you think you love me.' 'Not think—know.'

'Intimacy brings its own form of love. Believe me, it doesn't last. Love has to be based on much firmer territory than that of lust and sensual contact.' Jasmine compressed her lips to prevent herself from declaring yet again her love, true love. He would only laugh and dismiss the statement. A sigh that seemed to come from his depths revealed an acceptance of something—her presence there? A long-suffering acknowledgement that the interruption to his work would have to be endured until he could shut her from the house again? Hadn't he told her once that he-shut everyone from his work, even his women? How much more easily could he exclude his wife! He stood and stretched and Jasmine, looking up, saw his shirt pull free from the waistband of his slacks. Longings stirred, feelings she had kept in check began to strain at their bonds. In her thoughts she was touching him, feeling his body come alive under her shy pressure. He looked down suddenly and caught the path of her gaze, but she veiled her eyes before he saw the longing. 'I need a shower and a shave. Have you breakfasted? Where, at some-hotel?' 'I'm back at Aunt Delia's apartment.' 'You must move in here.' 'I don't want to interrupt your work, Sloan.' 'The damage is done. You're here. Work can wait. I'll take you out, show you something of the island. After all, your stay here has an end to it, hasn't/it? I've kept my side of the bargain.' He counted on his fingers. 'Ring, signature on the marriage certificate, my name—

all promises kept. Look on this visit,' he paused at the door, smiling tauntingly, 'as an extension of your vacation.' He left her to her thoughts and the tears receded, giving way to a dull ache in her head—and her heart.

CHAPTER NINE SLOAN emerged from the bedroom cleanshaven, the scent of his aftershave hanging on the warm air. His white summer shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and his light brown slacks hid nothing of his hard- muscled build. Just looking at him lifted the cloud from Jasmine's mind. He looked refreshed as though he had slept for an hour, although he had been absent for only fifteen minutes. His cool appearance made her conscious of the lethargy of her limbs. She had dressed to attract, which did not also mean in an appropriate fashion for the high temperature. He stood looking down at her as she pulled at the neck of her teeshirt. His eyes were lazy and a little malicious as he smiled at her discomfort. 'You want to strip, is that it?' he asked. 'That would suit me fine, my love. The bedroom awaits you. No mistress in occupation,' he taunted, reminding her of her insinuations about the status of Marie Abela. 'Strip and shower. I'll join you there, if that's what you're after, although I've just been under it.' Jasmine thrust herself out of the chair. 'No, 'it's not what I want! I want——' she looked down at herself, aware that his eyes followed hers only too happily, 'I want to change into a dress.' Her eyes appealed along with her lips. 'Will you please take me back to the apartment so I can change?' His lids lowered. 'You can be winsome when you want to can't you? In addition to provocative,' his hand followed the curve of her breast to her waist and lower to her hip. 'Is seduction art item in your repertoire, too?' 'I wouldn't even know how to start,' she snapped. 'It's a lesson I shall enjoy teaching you,' he returned, smiling.

Jasmine swung away, irritated by his faintly lecherous attitude. And frightened, too, she had to admit. If this man cared to, he could reduce her to a melting, importuning piece of womanhood in a few moments, simply by putting his mouth to hers. 'If you won't take me,' she said, 'I'll go the way I came;, by taxi.' 'You can stop acting the indignant wife,' his hand came out and fastened with ease on her swinging wrist, 'and get in my car.' Trying to pull free, she said futilely, 'I'm not your wife.' 'Oh, but you are.' His voice was smooth. 'Remember our wedding night?' 'I've been doing my best to forget it.' He swung her round. 'Any more remarks like that, and I'll give you what your body, in that outfit, "has-been asking for ever since your arrival here this morning.' She looked down, unable to reply. More than anything she wanted his love, his genuine love, but it was as out of her reach as the sun in the sky. There was a nerve-racking silence, plus a tingling awareness that had her clenching her hands and tensing her muscles to hold her back from flinging herself at him. 'Come on/ he said roughly, and pulled her after him. As they climbed the stairs and walked past Mrs Qalea's flat, her door was, as usual, partly open. 'Jasmine,' she called. 'Oh, and Mr Lancaster. How nice to see you. Together at last, eh? Come in, have some tea.' Sloan refused politely for both of them. 'You're going out again? Of course you must make the most of your time here. It is a honeymoon, after all John,' as they stood in the doorway, her son

joined her, his hand linked with the fingers of Mirielle, 'tell Jasmine you have had a letter from Pam.' John nodded. 'She tells me she is well, but wishing she could be here in Malta again/ His smile was just a little forced and Jasmine thought, Oh, dear, if Pam knew, would she be very unhappy? John went on, 'She tells me she is busy helping a friend, someone who needs her help badly.' Jasmine frowned, then her brow cleared, only to be pleated by the frown again. The friend could K>rlly be Michael, and if John said the name in front of Sloan ... Jasmine nodded. 'Yes. yes, Pam's always helping people.' To her relief, the subject was dropped. Mirielle smiled at Jasmine, 'Ernest, my brother, is well. I'm sure that if he knew you intended coming back, he would send his good wishes.' 'Oh, Ernest—er -' she felt Sloan's hand on her arm tighten, 'please send him my kind regards, Mirielle.' The girl nodded, the conversation lulled and Jasmine took the opportunity to move on. In the bedroom of the apartment, she went hurriedly through the clothes in the wardrobe and took , out a sundress with narrow shoulder straps and low- cut front and back. Hurriedly she pulled her tee- shirt over her head, hoping Sloan would stay right where he was, sprawled in the living-room chair. As she freed her head from the shirt, she saw that her wish had not come true. He was leaning indolently against the doorway, watching her. And it was under that unreadable gaze that she had to remove the final barrier to his tormenting eyes. For a moment she hesitated, then she swung her back towards him. Her hands came up to unhook her bra, but the hooks proved awkward—or was it her subconscious mind helping her to escape from that gaze?

Diving for the dress which lay across a chair, she pulled it over her head, only to hear a low laugh and a murmured, 'Coward!' With the dress half in position, her fingers tried once again to undo the fastening—only to find the dress was being pulled to fit correctly. Turning to thank Sloan while concealing her surprise that he had come to her aid, she felt the shoulder straps being eased down so that the top of the dress came with them. Only then did the reason for Sloau's 'apparently helpful act occur to her. He was not being helpful at all. He had used the situation to catch her completely off guard. Before she knew what he was doing, her arms were free of the straps' constriction, the bra was removed and she was facing him and in his arms. What annoyed her most was that her own arms had crept up to encircle his neck. His mouth approached hers, but she turned this way and that. 'Please, Sloan, don't—not now, not any time.' 'So it was a lie when you said you loved me?' 'No, no, it wasn't a lie -' His smile denoted triumph, not pleasure at the statement. His mouth came at her again, hard and forceful, parting her lips and test-tasting the sweetness within. Possessively his hands roamed until they found and moulded the curving softness, easing her backwards the better to hold and caress. Jasmine was left in no doubt as to his own aroused desire and hers leapt to meet the strength of his. She urged herself against him, trying in her own way to tell him that she was his if he wanted her. Laughter from downstairs broke the spell, and Jasmine stiffened in Sloan's embrace. I love you, she had told him. Not only had he sneered at the words, he had not reciprocated by committing himself to her in the same way.

Feeling her resistance to his persuasive hands, his hold turned momentarily cruel. When she winced and let out a small cry, he smiled with malicious satisfaction. As they broke apart, anger darkened his eyes." 'Dress yourself,' he commanded, walking away and running fingers through his hair. The words were almost a reprimand; as if, she thought angrily, I had started it. Sloan took Jasmine to Mosta, near the island's centre. Its people, he told her, were proud of their church. 'It was built in the middle of the last century by a Maltese architect.' He looked up. 'It has one of the largest unsupported domes in the world.' Jasmine found the interior breathtaking. The ceiling was decorated. 'The geometric pattern makes me dizzy,' she commented, and Sloan smiled. Taking her hand, he led her through archways, the roofs of which bore the same blue and gold squares. Small archways at the top of the dome —which, Jasmine discovered, were really windows — were hung with velvet, gold-braided curtains. At lunchtime they patronised a restaurant at St Paul's Bay and after the meal they strolled down to the sea front to watch-the fishing boats operating from the fishing village. 'Have you been to Golden Bay?' Sloan asked, and Jasmine shook her head. Sloan smiled. 'This is the first time I've played tame guide to an eager' tourist. Did you put your swimming things in the car as I suggested?' "You commanded and I obeyed,' she laughed up at him.

With narrowed eyes he said, 'You dare to be provocative now, where you're safe, but in the right place-—in the bedroom—you run away and say, "'Please, Sloan, not now!' He pulled her after him towards the car. 'When, I wonder, will you wind your arms around me and say, "Please, Sloan, now, now!' 'Never,' she said lightly, only to feel herself pulled viciously hard from tailing behind him to his side. 'Don't waken that animal I told you about that sleeps inside me, or I'll drag you home and make you my wife in every possible way.' There was no tenderness in his tone, only a veiled threat which made Jasmine say in a high-pitched, wavering voice, 'You're starting to spoil my day, Sloan.' They were beside the car and he pulled her round sharply, saw the disillusion spreading from her eyes to her drooping mouth and laughed. 'Point taken. We'll forget we're married and pretend we're mere friends.' With his finger, he smoothed away the frown. 'So you don't like that? What shall I say, then? Let's pretend we're lovers?' He laughed again as he saw the pleasure she tried so hard to suppress. The beach at Golden Bay was soft with sun-gold sand. The bay was overlooked by a modern hotel rising from sand-coloured cliffs, with distant villas and apartment blocks built on the sloping and terraced hillsides. Around the edge of the intensely blue water of the Mediterranean people lay, soaking up the sun, drying their swimming-outfits or stepping in the warm foot-indented sand to stand and gaze, then wade into the sea. While Jasmine, with a towel round her shoulders, changed into her swimming top, then, again with the aid of the towel, pulled on her

swimming briefs, Sloan lay back to rest, on his elbows and watched her antics with amusement. Then he asked, 'are you trying so desperately to conceal your very attractive figure from—myself or,' he looked around, 'the completely uninterested people around? Even if they could,' he added, 'the/re too far away and too few to notice what you're doing.' 'Instead of watching me,' she countered, her face flushed with effort and annoyance, 'why don't you get ready to swim, too?' 'Apart from removing my slacks,' he stood up and proceeded to do so, to his wife's amazement, 'I am ready.' His swimming trunks were in place and he laughed at her look of relief. 'Come on, sweetheart -he saw her quick, suspicious glance, 'we're lovers, aren't we? Isn't that what we agreed?' She nodded. 'I'll lead you in.' At the edge, he paused. 'Take care in this bay. You're soon out of your depth, then, when you're some way out there, you find you're waist-height in water. But don't be fooled. It's just a small sand island.' He left her and walked in, to plunge down into the water a few moments later. 'There are a number of dangerous cross-currents,' he called over his shoulder. 'People have been known to drown.' Taking courage from seeing others swimming so happily, Jasmine walked into the water, appreciating its cooling effect after the burning rays of the sun. She swam for some time, eventually floating on her back and feeling her body soak up the sun's /warmth. She discovered that it was possible to keep quite still and float, knowing that it was the salt in the water that made her so buoyant. As she reached the sand island which Sloan had mentioned, he swam to join her, standing beside her. The water reached their waists. He groped for her hand under the clear water, their linked

fingers seemed to shimmer and sparkle. With her pleasure at his lover-like attitude written across her face, she gazed up at him. 'Enjoying yourself?' he asked. She nodded, but wanted to add, Because I'm here with you, and because you've spared the time from your work to take me places instead of telling me to 'get out' as you said you told everyone else while you worked on a book. The moment he plunged into the sea again, she felt deserted and lost, so she walked along the sand island, only to find herself plunged suddenly and dangerously deep and floundering out of her depth. Panicking because of what Sloan had told her about the currents, she cried out his name. Trying to calm herself, she splashed her arms and legs, but her sense of rhythm had deserted her. An arm came round her and she was pulled down vertically and held in a grip of iron as Sloan trod water, instructing her to do so, too. 'What were you scared of,' he asked, as if he were talking to a child, 'that you'd ga under? With me around? Anyway, you're an excellent swimmer, even though you are out of your depth. So why the panic?' 'The cross-currents,' she said, her voice muffled against his chest, 'you told me.' 'Were they threatening to swallow you up and you thought you'd vanish, never to be seen again?' 'Don't laugh,' she chided, her cheek still refusing to leave the safe harbour of his arms. 'You warned me -' 'It was the panic that would have done the damage in your case,' he told her, 'not the currents. You're a good swimmer, as I said. Come on, we'll get back and dry off, have a rest.'

The sun beat down, quickly drying hair, skin and fabric. Jasmine rolled on to her side on the large towel they shared. 'I'm so hot, Sloan,' she said, 'I can hardly bear it.' Concerned, his palm went to her forehead. 'Headache?' 'A bit. When I first came here and went out with Pam, I felt faint. I feel a bit that way again.' He looked around while pulling on a shift and said, 'Cover your head with a towel and I'll see what I can do.' He was soon back, holding a brightly coloured beach umbrella. This he opened out, pushing it into a stand he had brought with it. 'Found a place where they hired these things out. Better now?' He looked down at her, the concern still apparent. Of course, she thought, closing h eyes, he doesn't want me to be ill because I'd be a nuisance and get in the way of his writing. . ' From his shirt pocket he pulled a carton of fruit juice. 'Could you use this?' Eagerly she sat up, reaching out for it. 'Like a baby after its feed,' he teased. Opening the carton, he said, 'I'll feed you.' Ignoring her indignant shake of the head, he found a paper tissue and with this in his hand, tilted her chin. There was no alternative but to allow him to do as he wished and Jasmine obediently opened her mouth. Carefully he tipped some liquid into her mouth and she swallowed, her eyes shining with laughter. When she was ready, he gave her some more, then with the tissue caught the drops that had escaped and were trickling to her chin. By now she was giggling as though it was alcohol she was drinking. When the carton was empty, she was laughing helplessly and, fully recovered from her faintness, flung herself down to lie full length.

Sloan pushed the empty carton away then leaned across her, his eyes roaming over her face. 'Have I told you yet that I like being your lover? Well, I'm telling you now.' Her arms reached up to link round his neck. She gave a tug and he lowered himself to lie half on her. In his ear she whispered, 'And I like having you be my lover.' 'And that,' he came back, trailing her neck from her ear to her throat, 'is the invitation I've been waiting for.' His lips fitted over hers as if they belonged there —which they did, she told herself hazily—and his body shifted until she felt the pressure of him, limb against limb, hip against hip, thigh hard and exciting pressing against hers, which were soft and receptive. Locked together, with no one near enough to. see, they gave each other kiss for kiss until her body burned against his as though it had caught fire, ignited by the sun. But it was the heat and magnetism that radiated from him which gave rise to a depth of passion and longing for him really to be her lover, and which her tremulous mouth skimming his each time he began to lift his head told him in unequivocal terms that every clamouring inch of her body was his if he wanted it. 'In public again,' his lips whispered against her ear, 'always in public you tell me, "yes, yes," but I can only answer "wait and be patient, until -' Sanity came back with his words. The-sun must have made her lightheaded after all. Again it- was she who had initiated the passion, who had pulled him down and asked silently for his love. He had given his passion, yes, but not his love, not his love\ At all costs she must hide from him the humiliation his words had provoked, so she forced a sigh and muttered, 'Yes, yes, we must

wait.' His hold slackened but he remained where he lay. At last, after what Jasmine guessed must have been an enormous effort of selfcontrol, he relaxed and moved slightly, but without releasing her. His eyes closed and a few minutes later her hand spontaneously moved to stroke his hair, pushing it from his forehead. He did not move and she knew he was asleep. The long night of working, without rest, had caught up with him. Nature, having been thwarted in one direction, overtook him in another. So much did she like having him asleep in her arms, she willingly endured the discomfort of remaining still under the weight of his limbs. It was late when he stirred. His eyes came open and found her smiling mouth a few inches from his own. His lips brushed hers, but he was still lethargic and becoming conscious of the unnatural position in which he had been lying. Reluctantly her arms unwrapped from him. He sat up and she joined him, seeing how the bay, under the influence of the setting sun, had changed in colour from gold and blue to darkening sand and shadowed cliffs under a silvering sky. Even as they watched, the colours grew richer, with the lights of the buildings across the bay coming on to sparkle and illuminate the skyline. Figures stood outlined at the water's edge and the sea, reflecting the changed colour of the sky, was as calm as a lake. Still in the grip of past passion and alight with the glow of the sunset, Jasmine rose and pulled on her sundress, shivering a little in the lowered temperature. Sloan dressed, too, then gathering their belongings, they trudged across the beach to return the umbrella. The drive home was silent. A meal awaited them, left by Mrs Vella, who must have returned later that day. Over the meal, the talk was of Malta's great history. The conversation was impersonal and Jasmine became conscious of how Sloan had strayed from her.

At last she ventured, with a small smile, 'Did your sleep make you feel better?' He returned her smile. 'With you beside me, I didn't exactly feel bad. If you mean refreshed, then yes, it did. Why?' The question, plus the questioning look in his eyes, confused her. Did he think she was anticipating that, with the return of his energy, they would be indulging in a night of love? Her shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. That, she thought, was the only answer he would get. 'Did you mind my going to sleep on you—literally?' She laughed. 'I enjoyed feeling like a—real wife.' 'You became a "real wife", Jasmine, on your wedding night.' Her frown and moving finger tracing the grain of the table's wooden surface seemed to arouse him to a kind of cynical amusement. 'You weren't—satisfied ?'' Anger tightened her lips. 'You remember it all as well as I do.' 'My apologies, my love. Next time I'll do better.' Her chair pushed back as she stood. 'Please take me back to the apartment.' 'Certainly. To collect your things.' As .her lips parted to protest, he continued, 'A room has been prepared here for you.' Not 'my room', Jasmine noticed. She wouldn't lower herself to ask if that had been what he had meant to say. As they walked past Mrs Galea's door, it was not she who appeared but Ernest. 'Jasmine,' he said, his face lighting up, 'I have been waiting to see you. I was so pleased to hear from Mirielle, my sister, that you had come -' Then he saw Sloan and coloured deeply. He

backed into Mrs Galea's room, saying, 'I am sorry, I thought you were alone.' The door closed. Jasmine's head jerked nervously upward. Sloan's mouth was a thin, straight line. In Aunt Delia's living-room, Jasmine said to him, 'Don't be silly, Sloan. He's only a boy. A nice boy, but-—' Nothing like you, she was going to add, but changed her mind. She had so nearly given him reason to jeer at her—she had so nearly told him again that she loved him.

Sloan had made no mistake in his description of the room she was to occupy. It was 'her' room. It was joined to his by a communicating door. There was no key and the door opened easily. Jasmine closed it again. The clothes she had brought with her—some of them still remained at the apartment—now hung in the floor-to-ceiling wardrobe. When she took out her toilet bag, she wondered if Sloan would mind if she put her personal things in the bathroom. Walking along the landing and part of the way down the stairs, she started to call him, but heard his voice. He was speaking on the telephone. 'I had a sleep this afternoon, Marie. Yes, a kind of siesta, but on the beach. What about you? You slept, too? Good- Would you be free to come over later this evening and we could carry on from where we were interrupted this morning.' Jasmine flushed. 'Interrupted/ he called it, when it was his wife who had arrived on his doorstep, not the press, not a stranger, not even a friend, but his wife! She had been so occupied with her own angrythoughts she had not noticed that Sloan had come out of his study and was looking at her where she stood halfway up the stairs.

The words came rushing out. 'So you've invited Marie over for the evening?' She knew at once what a mistake she had made. His cold eyes met hers. 'I'm in the mood for writing. My brain is working overtime. Is that a crime?' There was nothing she could say. 'It's something you'll have to get used to,' he told her bluntly. 'You got yourself married to a writer, so you'll have to accept the consequences. The creative mood is elusive. When it's there, prodding you, nagging at you, you have to take notice. Next morning it might be gone, then all the words which were clamouring to get out would have gone sour. And a writer with curdled thoughts is not an amenable creature. He—or she—is best avoided until he— or she—has found his or her balance again.' 'Forgive me for the terrible errors,' she retorted sarcastically. 'First, for failing to understand the workings of your mind. Second, for talking you into marrying me!' She turned and ran back up the stairs.

It was a long evening. There were a couple of magazines in her suitcase and she looked through them uncaringly. Her feet went back and forth across the silver-grey carpet until she thought she must surely have worn it down. The door bell had chimed and Marie's voice had sounded excited and high. There was no mistaking the welcome in Sloan's greeting. A door had shut and'the silence that followed had been louder than any noise.

Having nothing better to do, Jasmine prepared for bed, showering in the bathroom and pulling on a dressing-gown over her nightdress. She decided to go down to the kitchen and find some fruit juice. Having discovered a jugful in the fridge, she poured it into a glass and sat cornerwise on the table drinking it. A door opened and she jumped, as though she were trespassing. Yet it was she who belonged, not the girl who came out of Sloan's study, closing the door quietly behind her. When Marie saw Jasmine, she came to a stop—then, without saying a word, set about making coffee. 'No, thank you,' said Jasmine, partly out of pique* and partly to make conversation, 'I won't have a cup. I'm having orange juice.' 'I don't remember asking,' Marie answered calmly. If I snap back at her, Jasmine told herself, taking deep breaths, I'd be letting her know how jealous I am of her place in Sloan's life. So she answered, equally calmly, 'You didn't, but I forgive you.' Brown eyes flashed at. her and Jasmine felt the girl had gained a point. 'You think I'm after your husband, don't you?' the girl commented, setting out two cups and two saucers. 'I'm an engaged woman, in case you didn't know, and in this country, engagements mean something. But,' she paused in her actions, 'I should like to make this clear. If Sloan had given me just the slightest encouragement, I would have thrown myself at him in every possible way.' Jasmine walked with deliberate footsteps to the sink, rinsed her glass and put it upside down on the drainer. Then she walked out of the kitchen.

Sloan stood in the doorway of his study. His shirt was partly open, his sleeves rolled up. His chin was darkening again with stubble, his hands were on his hips. Jasmine shivered at his attitude of belligerence. It both frightened and excited her. He was, she acknowledged sadly, farther away from her at that moment than if he had been on the summit of Everest. Consequently, she dealt with her treacherous emotions. The excitement she ruthlessly subdued, the fear she firmly ignored. 'Are you picking a quarrel with Marie?' Sloan demanded. Barbed words sprang to her lips, but again she told herself that if she uttered them, they- would; give away her jealousy, and that would make Sloan angry. To bear his censure on the subject of Marie Abela when the girl was absent was bad enough; to Endure it in front of her would be humiliating indeed. 'Aren't I even allowed to talk to your secretary .now?' was her spirited reply, tossing the argument into his hands. He chose not to throw it back. ; Jasmine went to bed, wondering when—and where—her husband would sleep that night.

She woke when the sun was already beginning to heat the outside air. She had slept deeply, to her own surprise, expecting to have had a restless night wondering about Sloan—and Marie Abela. Quietly she opened her door and listened; Yes^ there were voices from downstairs and one of them was not Mrs Vella. One was distinctly male, the other the attractive, moderately pitched voice of her husband's secretary.

Closing the door, Jasmine put her palms to her cheeks. So Marie had stayed all night? With her heart pounding, she went across to the communicating door, opened it boldly and stepped in—only to recoil at the sight of the used double bed. That two people had slept in it was irrefutable. Both pillows, side by side, bore dents made by the pressure of heads. Her breaths came quickly as anger and misery had her trembling, her head moving from side to side in an effort to deny to her inner self that Sloan could have broken their marriage vows so blatantly .—and so near to her! What, was she, as the neglected, down-trodden wife, supposed to do now? If she raged at Sloan, would he sneer again at her jealousy? If she accepted the fact—he couldn't deny it, the evidence was there for anyone to see—if she told herself it hadn't happened, would he laugh at her for accepting the situation without a fight? Anger dictated her movements from that moment. From the bottom of a cupboard she pulled out the suitcase she had brought the night before. Into it she threw a few items of clothing and personal belongings, knowing that she had left some things behind at the apartment for collection at a later date. Having washed and dressed, she opened the door, suitcase in hand, and heard the sound of Mrs Vella preparing breakfast. Over that came the tapping of a typewriter, and the low conversation of the two people in the study. It was the picture of the close intimacy which must surely exist between the study's two occupants —there was laughter, over a shared joke, the understanding which must arise between two people from working so dedicatedly towards the same objective —that had the adrenalin pumping furiously through Jasmine's body, urging her feet down the staircase and out of the front entrance door.

Mrs Vella could not have heard her, as she would have been there calling her back for breakfast. Sloan and Marie were in a room which overlooked-the side of the villa. They would not see her going down the long drive. On reaching the main road, Jasmine started her long walk back to the apartment. Businessmen were behind the steering wheels of their cars, their thoughts on the day's work ahead. No one slowed down, smiling invitingly, no one called out to her to join him—until one car going in her direction came to stop just ahead of her and she thought, No, not now, not at this time of day! 'Jasmine!' It was Ernest, leaning across and flinging open the passenger door. 'Can I take you anywhere?' 'Oh, Ernest,' Jasmine scrambled in, putting her suitcase into the back, 'you don't know how pleased I am to see you! It's a long walk to the apartment and it's getting warmer by the minute.' Ernest frowned. 'What is happening, Jasmine? Have you come from your husband's villa?' She nodded, but did not speak. 'So you would rather I did not ask any more questions?' 'Please, Ernest,' her lip trembled and she turned to gaze out of the window, 'do you mind if we—we talk about it some other time?' Ernest nodded wisely. 'I see. A honeymoon quarrel.' He patted her hand. 'It will sort itself out, Jasmine, you'll see.' But Jasmine could only shake her head. They drove on, and Ernest said, 'Today I have a day off. I thought I would be bored, but -' he looked at her hopefully, 'if you will join me, we could go somewhere?' His pleading eyes moved her to smile. 'If you can put up with my bad mood, Ernest, I'd love to go with you somewhere.'

His eyes lit up and he said, 'Let me see, there must be many places you have not visited. Have you seen the Blue Grotto? No? But you must, so I will take you. You would like that?' 'I'd love it. But first could we go to the apartment? P could get myself something to eat. You see,' her head turned away again, 'I haven't had any breakfast.' Ernest nodded, plainly opting for the discretion of silence. Jasmine made coffee, which Ernest shared, and found a roll and cheese in the refrigerator, and followed this with an apple. As her appetite was appeased, so her mood improved. Ernest laughed. 'Now you are ready for a day's sightseeing?' Jasmine nodded, cleared away and washed the dishes. 'Come now,' he put out his hand and she put hers into his spontaneously. There were a cluster of boats at the end of the causeway which led from the quayside .to the landing stage. Ernest helped Jasmine to take her seat in a small rowing boat which was also motorised. The boat, piloted by a man together with his companion who acted as guide, moved out of the harbour and followed the line of the shore along which a giant .wall of rock seemed to dwarf them. The boat moved into a great cavern in the side of the rock and the boat's engine was turned off. One of the men stood at the stern of the boat, manipulating it with an oar. The guide pointed to the water which, he said, was one hundred and twenty feet deep. The water was a clear blue and in its depths were exotic sea sponges and orange-red rocks which, Jasmine noticed, were visible right down to the sea bed. The rowing boat weaved its way in and out of huge rock caverns. The water was still astonishingly clear and blue and Ernest smiled at

Jasmine's gasps of incredulity. Atone point the guide indicated the rocks below the surface which shone in a silver-like colour. 'Put your hands in the water,' he suggested, and the tourists followed his advice. 'Now you see/ the guide went on, 'that your hands shine in the same colour .as the rocks. This is,' he went on in clearlyspoken English, 'because there are phosphorus deposits in the water.' The boat moved then into a smaller cavern, and as they moved to the exit, Ernest warned, 'Bend your head or you will hit the rock. The hole is so small.' The guide pointed out the stalactites hanging from the roof of the cave. Too soon, Jasmine felt, the tour of the Blue Grotto was over. The motor was switched on again and the little boat sped back over deep blue water to the harbour. After a light meal in a cafe, Ernest suggested other places she might like to see. 'I'll go wherever you t^ke-me/ Jasmine told him, doing her best to enjoy every moment of the day and to put to the back of her mind the discovery that morning pf her husband's unfaithfulness. All the same, when they visited the Neolithic monument of Hagar Qim, she wished it had been Sloan who was walking with her, holding her hand, kissing her now and then, as he had when they had pretended to be lovers the day before. With a mental wrench that created its own pain, she forced herself to accept that it was Ernest, not Sloan, accompanying her round the giant pieces of white rock, all of which seemed to fit together into an impressive, mysterious whole. 'This is one of many Neolithic temples scattered all over Malta,' Ernest told her. 'Sometimes this temple is used for Son et Lumiere events. It is very beautiful,' he added, 'when the spotlights are on ? the stones and girls are dancing gracefully in long dresses; I have

been once. Maybe your husband will take; you one day?' It was a smiling query, but Jasmine shook her head, the sadness in her eyes telling her companion of the unhappiness she could not talk about. Ernest frowned, then, smiled again, leading her back to the car. 'This evening there will lie a party at Mrs Galea's place. John and my sister Mirielle will be there, and I would be happy if you would come, too. It is for a friend of John's. His friend is called Charles and it is his twentieth birthday. Will you come, Jasmine?' Jasmine thought, Why shouldn't I? If Sloan can be—unfaithful to me while I'm asleep in the next room, then I can go to a party without asking his permission, or even telling him. 'I should love to, Ernest.' He pressed her arm. 'I shall be staying in Aunt Delia's apartment upstairs, anyway, so you won't have to take me home in your car.' He smiled as he started the car and drove back to the apartment. When Ernest left her, he reminded her about the party and said it would begin about nine o'clock. Alone again, Jasmine picked up the telephone and called her husband's home. She had already decided that if either Sloan or Marie answered, she would ring off. It was Mrs Vella's voice she heard. 'I won't be home for dinner this evening,' Jasmine told the housekeeper. 'You can tell my husband, if he's interested.' .'He will certainly be interested, Mrs Lancaster,' Mrs Vella said, startling Jasmine with her use of her married name. 'He has been worried about you, so if you tell me where you are, I can set his mind at rest.' Jasmine thought for a moment. 'Just tell him not to worry, Mrs Vella. And,' she added with a spurt of spite, 'that I'm in safe hands.'

Replacing the receiver, she thought bitterly, That will get him wondering—if he even bothers to wonder.

Jasmine took a late siesta, sleeping deeply for over an hour. While Ernest had taken her sightseeing, the heat had at times been overpowering. They had, she supposed, packed the day with activity. Lying on the bed, she listened to the voices outside, to Mrs Galea and John conversing loudly in the apartment beneath her. A strong breeze seemed to have sprung up and the curtains billowed. Scraps of paper blew from the table or shelf, and people's chatter seemed to grow louder as if the wind made it difficult for them to hear each other. Much of the talk was in Maltese, interspersed occasionally with English phrases. Her thoughts went their own way at last, and the torment she had successfully ignored all day returned in full force. Her spirits were low, her mood one of hopelessness. Why had she ever met Sloan Lancaster? Why had her grandfather ever inserted that condition into his will? Without it, she would never have found herself in the position of being married to someone she loved, yet who looked upon her with contempt and regarded her as nothing but a nuisance. Rising from the bed, she saw that it was time for her usual evening meal. She showered and put on a robe, then had a light supper, knowing that later, at the party, there would be food. Mrs Galea loved cooking, she had told Jasmine so, especially small items which took a lot of care and expertise, like plates of canapes and tiny pastries. Even as she dressed, her spirits did not lift. It was in a mood of defiance that she chose to wear a black dress which hugged her hips

and emphasised the slimness of her waist. The neckline plunged more deeply than any dress" she had worn, while the sleeves reached to just below her elbows. She possessed no jewellery other than gold earrings which had been her mother's, so her neck and wrists were unadorned. The earrings, however, added a touch of drama to the sophisticated outfit. She did not know whether a young man's birthday party merited such a dress, but she was beyond caringMrs Galea called, 'Come in, dear,' and opened her eyes wide at Jasmine's appearance. 'How beautiful you look,' she smiled. 'So attractive, so much the radiant bride.' There must, Jasmine decided wryly, be stars in Mrs Galea's eyes! For anyone to have found radiance in a face attempting to disguise the deep unhappiness she herself was feeling, they would have to be in a dreamworld themselves. Maybe it was the hours Mrs Galea had spent in cooking that had, for her, painted the world in exaggerated colours, and her own face, not with misery, but with radiance! So it was with a smile that Jasmine stepped into the Galeas' livingroom, lifting her hand to John and Mirielle, and making for Ernest, who was already seated on a couch, taking the place beside him that he had made for her. John, with his arm round Mirielle, frowned as he watched his friend's face light up. Worried, too, as Ernest's arm crept along the top of the couch behind Jasmine. Mrs Galea popped in from the kitchen. 'John, give Jasmine a drink, will you?-' John complied, asking, 'Dry Martini?' 'Oh, and John, remember you have a letter to give Jasmine from Pam.' To Jasmine she said, 'It was enclosed in a letter to John. I

expect it will tell you the news that she has told John.' Retreating to the kitchen, she muttered, 'It couldn't have turned out better.' Puzzled, Jasmine accepted the drink and the letter. When John urged her to read it and not to worry about the others, she did so. 'I'm sure you'll be surprised to hear,' Pam had written, 'that Michael and I are going to be married. When you went away, he was sad for a while, but he decided, since the sadness didn't last long, that it was really friendship he felt for you, no more. Which was lucky, wasn't it, in the circumstances? I know you liked him, but didn't love him. You often told" me.' The letter went on, 'Well, as you know, I went to his place and helped him a lot, looking after the children as much as I could. I think we fell for each other at about the same time. He realised it, but because he had the children he was afraid to tell me about his feelings because he thought I would tell him to '-'go jump in the river". He thought no girl would marry him and take on so much responsibility all at once. Well, I love the kids, especially the baby, and in a few years the others will grow up and leave home. Anyway, with the help of your money, he's been able to have lots of improvements done and has - a woman come in every day to help. So he took the plunge and asked me to marry him, and was I glad he did I We're so happy, Jasmine, you just wouldn't believe!' The letter added more details about their engagement and also sent her, own and her mother's love. Jasmine folded the letter and pushed it into her handbag. She looked straight at John. 'Now I know,' she said, 'what your mother meant just now when she said, "It couldn't have turned out better." Are you relieved, John? And you, Mirielle? I know that at one time you -—'

Plainly preferring Jasmine not to elaborate, John broke in, 'We are very happy, Jasmine, both for Pam and for us.' He looked-down adoringly at Mirielle. Jasmine felt a pang of envy at their undisguised loye for each other, and took a hurried drink from her glass to hide her quivering lip. Mrs Galea came in at that moment and took a glass from a table. 'Let us drink,' she said, 'to Pam and her-Michael and to my John and his Mirielle.' They drank and she added, looking at Ernest, 'One day soon, maybe we will be drinking to you.' Ernest glanced unhappily at Jasmine who was smiling at him encouragingly. Mrs Galea said, quickly, 'There is Charles's sister -' To Jasmine, 'It's Charles who's coming tonight. This is his birthday party.' She turned back to Ernest. 'I know Josephine likes you very much, Ernest. And, be truthful, you like her, don't you?' Ernest blushed and stared at the glass which was resting on his knees. There were footsteps on the stairs and Charles himself entered. John shouted, speaking Maltese, and Charles looked self-conscious. Ernest translated, 'John has just said, "Welcome, birthday boy."' Jasmine laughed, her spirits lifting at last. Charles spoke, but John interrupted, indicating Jasmine. 'English, Charles! Jasmine will not understand our language.' The newcomer nodded understandingly and for the rest of the evening the conversation was conducted in English for Jasmine's benefit. More footsteps sounded, and a small, dark-haired girl with bright eyes followed Charles. lt was plain by the resemblance that this was Josephine, Charles' sister, and also by watching Ernest's reaction, as Jasmine did.

Ernest turned his head resolutely away, despite the girl's searching, appealing look. Jasmine's heart went out to her. 'I know just how you feel,' she wanted to say, but felt the girl's bitter look as Ernest almost defiantly put his hand on Jasmine's arm. .More guests arrived and the drink flowed. All the evening Ernest stayed beside her. As the room became packed with people, Jasmine thought, a little dazedly, that they would have to remove a wall to accommodate everyone. She was conscious that it was a stupid thought and was a signal to her to stop drinking the very dry Martinis which were being poured into her glass every time it became empty. Even eating the delicious food which Mrs Galea had prepared did not take away the feeling that she, was in the centre of a whirlpool. There were toasts, and even more toasts, to all the couples, either married or engaged, that they could think of. . Furniture was pushed back and guests were eased Out into the small entrance area. Music was turned on and dancing began. Ernest urged Jasmine to join in, and at last she agreed, hoping that the movement would work off the effects of the alcohol she had drunk, through no fault of her own, she told herself bemusedly, in an attempt at justification. It was when she tripped and fell into Ernest's arms that she' knew why she had allowed herself to be carried along by the party spirit— to rid herself of the despair which had been lurking in her mind all day and which, as a result of the drink, had broken surface at last. They stood together in the centre of the dancers, who danced on, ignoring them. It was when a tearful, pleading voice, speaking in Maltese, came from across the room that Ernest looked round. Josephine was openly crying and Jasmine wanted to rush over to her and reassure her that Ernest was hers, that she herself was married—

or was she? Reality and illusion were blurred in her mind now. She could not sort truth from fact. The more she tried to tear herself from Ernest's supporting grasp, the more he held on to her. 'Too much to drink,' he was saying repeatedly—or was it she herself who was saying the words? Since she could not work it out, nor stand up without support, she clung even mote tightly to Ernest's waist. 'Jasmine.' All movement stopped, all sound ceased, except for the mocking sound of the love song coming from the tape on the cassette recorder. Then even that was switched off. Mrs Galea, sensing trouble, pushed her way to the open door. 'Mr Lancaster, it is very good to see you. You are very welcome at our party.' Sloan stood, his face stony, without response. 'Your wife is here,' there was an audible gasp from Josephine, 'and in safe hands, as you see.' 'Safe hands', Jasmine thought; they were the words she had used so spitefully in the message she had asked Mrs Vella to pass on to Sloan. 'We have been feeding her and filling her glass. She has enjoyed herself so much. Isn't that true, Jasmine?' Jasmine nodded like a child at a party unwilling to upset the hostess. Then her head flopped down on Ernest's shoulder. His arms were moving and Jasmine wondered why. As the cries of 'Let Mr Lancaster through' found their way into her brain, she knew that Ernest had been gesturing to Sloan to come in and take his wife.

'No!' Jasmine cried. 'Want to stay here, stay with Ernest.' A hand gripped her shoulder, swinging her round. Her hair swirled across her face and she pushed it away. 'I hate him, I hate my husband. Get him away from me I' 'These honeymoon quarrels,' Mrs Galea was saying, 'they are so sad at the time, but very soon they pass, and the love that follows is even sweeter. Go, my dear. Your husband loves you. He needs you at his side.* Mrs Galea's voice seemed to echo as if she were speaking from an enormous cavern, larger, Jasmine thought, her brain muddled, than the Blue Grotto. Somewhere—it must have come from her memory— there was deep, blue-green water. She had fallen in it, and she had turned silver, like the rocks far below on the sea bed. Someone must have been pulling her out, by the arms, by the neck, by the hair. And she was struggling and kicking because, for some strange reason, she didn't want to be rescued. She hated and feared her rescuer. 'I'd rather drown,' she shrieked. 'Let me sink to the bottom! Leave me alone! Ernest, Ernest ...' Yes, he was there with her in the boat. He would come and take her from this terrible man's arms. It was the bouncing springs in the unkind car seat and the bruising bump of her handbag landing on her lap as it was thrown in after hex; that brought her to her senses. The drive back was achieved without a word being exchanged. Jasmine stole a glance at Sloan's profile, found it etched and granitelike against the background of lights and full moon and looked away. The fear she had felt at the sight of him was growing instead of diminishing. Even the anaesthetising effect of the alcohol was wearing off, Waving her emotions raw and aching.

When the car drew up at the villa, Jasmine slumped where she was. She was so tired in her body and so weary of spirit through trying to wrestle with an insoluble problem, it would have been an effort to lift her hand to open the door, let alone stand or walk without support. If Sloan possessed even a streak of kindliness, he would pick her up and carry her inside. It seemed that he did not possess a single drop of it. There was only ruthlessness in the way he grasped her wrist and jerked her out, uncaring that if she had not clutched his sweater she would have hit the concrete driveway. His hands fixed on. her shoulders, shaking her so that her head was flung back. Then it flopped forward again. Didn't he know, couldn't he see that she wasn't really drunk, only dazed and miserable and bewildered? And above all, tired? It seemed he did not care. In the moonlight, his face was as cold as a range of snow-covered mountains—and as remote. The disgust in his eyes had her shivering, which grew to shaking as the chill of the breeze made her conscious of her lack of outer clothing. He stared at her face as she looked up at him, open-eyed and lustreless. He muttered, 'I know a way of sobering you up.' He fastened bruising fingers round her bare arm and pulled her behind him down the drive. 'Where are we going?' she moaned. 'Nowhere, just for a walk, my little darling.' His voice cut into her like the lash of a whip. And walk they did, up and down the drive, up and down until she pleaded for mercy, until she tripped and dragged her feet and sobbed so that the salty, tears stung her driedup lips. 'I can't,' she gasped at last, 'I can't walk any more,' and she sank to her knees on the gravel, lying there as he towered over her. When he

scooped her up, his arms were so painfully tight she almost wished she were back on the ground. In the living-room, he stood her on her feet. When she made to reach for a chair he prevented her from finding one, forcing her to face him. He spoke at last. cuttingly, contemptuously, his arms folded, his body tensed like a leopard about to spring. 'You're still drunk, you promiscuous little baggage. Shall I sober you up in some other way?' Her head shook slowly. 'Not drunk, Sloan, just tired, tired. I have to sit down.' 'You'll stand.' Her spirits started to revive, to fight off the exhaustion. 'You— you're nothing but a torturer, you're a sadist! You're enjoying seeing me suffer. So I'm going to sit down. You can't stop me.' She slumped to the floor, but sat as erect as her fatigue would allow. Sloan, did not order her up. Then she discovered why—she was sitting at his feet. 'You stay away all day,' his accusing voice cracked and curled above her head, 'and I have to waste precious hours looking for you. You send a peculiarly worded message through Mrs Vella. Then I find you, stoned out of your mind, in the "safe hands" you told Mrs Vella to tell me about. "Safe hands" wasn't the right expression. "Arms" would have been more appropriate. Is that who you've been with all day?'^ He bent and pulled her to her feet, supporting her by his cruel underarm grip. 'No wonder you're tired,' he sneered. 'Yet you didn't

want to leave him, did you? "I want to stay here with Ernest",' he mimicked her savagely. 'That—that was because I was—I was——' 'Was?' He shook her. 'Was what?' If she told him, what a weapon she would put into his hands! Yet he was eyeing her so harshly, her anxiety about what he might do if she remained silent doubled her fear. 'I was afraid.' A spark of triumph burned in his eyes. He released her, only to pull free of his sweater. Beneath it was his unbuttoned shirt, revealing the spread of dark hairs and the beating pulse in his neck. Again there was stubble as though his work had conquered conventional living, making him abandon the elementary routine of daily life. His slacks were creased, his hair unruly, telling of hours of uninterrupted work, halted in the end only because of the duty he had carried out, against his will, in searching for his wife. He approached, fists on hips. His eyes were hooded. 'So I frighten you, do I? Maybe it's the animal in me you can sense at last. A man whose woman has been with another man is an animal indeed. He turns vicious and barbaric. He wants his revenge. He exacts that revenge from his mate, his unfaithful mate.' He moved nearer. 'It's lust you want, is it, and the sensuality that goes with it, no matter who gives it to you?' He pressed himself against her, his hands still on his hips. 'You said you loved me, didn't you?' His smile was twisted and his fist tossed her chin high, holding her head at an angle.

His face, caught by the lighting in the room, looked shadowed, the black stubble giving him almost a piratical air. His clothes were yesterday's and smelt of sweat. They went with his reckless, frightening mood. 'If you love me—for love read "lust after" -' 'No!' she cried. 'Don't lie. I can read it in your eyes. If you love me,' he repeated, 'then you'll give to me—all you've got in you to give. And more, much more than you've ever given any man, including that boyfriend you left behind at home. Not to mention the one you've acquired since you came to Malta.' 'You've got it wrong, so wrong,' she protested, but she spoke without hope of being heard. He pulled her after him into the bedroom and with a tug on her arm, he swung her so that she was facing him. His eyes raked her, noting the dress which, although rumpled now, still revealed the. attractive shape of her hips and thighs, plunging seductively at the neck to take his lingering gaze with it. 'Sexy as they come, aren't you? And all for that new boy-friend's benefit. What was his name— Ernest?' 'Ernest's a friend, nothing more. There's a girl who likes him -' 'And you've taken him away from her. Have you always been so ruthless where men are concerned? You even chased me -' 'I did not chase you!' 'So you didn't propose marriage to me?'

'It was forced on me, and you know it. And I chose you because ' Anxious eyes sought his. She had so nearly given herself away. But he was there, needing no prompting. 'Because you loved me. Have I guessed right? How touching, how very sweet.' His twisted smile killed the essential tenderness of the words. 'So maybe this dress was for my benefit? You guessed I might come after you, is that it? You decided to take a chance and wear a dress that revealed yet veiled your beautiful shape,' his palm moved slowly across her outlined breasts, 'hiding nothing, really,' he stroked her thighs and rear with mortifying insolence. 'Well, you're asking for it from someone.And who more qualified to give k to you than myself, your husband?' He urged her backwards towards the bed. 'Sloan, I'm tired, I'm exhausted. I was tired before you subjected me to your inhuman sobering up tactics. Now I feel even worse. I'm drained....' Slowly, deliberately he removed his shirt. His eyes never left her. His belt was unfastened and she cried, convinced now of his intention, 'Sloan, not like last time!' Her plea seemed to be better received by the echoing room than by her husband. He pushed her backwards on to the bed, following her down. He turned her roughly on to her front, eased down the zip fastener and jerked the dress down to her waist. Then she was free of it entirely, and all her remaining covering. It was not long before he, too, was uncovered, but she would not open her eyes, knowing that if she did the sight of him would break through all her laboriously-built barriers. When his mouth found the hollows and curves of her, slowly implanting into her heavy limbs a creeping fire which imbued them with a fresh, pulsating life, she knew it did not matter whether her eyes were closed or open. His power over her was such that even

though she might not look at him, those barriers of her were doomed. Not like last time, she had pleaded. As his lips teased, forcing from her cries of pain and joy, she knew it would not be like last time. Now he was giving as well as taking and she arched towards him in her delight. When their bodies touched, she caught her breath. At his low laugh of victory and pleasure, her eyes flew open. The sight of him with passion-blazed eyes, stubble-roughened face, his mobile, sensual mouth Coming at hers yet again, brought her arms about his neck and her parted lips ready for the plundering of her mouth by his. When he made her his, it was, this time, with the intention of giving her the pleasure he was already experiencing. At the height of her ecstasy, she cried out his name, but she did not even know. Nothing mattered, nothing in the whole world, except that she belonged to him wholly and completely. Whether he belonged to her, she did not even consider. Not then, not for a long time later.

CHAPTER TEN THEY slept deeply, into the small hours. When Jasmine stirred, it was to find the exhaustion banished and a warm glow flowing like blood to the very extremities of her body. It was the feel of Sloan's arms still around her that made her pulse move faster, bringing singingly happy memories of all that had so recently happened between them. The regularity of Sloan's breathing, moving strands of her hair, told her that he still slept. Slept ... with her. He had slept this night with her in his bed. The night before, Marie Abela had shared it. There was no disputing that fact, no arguing it away. She had seen for herself, hadn't she? The lingering pleasure began to fade. It was like the sun clouding over without warning in the midst of a heatwave. With the ominous distant lightning flash of an approaching storm, came the thought, Am I using the pillow she used? Did she experience the heady delights I experienced earlier when in Sloan's arms, feeling Sloan's hard body crushing hers as he did mine? Carefully she edged away. The action disturbed Sloan, who reached out, pulling her back, murmuring, 'My love, my own, don't leave me. I've been through hell on earth...' Holding herself tense, Jasmine waited for him to reach full consciousness. When he moved against her, she had to steel herself to remain unresponsive. His hands tightened possessively on her body and she gritted her teeth to stop her lips from reaching up to his. 'Which side did Marie sleep, Sloan?' His movements stilled. 'What did you say?' It was as if he were talking through a mental haze.

'I said, which side did Marie sleep on this bed?' He was wide awake now. 'What the hell are you implying?' He was back to normal, she thought, her heart dipping and contracting like a hand in an icy sea. 'Last night,' she persisted, 'no, I mean the night before, when you stayed up working—as I thought —but really you went to bed here, next to my room through there. You—you didn't go alone, did you?' He had withdrawn from her now and she was shivering without him against her. Yet she had to ask, she had to know, even if the truth half killed her. Sloan was switching on the bedside light, resting on an elbow, the bedcover just over his hips. 'Didn't I, now?' The question was sarcastic and cutting. 'So you've made her my mistress, no doubts,, no questions. Not even a trial before a trial, to judge him indicted sufficiently to be taken to "court".' The shaking of her body was not through chill; the night air was too warm for that. 'I saw for myself,' she stated flatly. He did not move, just gazed expressionlessly down at her pale face. 'I—I opened the communicating door first thing, just after I got up.' 'For visual proof, no doubt. Or to put it less politely, to catch us at it.' She opened her mouth to cry, 'No! * But with all honesty she couldn't utter the word. Suspicion had made her open that door, although she hadn't really thought that she would find—what she found. 'The evidence was plain.' Her voice wavered, but she quickly had it under control. 'Both pillows, maybe even these pillows, were

indented with the impression of both your heads. 'Two people slept in this bed, Sloan.' 'You're right,' he said, his eyes glinting cruelly now. 'Both Marie and I slept here.' The truth took the breath from her lungs. She covered her face, pressing stiffened fingers to her cheeks. 'So, you think I was unfaithful to you with Marie?' She nodded. 'Thanks. I appreciate your trust, especially after I told you the truth about our acquaintance—as secretary and boss, not as lovers.' 'After the evidence I saw, do you expect me to believe you now?' Her voice was muffled by tear- dampened palms. He got out of bed and pulled on his clothes. His shirt hung loose. 'No, you wouldn't, would you? I shouldn't have expected it, after finding you drunk, in another man's arms, at that party. Not to mention leaving your boy-friend back in England and returning here after living with him for a week.' She looked up at him, a denial in her eyes and on her lips. 'Yes,' he sneered, 'that went home, didn't it? It's not true, you kept telling me, your suspicions are wrong. What if I tell you that your suspicions are wrong?' 'I'd believe you,' she answered quietly, 'as much as you believed me.' 'Stalemate. Sweep the game off the chessboard. Don't put the pieces back. The game's over, darling. Tomorrow you go back to England. And what's more, you stay there.' 'No!' she cried,-but she was talking to a closed door.

Daylight coloured the sky as Jasmine sat on the flat roof of the villa, hugging her knees and watching the sun lift itself out of a golden haze and gild the stone buildings, the rocklike hills and tiered fields. Sleep had gone, leaving her system too restless to stay in bed. Sloan, she guessed, had gone elsewhere to spend the rest of the night, possibly into her own room next door. Watching the darkness lift and the island's people bring the place to life, going about their daily business, had had a calming effect on her shattered nerves. Reason had then been free to take command. There's no alternative, it told her, you have to leave. Didn't he tell you to go back home? Didn't he say/And stay there? The stone steps from the roof were rough under her bedroom slippers. The wind had calmed into a breeze which flapped at her housecoat, making her pull it closer, re-tying the belt. The handle of her bedroom door turned quietly. She entered on tiptoe—but the bed was empty. So where was Sloan? There was another place she might find him. Creeping down the stairs, she stood outside his study. Yes, there were movements inside—a shuffling of papers, now and then the tap of typewriter keys, operated by untrained fingers. Which meant he was alone. No, she. wouldn't knock, she would walk boldly in. The handle turned, the door remained shut. Again she tried, with the same result. He had locked the door! Had he guessed she might make her way downstairs? Well, he was correct in his surmise. Here she was, right outside, and he would let her in. She wouldn't let him rest until he did. Her palms beat a tattoo. No gentle knock, no timid request, Please let me in. When it became clear that he had no intention of admitting her, she used her fists. She bruised them in vain.

Making for the kitchen, she looked around, finding an old-fashioned floor mop. Lifting it high, she brought it down on the study door with a thud, then another and another. It was lifted high, poised to descend yet again, when the door was opened. Summing up the situation in a single glance, Sloan stood aside and watched as the mop came down, slicing through the air. Jasmine staggered in with it, only just saving herself from sprawling full length by an effort of will. Throwing the mop aside, she lunged towards her husband, reaching for his shoulders and shaking him with all her energy. It was like trying to shake an ancient tree. He did not move, no matter how she strained to make him bend and sway. When he grew tired of her pitiful efforts he put up his hands and grasped her wrists, wrenching them from him. He stood, cold, aloof, more out of her reach than he had ever been. It was as if the precious intimacy of their lovemaking, the murmured endearments, the reaching arms and the golden glow had never happened. Accepting defeat at last, her defiance crumbled. Somehow she found his chest, resting her cheek against it, feeling the rough hairs scratch her skirt. Her arms crept round him and she lay there, quietly crying. His arms did not move to encircle her. When her tears had run, dry, she drew, away, seeking and finding a handkerchief. 'I'll go today,' she said at last, unable to meet his eyes. He did not speak. 'You told me to go, so I'll go.' Had he taken a vow of silence? Still keeping her eyes averted, she went on, 'There's got to be trust.' The tears kept coming, so she went on wiping them away. 'Between you and me there's nothing. You won't even believe me. I've told you I love you, but you still won't believe me.'

Her head lifted a fraction. Sloan turned away,' walking to his desk, fiddling with the papers strewn over it.. He answered, 'If I told you that although Marie had slept in my bed I was down here, writing, and when she came down, I went up for an hour or two's rest while she came down and typed what I'd. written while she rested, would you believe me?' - Her heart was pounding. Was it the sun flooding the room with a dazzling light, or was it her mind imitating it? 'Is it the truth?' 'It is the truth, and nothing but the truth.' Jasmine held her breath. 'Now,' he turned and leaned back against the desk, 'you tell me your story.' She would tell him, oh yes, she would tell him and it didn't matter in which order it came out. 'Pam—she's marrying Michael, and it's wonderful news. I have it— the letter she wrote telling me—in my bag. The money I gave him got a housekeeper. He's been able to make improvements, buy new things. The children A frown greeted the words. His belief in her had not yet been established, she had to work for it. 'Michael's family,' she explained. 'So he's been married. His wife left him, he's a divorced man. So after you'd lived with him for a k week the kids got on your nerves and you couldn't take it, so you left him, too. Then Pam with her soft heart took your place. She didn't mind the kids, so she's agreed to marry him. Yes,' his eyes narrowed, 'it all fits, now that I know the real Jasmine Hay- man.' He hadn't even called her by her proper name—his name! He approached her and she forced herself not to back away. His hand went to her throat, his other grabbed at her hair, jerking back her head. Tears of pain and misery rose up and spilled over at the overwhelming sense of injustice of life—of his reasoning.

'He's never been married,' she whispered, forcing herself to bear the pain. 'The children are his. younger brother and sister, and his baby 'half- brother.' There was the faintest slackening of his brutal hold. 'His own father died, his mother remarried, then she died. His stepfather walked off, leaving him to look after the rest of the family.' Sloan released her hair but not her throat. Her voice was hoarse now. 'I worked all day, then after work went straight to his house to take over from the neighbour. I cooked the children's tea, I put the baby to bed, I cooked Michael's tea. I cleaned the place from top to bottom. When Michael came home, he took over and I was free to go home and have my tea. Sometimes I was too exhausted to eat it.' His hand was gentle on her neck now. 'I knew all the time about Grandfather's money. Pam and I used to think of ways to release it so I could give it to Michael. I had to find a man to marry. I could have gone up to anyone, even someone in the street. I could even have married Michael. But I didn't love him, you see. I couldn't marry a man I didn't love.' His thumb was caressing the throbbing pulse in her throat. 'Now Pam's marrying him, which means she's fallen, in love with him, which is just wonderful, because everyone thought she loved John Galea, but John's found another girl, Ernest's sister. They're in love. So it's all worked out, hasn't it?' Sloan's hand was caressing her throat, and her legs were growing weak at the feelings he was arousing. 'And Ernest, the young man you "wanted to stay with"? What about him?'

'I told you why. Because,' she closed her eyes, 'I was frightened of what you might do to me. You looked so fierce.' His mouth was curving, his eyes were sparkling as the sun threw its rays across his partly bearded face* 'He means nothing to you?' 'Only as a friend, and—and as a guide who took me sightseeing. There's a girl who likes him, her name's Josephine. He likes her, too, I'm sure of that. He'll soon get over me.' His look was so full of desire and of something just beyond her interpretation that she fell against him, rubbing her cheek against the leanness of his body, a leanness, and a hardness, and a magnetism she was beginning to know so well. After a moment he eased her gently away, tipping up her face with his thumbs. 'So you couldn't marry a man you didn't love?' Smiling, she shook her head. 'Yet you married me. What am I to deduce from that?' Her face was radiant. 'What do you think? The first time I saw you, I knew you were the one man in the world I wanted to marry. So I do love you, you see? You believe me now?' 'My darling, I've believed you for some time. But I had to know about the other men who seemed to be scattered about your life.' She laughed, happiness radiating from her eyes. 'And I,' he went on, 'knew from the moment I saw you romping about on that roof in next to nothing—those foolish but charming pieces of nightwear— that you were the girl I'd been looking for all my life. From the moment I met you all other women ceased to matter to me.' 'You loved me, from the first moment?' she asked incredulously. 'A famous, clever man like you—you fell in love with me?' 'Hopelessly,' he admitted. 'Had you but known it, you held my heart in your hand.'

'And you mine,' she confided. 'But you tossed it about and bruised it as if it were an apple fallen from a tree!' 'Talking of apples ...' A light came into his eyes and with one movement he opened her robe. 'If it isn't Eve in all her glory!' He swept her into his arms. 'It may be daylight, but there's an hour or two left for a walk in the Garden of Eden.'He carried her up the stairs and back into his bedroom, where he lowered her on to the bed. 'This, my darling Mrs Jasmine Lancaster, otherwise known as Eve, is where you belong.' Her arms stretched upwards towards him. 'Yes, oh yes, Mr Lancaster, my darling. Otherwise known as Adam.'