The Silver Link

THE SILVER LINK Mary Wibberley

To help her sister out of a jam, Sara agreed to go up to the Lake District for a few weeks to work with an author. She had not expected him to be the one man in the world who would remind her of a past she only wanted to forget....

CHAPTER ONE 'I won't do it,' said Sara. 'You'll just have to get somebody else.' 'Oh yes? Like who?' inquired her sister dryly. 'Ann? Frances? They're competent enough typists, but not skilled enough for this fellow. He wants a tip-top secretary who's able to work intelligently in collaboration with him on this book-' 'And what about you?' 'I know. He thinks it's me he's hired—but you know why I can't go, love. It'll have to be you.' 'My dear, daft Helen, if you think my idea of paradise is to travel up to this old gentleman's remote fastness in the Lake District and pore over duty files on antique silver for three weeks while you're swanning it on the Cornish Riviera with Gerry Hutton—you are vastly mistaken.' 'I shan't be "swanning it" as you so elegantly put it. I shall be working damned hard and you know it.' Helen smiled in mild exasperation, the nearest she would ever get to impatience, and held out her hand, palm uppermost. 'Be reasonable, love. We can't afford to turn down chances like this. It's our living. And Gerry is a real slavedriver, but I can cope with his tantrums.' Sara's face softened. She knew Helen was right, because she always was. It was just that she had no intention of going under without a struggle. She sighed. 'Okay, you win. Just write to me, that's all, and let me know how you're going on. That man must be blind. Why hasn't he fallen for you yet?'

Helen burst out laughing. 'Because he's too wrapped up in his work to see me as a woman, that's why. But I'm working on it.' Sara went to the window and looked down on the busy street below. Cars passed, lorries hooted impatiently as they waited to be unloaded, and pedestrians scurried along in the rain, intent on their own affairs, never looking upwards because they didn't imagine there could be anything worth seeing three floors up in the decrepit building over the cash-and-carry warehouse. The gilt letters on the window needed repainting. Sara .traced them gently with her finger. 'Excelsior Staff Agency,' they proclaimed, the wrong way round of course, and it sounded quite impressive, and as most of their business was done by telephone or letter, their clients were blissfully unaware that the superbly efficient staff they hired came from such un- salubrious headquarters. Their letter-headings were quite something too. Helen made economies wherever possible, but believed that beautifully typed letters, on importantly headed paper, were more than half the battle. Sara turned round to her again, knowing that without her their little business would not have survived six months, let alone three years. 'When do I go?' she asked. 'Saturday morning. He's sent all the details of trains and things, and says you'll be met. He's also sent your ticket.' She picked up an envelope from the orderly clutter on the huge desk. 'Here you are.' 'Mmm.' Sara scanned the letter. 'I don't think much of his typing. Mind you, if he's ancient, it's not too bad. What do I say when I tell him you've sent your sister instead of you?' Helen shrugged. 'Anything you like. The truth. That I've had to dash off to St Ives to type out a play for a brilliant playwright who is

extremely temperamental and refuses to set foot in London— anyway, it was indirectly through Gerry that this fellow must have heard of us, because in his first letter, which I have here somewhere'—she began to open drawers, frowning slightly— 'he said that a Mr Hutton had given his' nephew our address-'she stopped fumbling. 'Ah, here it is.' She began to read silently, eyes skimming the page, then: '—and my nephew Hal, who was wroking—wroking?' She looked up and laughed. 'His wayward typewriter does need a few spelling-lessons, doesn't it? Hmm, where, was I? Oh yes, wroking in St Ives last year had your address given to him by a Mr Hutton, who recommended you highly'—she looked up—'and so on. He needn't necessarily be ancient, Sara. Just because he has a working nephew-' 'Oh, he will be. Mine always are.' Helen's mouth twitched. 'It's just as well they are,' she said. 'With your looks no man under the age of fifty would get any work done——' 'Flattery will get you nowhere,' rejoined Sara smartly, and pulled a face. 'I'd better go home and start packing. What about Frances? Have you given her all her instructions—?' 'Everything is under control,' Helen cut in smoothly. 'And I don't go till Tuesday anyway. Gerry's having a party over the weekend, and he says they usually last three days, so he told me I'll be in time to do the washing up when I get there.' 'And will you?' Sara was fascinated. 'I have no intention of cleaning up after his friends, my dear. As he will find out when I arrive.' 'Mmm. And are you staying at your usual pub?' 'Yes. You've got the phone number. Ring me when you can.'

The conversation came back to Sara as she sat in the train thundering north on Friday morning. Magazines and a newspaper lay on the table before her, but she had no wish to read. For a while she was content to gaze out of the window at the bare autumn trees flashing past. More distantly, fields and farms and isolated houses, and she wondered how remote Raynor House would be. She sat back comfortably against the headrest and let her mind wander back in time. Train travel always had this effect on her. There was something so soothing and conducive to thought about the steady rhythmic click- click of the wheels as they slid over the points, the drumming of the engines, the gentle sway of the carriage - from time to time... She opened her eyes. She had been nearly asleep, and in that half dozing state, very aware of her father, as he had been years ago. Her heart was beating faster now, as always when she thought of him, and the life they had led, travelling over Europe on lavish holidays, staying at the best hotels, no expense spared ... Until the day, the awful day when their whole world had crumbled. Nine —or was it ten years ago? She couldn't exactly remember, but she had been nearly fourteen, Helen three years older, and with a sensible head on her shoulders from caring for Sara since their mother had died when Sara was eight. Their father, whose wealth had seemed assured, had gone bankrupt. But worse than that. There had been scandal in the papers, and the whole affair had dragged on for months. Helen and Sara had left their boarding school and gone to live with an aunt in a tiny village near Stafford. She had insisted they changed their name to hers; and Helen and Sara Enderby had become Helen and Sara Good. Because the name Marcus Enderby no longer had the ring of respectability around it. And two years later their father had died, a broken man. Sara's hand went up to her neck, as if to reassure herself that the pendant was

still there. Gently her fingers touched the heavy silver medallion that she always wore, memory supplying the image she could not at the moment see. It had been a present from her father on her thirteenth birthday, the last present she was ever to receive from him, and doubly precious for that. It was the head of a woman etched in the solid silver, and so heavy that it needed a thick silver chain to support it. She was never without it, for in a way it went with everything she wore. She knew that it was hundreds of years old, but little else about it. The engine's rumble deepened to thunder as they roared into a tunnel, and Sara looked at the black window to see her face reflected in the glass. The cool sculpted beauty of her features looked back at her, and her dark auburn tresses tumbling about her face only served to make her seem fragile and delicate. But her eyes were on the medallion, for she knew full well what her face was like, and was completely without vanity. Helen's astute comment came back to her—'with your looks, no man under fifty would get any work done-' Sara sighed. Her life, since mid-teens, had been a constant battle to fight men—the wrong sort of men—off. And that was the trouble. The right sort kept well away from her, too frightened to speak, for she knew only too well that she scared them. How nice it must be, she thought, to be ordinary. A remark of one of Helen's boy-friends had remained to haunt her. 'She's so cool and unapproachable, your sister,' he had told Helen. 'Like a princess.' She blinked as the train exploded into daylight again. That was the way of things, she thought wryly, and if only all those girls who glare daggers at me at parties knew how I envied them their very normality, they'd be surprised. She closed her eyes. What would Mr Raynor be like? Old and safely married, she hoped, and surreptitiously crossed her fingers. She looked at her watch. Within an hour she would know. It was time to read a magazine, if only to stop uncomfortable thoughts intruding. Sara picked one up, and opened it, well aware that a man

opposite had hardly taken his eyes off her since they had left London. But she was used to that.

Sara watched the train vanish round a curve in the track, and turned away towards the ticket office. The platform of the small station was deserted. She had been the only person to leave the train, and for a moment, panic filled her. What if she had got off at the wrong stop ? There was certainly no one waiting for anybody here, and it was growing dusk. 'Excuse me, miss, you waiting for Mr Raynor?' A friendly, inquiring face appeared as if by magic from the open window of the ticket office, and Sara, relieved, went towards him. 'Oh yes,' she said. 'I was just wondering-' 'Aye, he's just phoned. The car won't be long, about ten minutes. You want to sit down in the waiting room and I'll fetch you a cup of tea?' 'Thank you. Please don't put yourself to any trouble-' 'No trouble. Kettle's just boiling. Shan't be a tick.' The head vanished, the window slammed shut, and Sara, amused, and slightly lighter of heart, went to the small cell that bore the huge and important sign 'Waiting Room' on its door. The stationmaster was a little roly-poly of a man, and he carried a steaming cup of tea, which he handed to her. 'There y'are, miss. All part of British Rail's service— seeing as you were the only passenger, like. And seeing as you've got to wait.' He sat on the bench at the table. 'Aye, there used to be a bus running from here to

Hunter's Fell, but now you either have to have a car, or walk there, and it's .a few miles, that it is.' He shook his head. 'You made the connection all right at Kendal, did you?' 'Yes. I had about five minutes' wait, that was all.' 'And you'll have come up from London? A long journey that.' 'It is,' agreed Sara. 'In fact I wouldn't mind walking a few miles now just for the exercise!' 'Ha, you'd be sorry after ten minutes' walk. In the wilds it is, Raynor House, right stuck in the middle of nowhere well to the other side of Hunter's Fell—you'd not walk that in a hurry, I can tell you.' 'Oh.' She digested the information in silence for a moment. A house in the wilds! Something must have shown in her face, for the kindly little man shook his head. 'It's not that bad, miss. It's a beautiful house. I've heard—though I've never been in it, I must admit, and it is only three miles from the village-' then he stopped and cocked his head, as if listening. 'I can hear the car now. Finish your tea and I'll take your cases.' She followed him outside, and had her second surprise. A large sleek Rolls-Royce waited in the yard, and a grey- haired man walked towards her. He was tall, dressed in tweed suit, ruddycheeked, and at least fifty. Lovely, thought Sara, and held out her hand. 'Mr Raynor? I'm Sara Good,' and she heard the station- master chuckle as the man, smiling, shook hands with her and answered: 'Hello, no, I'm not Mr Raynor. My name's Wilson, I work for him. Sorry I'm late, but I had to call in at the village for something on my

way. Mr Raynor phoned, did he?' he turned to the stationmaster. Clearly they were old friends, and Sara's momentary confusion vanished in the warmth of the atmosphere. 'Aye, he did that, Bill. I've looked after your young lady as best I could. Her coming all that way, it was the least I could do.' And he winked at Sara. 'And you looked after me very nicely too,' she said, as they shook hands and a couple of coins were discreetly passed over. 'Thank you, miss. Have a pleasant stay.' Heavens, she thought, he thinks I'm coming on holiday. The cases were stowed away in the boot, Sara seated herself beside the driver, and the car purred away from the station and along the village street. 'I'm sorry I mistook you for Mr Raynor, Mr Wilson,' Sara said. 'But I didn't know who to expect.' 'Call me Wilson—or Bill, whichever you prefer,' he said. 'I'm his driver and general handyman, and my wife's the housekeeper at Raynor House.' They had left the village behind now, and were approaching open country. Hills towered on either side of the road, thickly covered with trees. 'Have you been in the Lake District before ?' he asked her. 'No. Never. It's beautiful, isn't it?' 'It is that. Wait until we get near the house; you'll see some splendid views then. It Won't be long.' He pressed a button, and music softly filled the car. 'I always have the stereo on when I'm driving. You like music?'

'This kind I do,' Sara smiled. 'Not pop.' She looked out through the window at the gathering dusk, and the music filled her mind and took her back in time, for it was by Grieg, and the pictures of Norway came back irresistibly. Norway, where she had gone on a skiing holiday five years previously—and had heard In the Hall of the Mountain King for the first memorable time, and the memories were mixed up nostalgia, and sadness— and magic—and something else. For occasionally, even now, a dark angry face returned to haunt her. It was odd that this music should be playing now. It was complete coincidence, of course, but her memory-had been jogged, and she would have to think about that holiday later, and about the man whose name she never had discovered but whose image still had the power to disturb her even now. 'Sorry ? I was listening to the music.' 'I said—we're nearly there. My wife has a meal waiting for you. I hope you're hungry?' Sara laughed, and the memories shattered into a million fragments. Why should she let him disturb her now ? 'I'm starving,' she said. They turned into a high arched gateway, and glided silently up a long, long, curving drive climbing gradually all the time, on and on—and then she saw the house, and her breath caught in her throat. A huge stone building with an austere beauty about it, partially covered in ivy and with lights blazing out at the downstairs windows, and Sara put her hand to her throaty for she had the oddest feeling. It's like coming home, she thought. But how can it be? I've never been here before.

She ate alone in a large dining room. One place had been set for her at the end, and Mrs Wilson, as cheerful and ruddy-cheeked as her husband,' had served her. 'Sure you've had enough, miss?' she inquired anxiously as Sara, with great difficulty, spooned the last of a delicious crunchy apple crumble down. 'Oh, more than enough, Mrs Wilson, thank you,' Sara answered. 'And everything was beautiful.' 'Mr Raynor likes his food—keeps me on my toes, he does. Well, as long as you've had enough I'll get the coffee. Is everything all right in your room?' 'Yes. It's fine.' In the past ten years Sara and Helen had grown accustomed to their changed life style, the small flats, low-ceilinged, with kitchens no bigger than cupboards—but before that they had lived in a large house, graciously proportioned, high-ceilinged, with extensive gardens, and the first sight of her room in Raynor House had brought those half buried memories flooding back. She smiled at the housekeeper. 'Mr Raynor has some beautiful ornaments—how on earth do you find time to clean all that silver?' 'Ah, my husband does that. It's his job and he'll not let me touch anything—thank the Lord! I'm not grumbling. When you're settled in I'll show you round the rest of the house, but there's plenty of time for that.' Sara had to ask the question that had been puzzling her since her arrival over an hour previously. 'When will I meet Mr Raynor?' She asked. 'I mean—I don't wish to appear rude, settling in like this-' 'Heavens! He went out with the dogs while you were up in your room before. He could be gone another hour or more. He walks "miles into the hills with them.'

'Oh, I see.' Another mild surprise. Mr Raynor must be a fit old gentleman indeed,- she thought. 'You like dogs, miss?' 'I love them, and please—call me Sara.' 'Sara. That's nice. Only the reason I asked—they're rather big, and can be frightening to some people. You see, in this remote place we need protection, and Mr Raynor's away quite a lot, so he has Karl, and Kurt, and Wolfgang—Wolf for short.' And she smiled. 'Are they Alsatians ?' 'No. Dobermann Pinschers—and they have the run of the house at night. Mind, they never go upstairs, but I'd be very careful if I was you if you decided to come down for anything after everyone's in bed.' 'Mrs Wilson, I promise you'—Sara put her hand on her heart—'that I shall not even think of venturing down the stairs after what you've just told me. I have far too much respect for the breed.' Mrs Wilson laughed. 'That's all right, then. Right now, let me get the coffee. Tell you what, I'll have a cup with you. If that's okay with you?' 'I'd be delighted. Shall I wait here?' 'Aye, I'll not be but a minute.' She piled up the dirty dishes and took them out, and Sara was left alone to look around the room in which she sat. The dining table was long enough to seat two dozen people comfortably, and the walls were a matching panelled oak, but covered with pictures. At the far end, rich red velvet curtains were drawn together to close out the night and the colour was again matched in the thick carpet underfoot. Two fine crystal chandeliers

lit the room with gentle warmth, and they shivered slightly with the closing of the door after Mrs Wilson, and cast moving shadows. Sara stood up and, walked over to the fireplace to look even closer at the huge oil painting hanging over it. It had been there, catching her eye throughout the meal, a portrait of an old man with striking, hawk-like features, and while she had not been able to look directly at it, because of the angle at which she sat, there had been enough about it to make her feel oddly curious. And now, as she stood before it, the odd sensation returned. She had never seen the man in the picture. She knew she had never seen him—and yet there was something disturbingly familiar about the set of his features, the way he held his head, the way he sat— 'Ah, it's a fine picture, isn't it?' Mrs Wilson's voice was almost an intrusion, and Sara turned. 'Is it—is it Mr Raynor?' 'Why, no, dear,' this seemed to amuse the housekeeper greatly. 'It's his grandfather. Though I suppose there's a likeness, if you look for it.' She came and stood beside Sara, after putting the tray on the table. 'Yes, there is a likeness about the face.' She nodded thoughtfully. 'Do you know, I've never noticed it before. Fancy that.' The coffee pot was heavy, of Queen Anne design, and Mrs Wilson poured out carefully, adding cream from a small matching jug. 'Help yourself to sugar. Well now, you're here for three weeks, aren't you?' 'Yes.' 'Well, we'll make you comfortable while you're here, don't worry. It'll be nice for me to have someone young about the house again.

Our daughter's married now, and living in Lancaster, and I miss her, I must say—but there, I've got Bill, and Mr Raynor's very good, we manage to get down odd weekends to visit her and her husband, and he'll drive us to the station, and meet us when we come back, and if he has a party while we're away he gets two sisters from the village to clear up, so it's not as if I have any extra work when I get back.' 'He has parties?' Sara could hardly keep the surprise out of her voice. Her mental image of old Mr Raynor was being revised by the minute. Mrs Wilson nodded. 'One was still going strong when we returned on the Monday. That was an exception, mind, and it was some celebration—I forget exactly what—one of his friends going on an Everest expedition or something similar——' she stopped. 'Is something the matter?' 'Oh! Oh, no—only-' Sara paused, hardly knowing how to ask a rather delicate question—'only—I imagined Mr Raynor to be— um—well, quite old.' Mrs Wilson laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks, until her shoulders shook. 'Oh dear—oh dear, no wonder—I see it all now! Old! It all depends what you mean by old! I mean, a child of ten thinks you're elderly when you reach twenty-one! He's in his midthirties, no more—oh, Sara, if you imagined "you'd be working for some doddering old gentleman I'm afraid you're in for something of a shock. Why, he's a fine handsome man, what is known in society circles as an eligible bachelor. Oh, you'll have a surprise when you see him all right— just as he will when he sees you!' 'What—do you mean?' Sara asked quietly, rapidly readjusting her mental picture.

'Don't look upset, dear! But I think he was expecting some quiet, efficient secretary, no frills and no nonsense-' she laid a placatory hand on Sara's arm. 'And I worded that badly too. Me and my big mouth! I'm sure you're a very efficient one—but my word, you're a very striking-looking lass and no mistake. And you must know it, so I'm not telling any secrets. My husband was fair taken with you—I can tell you, I was waiting to meet you—and then I did, and he was right, but you look as if you've a nice nature with it as well, so I reckon he's safe with me for a while longer!' Sara smiled. She couldn't help herself. The other woman's humour was infectious. 'Thank you for the compliments,' she said. TH -try and live up to them.' It was time to change the subject, to absorb the rather startling information she had received. This coffee is delicious. Is there another cup in the pot?' 'Of course. Help yourself. I'—Mrs Wilson turned slightly—'I think I hear the dogs coming in at the back now. You just sit there while I go and see. And if it's Mr Raynor, I'll tell him where you are.' She rose and went out, and Sara poured herself another cup of the hot black coffee. She looked towards the door. In a minute he would come in. Her heart sank—it was happening all over again. Her childishly crossed fingers on the train had been to no avail. Mr Raynor was not over fifty and safely married. He was young, handsome, clearly wealthy—and he gave parties which went on for several days—and if he was the sort of rich eligible playboy type he sounded, Sara wondered how on earth she would manage to cope with him. For one thing was certain, and she had met enough of his kind to know, only too well, he would probably consider he was God's gift to women and to her. The door opened, and Sara looked up. She looked up, and at the man standing in the doorway, and she thought she would faint. She felt the blood rushing in her ears, and put her hands on the table to

steady herself, and she saw the expression on his face, the blank, deep shock, swiftly caught and controlled—but it had been there, just for an instant. And she knew why the picture in the room had seemed so familiar, she knew why the music in the car had brought back memories—and she knew that the recognition was instant, and mutual—and devastating. This man, Nicholas Raynor, was the one she had last seen five years ago, and never forgotten, in Norway.

CHAPTER TWO AND then it was as if nothing had happened. Nothing on the surface, that was. He came forward, and his eyes, his deep grey eyes, were as expressionless as if she were in fact a perfect stranger. 'Miss Sara Good?' he said, as if politely inquiring, and held out his hand. 'Yes. Mr Raynor?' Sara shook hands, and the touch made her want to scream, but she wouldn't. She mustn't. She was almost frightened. 'How do you do?' 'You've eaten? I've been out for a walk with the dogs.' And then something happened. Nervous, she had put her hand up to the pendant to seek its reassurance, and it was as if she drew attention to it. She saw him look at it, saw, just for a split second, raw, naked anger in his eyes—and then it was gone. He partly turned away, and when he turned back, his face was as it had been before. 'Mrs Wilson told me you'd settled in. Forgive me, but I expected a Miss Helen Good-' 'My sister. She couldn't come, I'm afraid. We run the agency together, the one your nephew recommended to you. So I'm here instead.' She was finding it difficult to speak, almost to breathe, but she wasn't going to let it show. 'When would you'—she had to pause and swallow—'like me to start work?' 'If you have no objection to working on a Sunday, perhaps we could start tomorrow afternoon?' His grey eyes were as cold and as hard as tempered steel. She sensed the leashed strength within him, the tightly coiled tension, and she managed to nod. 'Yes. If you'll excuse me—I'm very tired. May I go to my room now?'

'Of course.' He stood aside to allow her to pass, and it was as if the tension enveloped her, threatening to suffocate her. Sara took a deep breath and walked to the door.

She was shaking when she reached her room. She closed the door behind her and sank down on to the bed, her knees weak. She had intended, when in the car, to sort out something in her mind that the music had triggered off. She had thought she might do it in calm, ordered peace, and at leisure. And then she had met again the man with whom she had had a brief, bitter, memorable clash in Norway, a man she was convinced she would never see again in her life, a man of whom she thought at intervals, and who had the power to disturb her in those thoughts. And he was the owner of this house, and for the next three weeks she would be working for him. And she was not sure if she would be able to bear it. Easing off her shoes, Sara lay back on the bed, and tried to think. But it was no use. Her head had begun to ache, a dull throb that she recognised as tension. If only Helen hadn't had that urgent S.O.S. from Gerry—if only —but she had, and Sara was here, trapped with a man who she knew instinctively disliked her intensely—but she didn't know why; she hadn't even known why before, when it had happened— A knock at the door. She sat up, and her head spun round. 'Come in.' She hoped it wasn't him. 'All right?' It was Mrs Wilson. 'You'd vanished when I got back to the dining room, and so had Mr, Raynor, and you'd left your coffee, so I came up to see if you were all right.' Sara, managed to smile. 'Yes, thanks. I have a headache, that's all, so I decided to come up here and rest.'

'Mmm, all that travelling. It does it to me as well I'll get you an aspirin, shall I?' 'No, thanks, I've got something here. I'll be fine, really. I'll read for a while and then go to bed, if you don't mind?' 'Bless you, love, I don't mind at all. Sunday tomorrow, and I'll be serving breakfast round about nine-thirty.' And that raised an awful question in Sara's mind. 'Will I be having it in the dining room?' she asked. 'I mean—with Mr Raynor?' she nearly stumbled over his name. 'You can have it here in your room if you like,' was the surprising answer. 'I don't mind. And Mr Raynor generally has his in his study on a Sunday. He likes to start work early at weekends.' 'Oh, I see.' It still didn't answer another, equally disturbing question. 'Er—other meals—does he—I mean— do I-' Mrs Wilson laughed. 'You mean will he expect you to eat together? I would think so. When he had someone here, working on the library a couple of years ago, they all ate together. Besides,' she grinned, 'he likes feminine company.' But not mine, thought Sara, certainly not mine. And if you'd been there when he came in, you'd have seen. 'I see. Thanks for telling me.' She looked up at Mrs Wilson. 'What is it?' the housekeeper asked softly. 'Something troubling you ? Forgive me for asking, but you've only just arrived, so I feel I'm responsible if anything's not quite right-' 'No. You couldn't have made me more comfortable if you'd tried.' She laid her hand on the housekeeper's arm, 'Truly.' She couldn't tell

her. She couldn't tell anyone. She smiled. 'It's just this wretched headache,' she lied. 'I'll be fine in the morning.' 'All right, then, I'll say goodnight—let you get a good night's rest. Sleep well.' 'Thank you. Goodnight, Mrs Wilson.'

The moment was nearly here, and Sara felt slightly sick. She had not seen Nicholas Raynor at all during the morning, and at lunch time, when she was browsing through the books in the library, Mrs Wilson came in. 'Lunch will be five minutes,' she told Sara. 'And I've brought the dogs to meet you. Mr Raynor's gone down to see someone in the village, and they know there's a stranger in the house-' she turned towards the open door. 'Come in.' Sara waited, only slightly apprehensive, for she had a natural empathy with all animals. But three Dobermanns! She stood still as the dogs walked in, and Mrs Wilson said: This is Sara, and she's a friend.' Sara's mouth twitched as they regarded her with dark brown eyes, and then all three sniffed politely at her shoes before looking up at her again. Fine sleek dogs, brown eyes deceptively soft, for they could be just about the fiercest dogs in the world when you were on the wrong side of them; then she held her hand forward for them to get her scent, and they seemed satisfied. Mrs Wilson pointed. 'That's Wolf—that's Karl—that's Kurt.' She smiled. 'They like you.'

'That's a relief,' Sara admitted. 'Is there ever anyone they don't take to ?' 'Oh yes! And it can be quite embarrassing, I can tell you. Mr Raynor once had a friend here, and he had a beard, "and Wolf took an instant dislike to him—don't ask me why—and we had to keep him out of the way—and the others too, for Wolf's the leader, and they follow him, in a manner of speaking. Thank goodness he only came for the weekend. Go on, off you go, back to the kitchen.' She shooed them out. 'That's done. When you're ready, go to the dining room.' 'I'll be there in a minute,' Sara promised. She took a deep breath after the housekeeper had gone. How on earth was she going to eat lunch with him ? She put back on the shelf the book she had been reading, picked up her bag from a chair, mentally braced herself, and went out. The dining room was different in daylight, more austere without the warm light from the chandeliers, and Sara went to the window to look out at the magnificent view. The autumn trees, with leaves of gold and russet, stood starkly sentinel between the house and a lake which glinted softly in the cool autumn sun. Beyond the lake were the hills, dark green and lush, and she shivered slightly at the sheer beauty of it all—and heard the door click softly open behind her, and turned. 'Good morning,' he said, voice holding no friendliness at all. She resisted the urge to reply good afternoon—for it was nearly one. 'Good morning. I was just admiring the view.' 'Were you? One gets used, to it, but I suppose to a stranger, it must be quite something the first time.' Everything about his tone was dismissive, and she felt her throat constrict. How on earth could she work with him? She took a deep breath and walked slowly back

towards the table. As a child she had possessed a quick temper, the ability to answer back, but that had been toned down in the previous few years-—by necessity. Now she felt the treacherous warmth rising in her. He sat at the end of the table, and pulled a snowy white napkin out of its ring, and looked up at her. 'Do sit down,' he said. 'Mrs Wilson will be here in a moment.' 'Thank you.' 'The work we're going to do won't be easy,' he said, regarding her coolly. 'We have three weeks, and during that time I expect to get all my notes and photographs completely. finished. I shall want tip-top work from you—plus the fact that we shall be visiting a museum near Kendal a few times to make more notes. Occasionally, you will be working alone with reference books and notes, , and you must be able to correlate facts and data in an intelligent manner and sort out for yourself what is relevant and what can be left out-' 'You wouldn't be trying to put me off, by any chance, would you?' she interrupted. 'What you've said so far is hardly anything I didn't expect to hear, and I assure you I'm fully qualified, both in shorthand, typing—taking dictation either from you or a dictaphone—or from notes, of course—and in sorting out information. As a matter of fact, no one has told me exactly what you are doing. Your own letters were rather vague on that point, although we did gather you were writing a book on silver.' And she smiled sweetly at him. The smile wasn't returned. 'It's rather more than "a book on silver", Miss Good,' he answered. 'It will be, in fact, a comprehensive history of my family's collection of silver—which is probably the largest and finest in Great Britain. But perhaps you've never heard of the Raynor Collection?'

There was a moment's pause. Something awfully familiar about the name came into Sara's mind, and she was momentarily confused. She wouldn't let him see, though. 'Vaguely,' she answered. 'I suppose I have-' then Mrs Wilson came in, and gave her a temporary reprieve. It also gave her time to think, and when the housekeeper had gone out, leaving them with their soup, Sara said quickly; 'If the Collection is all that huge you don't honestly think three weeks is enough time to do a book about it, do you?' She even-managed to inject a faintly patronising note into her voice. He wasn't so clever after all. One dark eyebrow lifted fractionally. 'I am indeed not quite so stupid, Miss Good,' he answered. 'The bulk of the work has already been done by my late father, who died six months ago. It was his wish to have the book completed before he died—but it was impossible. I am merely honouring a promise I made to him.' 'If a convenient hole had appeared in the floor beside her at that moment, Sara would have vanished as gracefully as possible into it. Unfortunately those things never really happened when needed. She swallowed. 'I see,' she said. 'I'm sorry.' 'No need to apologise. You weren't to know, and possibly I could have made it clearer in my letters—as you so aptly pointed out. The main thing is that we do it in the time, I assume you feel quite confident on that point?' 'Yes.' 'Fine. You'll be seeing what you have to do soon enough. I suggest you enjoy your lunch now.' Even that reasonably civil remark seemed to have an ironic tinge to it as though implying she would need all her strength for what was to come. Even Sara couldn't imagine how prophetic the implication would be.

Nicholas Raynor's study was an enormous room at the side of the house, next to the dining room, and having the same view. But there was nothing of the ordered calm of that other place here. The walls were lined with bookshelves, crammed full, and there were filing cabinets, two large desks—both with typewriters, boxes of paper and carbons, two paper baskets—ominously bulging, and several bulky envelopes on either desk. Sara looked round her in dismay. It would take at least a week to get any sort of order in the place. 'Don't worry,' Nicholas Raynor's voice cut in on her mental confusion. 'I know where everything is—and you will do soon.' He indicated the slightly smaller desk by the window. 'That one is yours,' he said. 'There are pens and pencils and erasers in the top drawer. If you want to check that there's everything you need, go ahead. The drawer below that is empty. You can keep your own stuff there. There's a key, so you can lock it if you feel the need-' again a subtle implication that made her skin prickle. 'And the chair is adjustable, so I suggest you fix it on how you like it. While you're looking round I'll go and get a pot of coffee from Mrs Wilson.' And he went out. Alone, Sara looked round her more slowly. The first impression of chaos remained, but it was tempered now with the realisation that she would soon find her bearings. She went to her desk and opened the top drawer. There were several pens, pencils, rubber-tipped pencils for rubbing out typing errors, two rulers, and a small calendar. She opened the drawer below it. It was empty except for a key. She put her bag in the drawer and closed it. Then she sat down in her chair. It was just right. He came in and put a large thermos jug on the windowsill, and two beakers.-'Want a cup now?' he asked.

'Yes, please. Is there sugar in?' 'No. Do you want some?' 'No, thanks. I don't take it.' She watched him fill the two beakers, and had the chance to study him unobserved for a moment. The same hawklike features as the man in the portrait—no wonder that had seemed familiar—and his hair was dark and thick and straight. Startlingly dark grey eyes, a mouth that could be cruel—and perhaps kind, but that possibility seemed remote. He wore a grey sweater and darker slacks and he was well over six feet and solid and toughlooking. Not at all the kind of man you could imagine writing a book. She had seen him swiftly gliding down a ski slope—and there he had been completely, at home, and her mouth tightened at that memory. She pushed it firmly aside. He was choosing to forget it; so must she—although she knew that he had recognised her. She knew it without any possibility of doubt. 'Okay?' 'Yes, thanks. What do I do first?' 'I'll show you. Just straightforward typing for the moment. I have the notes here. They're handwritten, but my father's writing was very clear. You'll have no trouble.' He turned abruptly away, leaving his steaming beaker on her desk, and came back with a thick exercise book. He stood beside her, put the book down on the desk, and opened it. His nearness was disturbing. She could smell the faint tang of aftershave lotion, subtle and spicy, and looked hard at the paper, fighting down a feeling of dismay. His hand was on the first page now, finger pointing, and she saw the strength of that hand, large and square, fine dark hairs on the back, his nails short and clean. 'If you'll type out up to here—he turned over several pages to where a

page was scored heavily through in red pen—'we'll see how that goes. Okay?' 'Yes.' At least he wasn't giving her anything too daunting to start with. 'How many carbon copies?' 'Just one—for now.' Sara looked round for the paper, but before she could get up, he went, returning with two boxes and a thin pad of carbons. Then he moved away, taking his beaker with him. This was it. Sara heard him sit down at his own desk as she fitted' the two sheets into the typewriter and rolled them in. She heard the rustle, as if of an envelope being opened, heard a lighter click, smelt the almost immediate aroma of a cigar and tried to concentrate on what she had to do. Yet she was overwhelmingly conscious of his presence, quiet though he was. And this was going to go on for three more weeks. Three weeks! She blinked and picked up the exercise book. The writing was clear—he had been right about that. It-was almost a copperplate, thick black downstrokes, full of character and strength. And the content was equally- decisive. 'The Raynor Collection of silver,' she read silently, 'is the most important and comprehensive in the whole country. It was started in 1634 by Adam Grenfell Raynor, then squire of Raynor Hall in Westmorland. Yet it was entirely by accident that this came about, for he was fully occupied with the farms on his estate, and by his many interests, of which hunting and gambling played no small part. 'In June of that year, one of his servants came to him in great excitement to tell him that a farmer on his estate had been digging a pit and had found many bones, and scattered nearby, several old coins and medallions..

Sara, completely forgetting where she was, and that she was supposed to be typing, read on, fascinated. It was Nicholas Raynor's voice that brought her back to the present. 'Is it not clear?' he asked, his chair scraping back as he stood up. She looked round, confused. 'Oh! Yes. I was just reading—er—just to make sure it was all ready to type out. Then I'll get on quicker,' she added, improvising rapidly. 'I see.' He sat down again. Sara began to copy out what she had read, and. for the next half hour or so the only sounds to be heard in the study were the rapid staccato of the typewriter keys, and the occasional rustle of paper. Squire Raynor had had the sense to employ^ expert archaeologists to uncover the farmer's find, which had turned out to be treasure trove of only modest proportions, remnants of an old Roman burial site—but this apparently trivial find had triggered off something in him. The coins had all been of silver, and there had been ornaments as well, quite a few, in very good condition, and broken pots and urns. It was the beauty of the silver ornaments which had fired his imagination and been instrumental in starting a collection which was to grow with the years. Abandoning his hunting and gambling, Squire Raynor had travelled the country buying up antique silver, starting a new hobby that was to be ultimately far more rewarding... 'I have paintings of my ancestor—and photographs of the. site where, the first coins were found,' Nicholas Raynor's voice cut in, as Sara reached the end of a page and prepared to remove the paper from her machine. 'And that's where we're going to tie up narrative with pictures. Do you follow?' 'Perfectly,' said Sara.

'I've also got some photographs of that first find. Would you like to see them?' She should have known. Some instinct should have told her from the tone of his voice, by something in it—but her senses had been blunted by the richness of what she was reading. 'Yes, please,' she answered, and didn't—couldn't, imagine what was to come. Yet she felt an imperceptible heightening of the atmosphere in the room, a subtle tension—almost as if he had been waiting, waiting... He crossed to one of the three filing cabinets and opened the top drawer, taking out an envelope. He returned to the desk where she sat, and his eyes were on her, and she saw something in them which she found almost frightening. He laid the envelope on the desk, and it was neatly labelled. 'First pictures (Chapter One.)' Then he opened it, took out a batch of photographs and began to go through them carefully. 'That's the. site,' he said, passing her the first one. 'And that's another view of it.' She looked at the two pictures, faintly disappointed, for what was exciting about a level bit of grassy earth, with trees in the background? 'Haven't you any aerial views of it?' she asked, looking up. He smiled. 'No, but it's a good idea. To get it in perspective, you mean V Sara nodded. 'I'll remember that. It should be possible. And this was Squire Raynor,' The picture had been photographed well, and there was the distinct impression of a strong man— and a similarity to his descendant, Nicholas Raynor. Then there was a pause, and he handed her two more photographs of coins neatly set out on dark cloth. And then—he was waiting, it seemed. Sara looked up, puzzled. He looked very levelly. at her.

'And now,' he said quietly, 'I'm going to show you a photograph of one of the most important medallions in that first treasure trove.' And he held out another photograph, and Sara took it, knowing now, too late, that-she was going to see something of great significance. It hit her with the force of a physical blow. Stunned, breathless, she looked up; and saw what she had expected to see in his face—the hard dark anger that she had seen twice before, once in Norway— and last evening when he had entered the dining room and she had touched her pendant. 'Yes,' he said softly. 'Oh yes, you do know, don't you?' 'It's—a picture of my medallion,' she whispered. 'Correction. That is a picture of my medallion. And yes, it is precisely the one you are wearing. But it doesn't belong to you—it was stolen by your father, Marcus Enderby, from my father nearly fifteen years ago.' Sara jumped to her feet, trembling with rage. 'What did you say?' she asked, each word forced out through trembling lips. 'I said—your father stole it from mine.' He didn't have time to evade the blow because she struck him as the last word was uttered. She hit him as hard as she could, with all the power in her hand, with all the pent-up frustration of five years to add force to her action. Her breast heaved, and yet she managed to get out: 'And if you dare say that again, I'll hit you twice as hard!' Trembling, she stood her ground. The mark was fading from his cheek, and he had not moved, had remained where he was. 'I wouldn't advise you to,' he said, and his. voice was dark with anger. 'I am just telling the truth. Whether you like it or not makes no difference. Do you not think I recognised it straight away—and recognised you?'

'As you did in .Norway?' she blazed. 'Is that why you were so abominably rude to me there? Because you saw. this?' and she lifted it up from her neck and held it out towards him. For one awful second she thought he would try and wrench it from her. His hands tightened, and she saw the whiteness of strain around his mouth. She let it fall again. 'That explains a lot—but not enough. You can't call my father a thief and expect me to let it pass.' 'If he wasn't, why are you so ashamed of your name that you have to change it ?' ' That's none of your business!' 'I think it is. Do you think I would have hired you had I known?' His grey eyes bored into hers relentlessly. 'No. Nor would I have come if I'd known it was you,' she retorted. 'But then I never did discover your name when I was in Norway— —' 'Nor I yours. All I was told was that you were Marcus Enderby's daughter—the Marcus Enderby, the one who had been involved in the scandal-' 'I won't listen to you!' she said. 'You know nothing. Nothing—do you hear? Only the lies in the papers——' 'And how much more do you know? Tell me that. Precious little, or you wouldn't be defending him so vehemently. He was a smooth talker, a man who could charm the birds off the trees, and money out of people to invest in his schemes——' She lashed out, but he was ready this time, and she was caught and held by two powerful hands on her forearms. 'I warned you not to hit me again. Once was enough. And you will listen, whether you like it or not.'

'You're hurting me!' 'No, I'm not. Stop struggling. You'll not get free until I'm ready—I promise you that.' Sara relaxed slightly because she knew he meant what he said, and his grip was so powerful that there was no chance of her escaping. But she wasn't going to let him do all the talking. 'He was honest. He might have been misguided by friends he trusted—but he wouldn't steal anything!' 'Wouldn't he? Then how do you explain my father - parting with his most treasured possessions? It wasn't only that pendant—there were other things as well—and I have photos that were taken years ago. Do you really imagine I'm making this all up? How else would I have a photo of something you are wearing?' 'I don't know!' she said desperately. 'I can't think with you holding me like this——' 'Then. I'll let you go. Believe me, I don't like using force on you, but I'm not going to just stand here and let you hit me.' And he released her. Sara rubbed her wrists. This was like a nightmare, but a living one, with no chance of her waking up from it. It was happening now. She looked at him, her cheeks flushed with the exertion of the struggle, her dark auburn hair tumbling about her shoulders, and she let the loathing she felt show in her eyes. 'You're the most hateful man I have ever met,' she breathed. 'Do you think I'd stay here now—after this? I'm leaving just as soon as I can pack my clothes.' 'Running away?' His lip curled. 'Yes, I can see that would appeal to you. The truth is too painful for you, isn't it? Leave now so you can pretend it never happened—just like he did.' 'What do you mean?'

'What do you think I mean ? Your father ran away, didn't he? Tried to escape the consequences of what he'd done. Only it didn't work. He had to pay in the end—we all do. And if you think he was so shining an example, the least you can do is try, and help the man he cheated—or rather, help his memory. I promised my father I'd get this book done, and I'm going to. I have a contract, and the publishers Want the work complete in five weeks. And I'll do it. With or without your assistance—and I certainly wouldn't get anyone else at such short notice—I'll do it.' The anger had almost gone, dissipated in the force of his words. Sara stood very still. There was nothing stopping her from walking out of the door that minute. And yet she remained where she was. The choice was hers. She had a few seconds to make it. Nicholas Raynor stood before her, towering over her, a dark hostile giant of a man whose words had ripped her life into Shreds, and he wasn't going to stop her leaving, she knew that. He was simply waiting. Sara went to her desk and sat down. She felt as if her legs would no longer support her. Very quietly, she said: 'I'll do what I came here to do.' Then she looked up at him. He nodded. 'Then perhaps we'd better get on with it. Now we know where we stand.' 'There's just one thing,' Sara said. 'I don't wish to eat with you. If I can't have meals in my room I'd rather eat with the Wilsons in the kitchen.' 'There's no need. I'll have my meals served in here. I often do when I'm working. The only times we will see one another are in this room—and, unavoidably, if we have to go out to the museum. Don't worry, Miss Good, I have no desire for any further contact than is absolutely necessary. In fact, if you hadn't suggested separate meals, I would have done so myself. Any talk other than what directly

concerns this book would be quite futile. I have said what I had to, Further than that—there is nothing. If you'll get on with the typing I'll go and make the arrangements with Mrs Wilson.' And without looking at her again, he walked out of the room.

CHAPTER THREE HE went out that evening, and Sara was shown round the house by Mrs Wilson. It was beautiful, full of treasures which would have delighted her ordinarily, but the bitter shadow hanging over her made her very quiet, and it was an effort to admire anything. She felt drained of all strength, and when the kindly housekeeper commented on her paleness, explained she had been working hard, and was tired. 'In that case, you sit down in the lounge and watch television,' the other exclaimed. 'Bless you, don't let him overwork you. I'll bring you in a nice hot drink and you can put your feet up.' 'Thank you. You're very kind,' Sara answered. Half an hour later she was watching a film, sitting with her feet up, and sipping hot Horlicks. A plate of chocolate biscuits stood on the coffee table beside the settee on which she sat, and three pairs of soulful brown eyes watched it hungrily. Mrs Wilson' had offered to shoo the dogs out, but Sara refused. 'Let them stay,' she said. 'I like the company.' She broke a biscuit into three and handed a piece to Wolf, wondering for a fleeting moment if she might be minus a couple of fingers afterwards. But he took it very gently, as did the other two, and they then went and curled up between her and the television as if satisfied, and fell asleep. And now, at last, she had time to think. To remember the laughing encounter in Norway with the tall dark stranger as they had collided in a doorway in the hotel when she was coming in, tanned and hungry from a morning spent skiing. His hands had steadied her, and his eyes had smiled as he apologised, and the friend she had been with had afterwards commented dryly:

'Lucky you! Why wasn't I first?' And Sara had known she would see him again—and had. And she remembered something. She had had her jacket on at that first encounter. Now, suddenly, she realised the significance of that seemingly trivial point. For although she was wearing the pendant, it could not be seen. She had seen him again that evening, across a crowded room at an apres-ski party—and Sara had experienced a sensation she had never had before. She was used to being pursued by men, well accustomed to admiring glances—but. she .had never before met a man to whom she had felt so strongly attracted. That it was mutual she didn't doubt, but it was her own feelings which had surprised her. She felt as if this dark smiling stranger was a man with whom she could easily fall in love—she felt almost as if she had met him before, as if she might have known him all her life, and she waited, serenely confident, for him to come over and talk to her. He had been speaking to two men, and once had turned to glance in her direction—but the next time she had looked up he had gone. She could hardly explain to herself, let alone to the friend she was with, the shock of dismay that had gone through her at the realisation. He had gone. Without speaking, without communicating in any way, just walked out. 'Never mind,' said Hazel, her friend, 'I'll bet he's on the ski slopes tomorrow. If he is—we'll arrange a little "accident".' And they had both laughed. And the following morning it had all gone perfectly. Seeing him, in his distinctive blue ski jacket and slacks, letting Hazel— ever a matchmaker—manoeuvre her into a situation where she just 'happened' to be skiing down a steep slope ahead of him— and falling at that precise moment where he was the only person near, landing in a tangled heap of skis and sticks—and waiting for rescue. Perfect—until the moment he had stopped beside her. Then had come the incident she was never to forget. For he hadn't known who it was when he had stopped. 'Hey—are you all right?'

he. had called, and Sara had looked up, and seen the sudden change in his face. Her jacket had come open, and she was waiting, almost helpless—she could have got up if necessary—and she held out her hand for him to take it—and then saw what showed only too clearly in his eyes, and in his expression, and she felt as if he had struck her. 'Find some other mug to help you,' he had said. 'There are enough coming down,' and he had deliberately turned his back on her, propelled himself forward and down without once looking back. Completely shattered, Sara had watched him helplessly, then, feeling dreadfully humiliated, had begun to struggle to her feet. And she had not seen him again. Not until the previous night. And now, after a five-year interval during which the memory of that scene had returned often to disturb her—she knew the reason for his scornful words, knew why the hard anger and contempt in his eyes. And because there was really no choice, - she had decided to stay in his home and do the work she had come to do. An icy resolve hardened her now. He would not have any cause for complaint with her work, because she would give him none. His book would be completed in the three allotted weeks of her stay, even if it meant her working longer hours than had been arranged—as it possibly would. Her afternoon's stint at the typewriter, and the reference books involved, all indicated that possibility, and Sara was, in a way, glad. She-enjoyed hard work, and she knew she was capable of answering the challenge he had offered. He had accused her of wanting to run away—like her father—and for that she would never forgive him. What did he know of it? Sara turned her head at a distant sound from the hall, a door opening and closing—but the dogs still slept, as if unconcerned. It might be him returning. Let it be. Let him come in, if he chose. She disliked him intensely, and if it showed in her manner it was just too bad. "

The door opened. She knew it was him, even without turning round, for the dogs immediately scrambled to their feet, whining with pleasure, stumpy tails quivering as they went to greet him. There you are. Come on— walks!' There was a pause, then: 'Is there anything you need?' She looked round then. 'No. But if you want me to get out of here, say so.' 'You may stay as long as you choose.' Sara, without another word, turned back to the set, as if engrossed in the film. She could not, if asked, have even said what it was about, for her thoughts had been many miles away, but he wasn't to know that. The door closed again, the dogs had gone. She was alone.

She went straight in to his study the following morning at eightthirty, after breakfast, and began work. If she had been typing what she was for anyone else, it would have been enjoyable, for the writing itself, and what it had to say, was a pleasure to read, and copy out, and there was a certain satisfaction in seeing the neatlytypewritten pages mounting up. She didn't look up when he came in, but continued tapping briskly away. 'Good morning.' Sara paused. 'Good morning.' She began typing again. 'Will you stop for a moment?' Obediently, she stopped, and waited, looking -up coolly. 'Yes?'

'I want us to go to the museum this morning. They're holding an exhibition of antique silver and I have to check the pieces and make sure we have them all listed.' 'Very well. Now?' 'When you're ready.' 'I'm ready, Mr Raynor.' She stood up, closed the exercise book, and lifted her bag out of the- drawer. She was wearing a dark blue trouser suit and pale blue sweater, all of which fitted her tall slim figure to perfection—and the pendant. 'Will I need my coat?' 'No. It's not cold out, and we won't be walking far.' 'Very well.' She slung the bag on her shoulder and waited politely for him to go out so that she could follow. He opened the study door and held out his arm. 'After you.' Thank you.' She sailed through. The car that waited at the front wasn't the Rolls- Royce, but a lowslung red Jaguar sports car. Sara knew instantly what kind of driver he would be. Fast, a show- off, zooming round corners—she looked at him as he opened the passenger door for her. 'I may as well tell you now,' she said, 'I don't like going too fast. So if you're a speed merchant you might as well say so and I'll go back and get on with my typing.' He gave a tight smile. I'm not, and I won't be speeding. Does that satisfy you?' She got in without another word. Once in her seat, she fastened the safety belt securely round her, checking that it fitted snugly before

relaxing. His smile was slightly cynical now. 'I said I wouldn't go fast,' he told her. 'You don't really need that.' 'But you will allow me to wear it?' she asked, not hiding the sarcasm. He shrugged. 'As you please.' 'Thank you.' He started off, then, above the hum of the engine, said: 'I would have thought you'd be used to travelling in sports cars.' 'Did you really?' Sara answered. 'I'm not terribly interested in what you think about me, Mr Raynor, as you may have noticed. Unless what you have to say concerns work, I'd prefer you to keep your opinions to yourself,' He didn't answer. It was as if she hadn't spoken. Her hands tightened on her bag! How she hated him! Once out of the drive there was a long gravel track down to join the major road several miles away. It was curving and narrow, surrounded by high trees which met overhead and cut out most of the light so that everything was dark and shadowy. It was fascinating and beautiful, and Sara looked out of her window to see the endless trees stretching away. It was as though their road had been carved through a forest. Everything was in shades of gold and brown, the grass thickly carpeted with dead leaves, as was the road. He was driving not slowly—but not too fast, and Sara was able to let herself relax a little more. She had no intention of telling him why she was frightened of speed; Swiftly into the major road, and along. And now there were grey stone walls on either side of the broad road, and an occasional glimpse of large houses through the trees, and more traffic. He neither overtook nor was overtaken. She sensed that had he been alone he would have gone much faster, and she smiled inwardly. He

had asked her to come. And then, with the suddenness of all such incidents, it happened. A car shot out of a narrow, almost invisible side road—and Nicholas Raynor slammed on his brakes, at the same moment thrusting out his left arm across, in front of Sara. The other driver had stopped, clearly shaken at the near accident, his driver's door only inches away from Sara's. He was out in an instant, going over to the other car, first to check that he wasn't hurt—and then to wither him with words, for Sara could hear him, and he didn't need to shout, that was obvious. Then he came back, slammed his door shut, and tapped on the steering wheel as the other driver, a rather white-faced young man, now very subdued, started up his engine and roared off down the road. 'Are you all right?' Nicholas Raynor said. 'Yes.' But she wasn't. She was shaking. 'No, you're, not. You're as white as a sheet. There was no danger, you know. My arm-would have stopped you knocking yourself out even if you hadn't had your seat belt on.' 'It's not that.' Sara's hands twisted on her bag. The reason I don't like fast cars is'—she stopped, making a strong effort to pull herself together—'I was once being driven home from a—a meeting, and we hit a tree. I had concussion. I've still got a scar on my head where I hit the windscreen.' He made an exasperated sound. 'Why didn't you say that before, instead of implying that I was some sort of maniac? I'd have brought the Rolls instead, it makes no difference to me.' She looked at him then. Had there been, just for a moment, a spark of humanity in his tone? Hard to believe, yet not her imagination.

'I can't see it would have made any difference,' she answered. 'He would still have been coming out of that side road too fast, wouldn't he?' 'But you'd feel safer in a large car—everyone does.' And I probably wouldn't have bothered with a seat belt, that's the irony of it, she thought. 'I suppose you're right,' she said. 'You can drive on now, I'm fine.' He started up the motor, and they continued their journey in silence. But it gave Sara the time to think, and to realise that in one thing at least, she had been mistaken about Nicholas Raynor. He was a very skilful driver. With anyone else there could easily have been an accident, but his reactions had been trigger-fast. The braking, the outthrust arm to protect her—the slight swerve, sufficient to avoid hitting the other car, but not enough to cause any following traffic trouble. And all in a split second of time. She closed her eyes. So what did that prove? Nothing, except that he knew how to handle a car. It did not make him any less of a coldly determined, ruthless, arrogant man. The car was stopping, and she opened her eyes in surprise. Surely they weren't there already? And this was no museum, but an hotel. She looked towards him, puzzled. 'I'm taking you in for a coffee,' he said. 'But-' 'No buts. You've had a shock. Black coffee should do the trick,' and he got out, locked his door, and came round to open Sara's. 'I don't need anything, truly,' she protested. 'You think you don't, but it will do you good.'

'But it's too early! It's only'—she peered at her watch—'nine-fifteen.' 'I know the proprietor.' You would, she thought. I'll bet you know everybody. Ten minutes later they were sitting by a window with a pot of coffee on the table between them. And Nicholas Raynor poured out two cups and handed her one. 'But I don't like black,' she said. 'Then you may have a drop of milk in it,' he answered, and poured in the merest dash from the jug. Sara breathed in silently but meaningfully. There really seemed no point in arguing with him at all. And the first, rather bitter, swallow wait down with no trouble at all. 'Want anything to eat? Toast—biscuits?' 'No, thanks.' She looked at him. 'But don't let me stop you.' 'I don't need anything. You do.' 'You don't have to try and be so concerned,' she remarked. 'I wouldn't expect it from you.' 'I'm not,' he answered. 'I'm merely making sure you'll be fit for work in another half hour. I haven't got time to look after a fainting woman.' Sara smiled. 'Of course,' she said. 'How silly of me!' She picked up her cup, resisting the strong urge to stand up and simply pour it all over his head. It might do him good, but it would definitely not do much for the brown cashmere sweater he wore. She contemplated

the thought for a moment before drinking the rest of the coffee. It made her feel quite better. He finished his. 'Okay? Then we'll go.' He went into the hall. 'Bye, Tim, and thanks.' A distant voice answered. 'Okay, Nick. Any time. See you soon.' Nick—that was what his friends called him. Nick. Not Nicholas, or Mr Raynor. And she had never even learned his name in Norway. She opened her door before he could do so, and got in the car. Although she hadn't wanted to stop she knew that it had been just what she needed. That short break, the strong coffee, had had the desired effect. She was ready for anything that might happen.

She hadn't really known what to expect when they arrived at the museum. Her first surprise had been the building itself, very modern, and light and airy inside, with large open plan rooms all leading off one another. A party of schoolchildren were being shown round and she could hear their muffled giggles as they strove vainly to keep in an orderly procession behind their harassedlooking young teacher. The curator greeted Nicholas warmly, and was introduced by him to Sara. 'The silver exhibition's this way, if you'll follow me?' he said. 'We did expect you. It really is a magnificent show, and I'm sure we'll have a good attendance this week.' Sara hung back slightly as they walked on, looking in fascination at the exquisite embroidery on some seventeenth-century costumes on display. Everything looked- so fragile, as if it would crumble away if touched, but as each costume was over three hundred years old, and had been made with a fine attention to detail, it was probable

they would outlast any contemporary clothes. How small everyone, must have been in those days, she thought. The average twelveyear-old would have had a tight fit with some of the dresses. She saw Nicholas Raynor look round, and quickened her footsteps. She was here to work, after all. Then they were in a much larger room, and as she looked round her the sheer magnificence of the display nearly took her breath away. Silver objects gleamed and dazzled her from every angle, some in glass cases, some on open stands, some—large plates ornately decorated, hanging on the wall—and all lit by cleverly angled lamps so that nothing was in shadow. The curator, Mr Fursglove, nodded in satisfaction at her reaction. 'Yes, yes,' he said, 'I can see you're impressed.' 'It's fantastic. I never imagined anything like this,' she said, uncaring what he thought, he of the cynical smile who stood watching her. 'Well, you'll have a chance to study it all,' he said, turning to the curator. 'Miss Good will list everything while I'm gone.' Gone? Where was he going? 'Yes, of course. I'll see she's able to get on without being disturbed. I'll fetch the paper, and phone to say you're on your way.' He went. 'I thought I was working with you,' said Sara. 'Yes. But there's one item missing—a sixteenth- century salt. I lent it to an antique fair they were having at an hotel in Windermere last week and it's not arrived yet, so I'm going to collect it. He's been on the phone to them and they were full of apologies. It was put into a bank over the week-end and the fellow who was bringing it is off sick this morning—I prefer to collect it myself, so I'm going, now. All I want you to do is list everything you see in this room. They all have a reference number on the description card. You write that, and

what the item is, and the year. That's all. I'll be back before you've finished.' 'I see.' Sara pointed, her curiosity too great to be borne any longer. 'Aren't they valuable? I mean, those plates and ornaments and things—they're on open display. Anyone could just come, in and-' 'Steal them?' Nicholas Raynor actually smiled. 'Want to try it? Just go and pick up anything you like.' 'They're protected ? ' They're protected. Not only those in the cases, but everything on open show, by two means, both highly sophisticated. Light and touch. See all the lights? They're electronic beams and if the ray if broken, say by you putting your hand across, an alarm rings in three offices in this building—one by the door out. But you could do it accidentally, so that's all right. They're warned and ready for action, and if you'd looked round, really looked round when we came in, you'd have seen two very tough-looking uniformed men wandering quietly round the entrance hall trying to look terribly interested in some primitive pottery. But if anything is. lifted—even fractionally—all exits would be automatically and immediately closed. It's that simple—and oh yes, an urgent alarm call would register in the nearest police station. So do not, I beg you, try and move anything.' 'But—those children, when we came in—kids would do it out of sheer devilment if they knew.' 'But all the open display items are out of a child's reach, hadn't you noticed?' 'I suppose so.' He turned as the curator came back. 'I was just explaining the intricacies of the alarms to Miss-Good.'

The man nodded. 'Yes indeed, we have it all worked out nicely. Well, Mr Raynor, they're expecting you. Want to take one of the guards with you ?' Nicholas Raynor smiled. 'I'll manage, thanks. I'll be back soon,' and he strode off. Sara asked curiously: 'Isn't the salt he's going to collect very valuable?' 'Not as valuable as some of those in this room,' Mr Pursglove admitted, frowning thoughtfully. 'Probably' just over six thousand pounds.' Six thousand pounds! Sara looked round her. In that case, what must this collection represent in value? And those things at the house? She suddenly realised something that she had instinctively known all along, ever since she had reached Raynor House. Nicholas Raynor was an extremely wealthy man.

She found it difficult to concentrate on the listing that she had to do, simply because of the. sheer beauty of everything that was there. How she longed to touch, to pick up, to admire! The temptation was almost irresistible at times, especially when she reached the centre display of salt cellars—called salts, some of which were so large and elaborate that it was a miracle anyone could have lifted them. The centrepiece of that magnificence stood about a foot high and was elaborately decorated with reclining figures round the base and a statue of what appeared to be Neptune at the top. It was perfect in every detail, embossed and engraved with such skill and artistry that Sara could only wonder at it. The card said simply that it was attributed to Benvenuto Cellini, about 1540. Beside it stood what looked like a bell. Elizabethan Bell salt, its label proclaimed,

London 1600. Fine designs chased in the simple bell shape provided a startling contrast to the sheer richness of the other. Some names were repeated in various items throughout the room. Ritter, Baier, Cellini, Jamnitzer, de Launay —Sara felt herself becoming tonguetied as she tried to say them all mentally, and so completely absorbed was she that it was startling when someone tapped her on the armt She came back unwillingly to the present to see the curator holding a cup of tea. 'Oh, thank you.' She gestured vaguely. 'I was miles away. I'm quite stunned by it all.' 'I know. It's something special, isn't it? We're very fortunate to have Mr Raynor living so near, and that he's so willing to lend us this valuable collection. But of course this is just a small part of the entire collection, part of which is on permanent display in London.' 'I've been longing to touch,' she confessed. That salt cellar by Durand, for instance,' she indicated it with her hand, 'how on earth could anyone lift that?'. He laughed. 'I know. I only feel sorry for the staff in those days, when these things were actually in almost daily use. It took two men to carry that in, and you could almost see them holding their breath for fear they would trip up—:—' he turned round as brisk footsteps were heard. 'Ah, here's Mr Raynor now.' Sara turned too; the prospect of seeing him staggering under an enormous weight too tempting to resist. He was carrying a cardboard box, no bigger than a biscuit tin, and as casually as if they were all it held. It was most odd, but Sara's heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, and she turned back to Mr Pursglove immediately, slightly confused.

'Okay. That's it.' The box was handed over, the curator went away to his office with it, and Sara put her empty cup down on a chair. 'How are you getting on. Miss Good?' She held up her list. 'I've nearly finished. Just that case over there in the corner to do now.' 'May I see what you have written?' 'Yes.' She handed it to him;—and waited for him to pick faults. A thin thread of impatience stretched inside her as she stood there, and saw his eyes flicker down the pages. Then he looked up, and gave it her back. 'That's fine. You can finish now. I'm going into the office. Any problems?' 'None at all.' She turned and walked away from him without another word. In a strange way, it was getting easier with every minute that passed. For she could do the work, she was fully confident of that— but more, she could now treat him almost as if he were a stranger. And it would be the best way, she knew. A thin veneer of civilised behaviour was all that was needed. Sara would manage that without difficulty. She had already managed to put to the back of her mind the memory of a certain holiday. In three weeks she would be able to put Nicholas Raynor out of her mind entirely.

She ate her lunch alone in the dining room. If Mrs Wilson was at all puzzled, she managed to conceal the fact. Perhaps, thought Sara, she was used to her employer's eccentricities. Her manner was as pleasant as ever as she brought in the coffee, and said: 'Are you enjoying your work?'

'Very much,' Sara answered. 'I didn't realise there was such a vast collection of silver. Tell me, are the salts ever actually used nowadays?' The housekeeper laughed. 'Occasionally, when Mr Raynor gives one of his dinner parties, he'll have the Cellini as a centrepiece on the table—you'll have seen it at the museum?' 'Mmm, yes. Beautiful.' 'I know. It's a real talking point, I can tell you. My husband-she stopped, and frowned slightly. That's funny, I can hear a car. Is he expecting anyone?' 'He didn't say,' Sara answered, with truth, not adding that she didn't imagine he would bother to tell her even if. the Queen was due to visit. 'Hmm, I'd better go and see who it is before the dogs start kicking up a racket. You get on with your coffee, dear.' Mrs Wilson went out quickly, and Sara found herself listening intently. There were distant sounds. The dogs being shooed away, a door opening, footsteps across the hall—clearly Nicholas Raynor's, then the front door—and voices. What seemed like dozens of voices, all talking at once, and above them, her employer's tones, cutting through the noise: 'My God, Caroline! This is a surprise!' Caroline? Who was she? And that didn't exactly sound like unmitigated delight in his voice. Sara was intrigued. Then came a deeper voice, another man, and then a woman's laugh, and then children exclaiming—Sara took a deep breath and tried hard to concentrate on her coffee. Unexpected visitors, obviously. Man, woman, children. Friends ? She would soon know. And as she could hardly walk out Into the hall now, she sat still and waited for them all to move away. Then

she would go back to work. And then the door opened, and a laughing face appeared, followed by a lanky young man who looked remarkably like Nicholas Raynor—except that this one was smiling at her. 'Hi!' he said. 'I'm Hal. And yes, oh yes, I know what Gerry meant!' He came forward and held out his hand. Sara was completely confused. Gerry ? Who on earth was Gerry? 'I'm afraid I don't follow you-' she began, to be interrupted by him. 'You know—Gerry Hutton. It was he who gave me your address--' 'Oh! Wait a minute. I've never met Gerry. Are you thinking I'm my sister?' 'You're not Helen?' his face fell slightly, but he seemed not one whit embarrassed. 'You're her sister?' 'Yes. Sara.' He didn't seem in a hurry to let go of her hand, and Sara withdrew it gently. 'I'm beginning to understand now. Helen was coming here, but she had an urgent call from Gerry, so I came instead.' 'Lovely,' he breathed. His expression was infectious, and Sara began to laugh—and Nicholas Raynor walked in. Instantly the atmosphere changed. Hal turned. 'I've just been introducing myself, Nick,' he said. 'So I see. Your mother wants you. Miss Good, are you ready to start work yet?' Sara felt her mouth tighten. If he'd tried to be deliberately insulting, he couldn't have done it better. She stood, and pushed aside her half finished cup of coffee.

'Perfectly ready, Mr Raynor.' She looked coolly at him, then at Hal. At Hal she smiled. 'I'm sorry I can't talk now,' she said, 'but my lunch break is over.' She walked away from the table and towards the door held open by her employer. And as she reached it, a woman came in. Hal was Nicholas Raynor's nephew, so this must be his sister. And instinctively, Sara knew, she had been expecting another version of Nicholas—and she had more of a shock, therefore, to see the slim creature standing before her, with long auburn hair and a gentle face. 'Hello,' the woman smiled, and held out her hand, and dozens of bracelets jangled. 'Caroline, this is Sara Good. Miss Good, my sister Caroline Lazonby.' 'How do you do,' said Sara, feeling an instant warmth towards this woman who couldn't possibly be related to him. Could she? 'My dear, we seem to have come at the most ghastly time,' Caroline fluttered long eyelashes at her brother. 'Do let us sit down for a moment. Darling Nick, Mrs Wilson is just making us all a cup of coffee. Can't Sara—I may call you Sara, mayn't I?—just sit down with us for a few minutes and talk while we drink it? I promise I'll return her to you immediately afterwards.' And she winked at Sara, who smiled faintly, no longer in command of anything, least of all her senses. 'I'll go and hurry her up,' her brother answered, and— was it possible?—he didn't seem quite so forbidding somehow. As he walked away, Caroline Lazonby drifted —it was the only word to describe the way she moved— into the room and sat down at the table.

'Ah, that's better. Come and sit down, my dear. Hal, go and see what the twins are doing, and whatever it is, tell them to stop.' 'But I-' began Hal, and she waved an elegant hand. 'Don't argue, darling. Just go.' She smiled at Sara as her son left the room. 'I've reached screaming pitch after being cooped up in a car for three hours with my twins. It's nice to sit down and just talk. So you're helping Nick with his book, are you? What a good job I didn't phone before we came! He'd have undoubtedly put me off, but as it is, we're here.' 'You're visiting for a while?' Sara asked. 'My dear, for at least a week! My husband Henry had to fly off to the Persian Gulf on business yesterday, the twins were sent home from boarding school due to some tiresome infection that's laid low half the staff, Hal turned up from university for half-term holiday—and I thought, I'll visit my dear brother, he'll know how to cope.' Sara listened, fascinated at this flow, and the other went on: 'You see, my dear, I'm a writer, and quite frankly I can only work alone and my publishers are positively crying out for this book, so I'll just shut myself away here somewhere quiet and let everyone else get on with their own thing, Mrs Wilson's a dear and she actually loves my twins—though heaven knows why, they're at a very awkward stage, quite frankly, and Hal is usually madly in love with some unattainable female and moons around the house boring everyone to death— he'll quite possibly fall for you too, so don't say I haven't warned you—where was I? Oh yes, sp you see that's why we're here. I'll finish my book, and everyone will be happy-' she broke off as the door opened and Nicholas Raynor came in carrying a tray, and barely escaping from glowering. 'There you are, darling. Just pour out two cups. Hal's gone off to see where Amanda and Andrew are, and I'll let you have Sara in just a minute.'

It was beginning to be like a dream. Sara decided to let it all wash over her—she had no choice anyway—even Nicholas Raynor seemed a different man in the presence of his sister. He said now: 'The twins are in the kitchen—where else? trying to cadge biscuits from Mrs Wilson, and Hal's vanished entirely.'.. Caroline Lazonby sighed. 'He's probably gone outside looking for them. Never mind, the exercise will do him good. We're not putting you out too much, are we, my pet—you're looking remarkably fit and well, how do you do it with the life you lead?' 'Yes, you are putting me out, but don't let it worry you—and what do you mean "with the life I lead"?' her brother demanded, and Sara stifled the laughter that threatened to escape. 'Oh, darling,' she turned to Sara with an exaggerated sigh, and a look that said: Aren't men silly? in her eyes. "You know what I mean. All those parties and things. You're getting too old for all that riotous living. It's time you settled down-' 'Look, I'll go and find Hal,' he said, in what could only be described as a desperate tone. 'Enjoy your coffee, and don't be too long. Then you'd better go and have a word with Mrs Wilson. She's fluttering round wondering if you want lunch.' And he turned and went out as if pursued. Caroline Lazonby shrugged. 'I'd better go and see her. He does fuss. He won't even notice we're here—well, almost,' she added, after giving it some thought. She handed Sara a cup of coffee, 'Drink that, Sara, then I'll let you go. I don't suppose he'd spare you to do a bit of typing for me—that's if you'd like to, of course?' 'I'd love to, Mrs Lazonby,' Sara answered truthfully, 'but he's only got three weeks-' her voice trailed away doubtfully.

'My dear, do call me Caroline! Well, never mind. I know he's got a thing about this silver collection and its history. I won't even mention it to him—after all, it is a bit much to be saddled with a sister and assorted nieces and nephews when you're in the middle of something.' Her blue eyes went thoughtful. 'Poor man!' She gave Sara a brilliant smile. 'Don't let him make you work too hard, he can be a bit of a bully at times-' then she stopped, and Sara knew why. She was looking at the pendant. She looked vaguely puzzled. 'That's a beautiful piece,' she said. 'May I look?' Sara took it off and handed it to her. Something had gone cold inside her. She instinctively liked Caroline Lazonby. And now she waited to see that certain look in her eyes—the same expression as had been in her brother's. The tension was too much. Very quietly, Sara said: 'Do you recognise it?' 'Why, it seems very familiar- then she looked up. 'My dear, what's the matter? You've gone as white as a sheet.' Sara's mouth was dry. 'Your—your brother will tell you. I didn't know who he was when I came here—nor did he know who I was. My surname isn't really Good, it's Enderby. The aunt I went to live with made my sister and me change it. My father was Marcus Enderby. And your brother says my father stole it from your father years ago.' She closed her eyes, feeling sick, reluctant to see what she knew she would in the other woman's.

CHAPTER FOUR 'OH, my dear child!' Caroline Lazonby's tone wasn't filled with contempt.. There was something else there instead, and Sara opened her eyes. 'Is that what he said?' 'Yes. I thought you'd be—you'd be—the same.' She could hardly get the words out. 'He can be so cruel at times.' Caroline handed the delicate silver medallion back to Sara- 'I thought there was something wrong when I came in—but I guessed it was, just the surprise of seeing us all. Now I know different.' She shook her head. 'Why are men so stupid? It was all over so many years ago.' 'Please don't say anything,' said Sara desperately. 'We've already been over it—I'm just getting used to the atmosphere-' 'But he can't go on like this! How dare he say a thing like that! I wonder you didn't walk out immediately. I would have done.' 'I nearly did-' and to her own surprise, Sara found herself telling Caroline of the scene in his study shortly after her arrival. And more, she told her of the holiday in Norway, and what had happened there. And the other woman listened intently, hot once interrupting, a growing understanding in her eyes. At the end she nodded slowly. 'And the holiday was about five years ago? Yes, oh yes, I see.' 'You see what?' Sara asked, intrigued, and Caroline patted her arm. 'Nothing, my dear. Just a thought. Of one thing I'm certain—your father didn't steal the medallion. Oh, I'm not saying how he got it— how can anyone after all this time? But my father wasn't as perfect as Nick would like to think. He was a gambler, and he had a reckless streak in him that's been passed on to both Nick and Hal—

which is probably why Nick is blind to any faults he had, for they're both two of a kind.' It was a straw to cling to, no more, but Sara grabbed it. 'You mean— my father might have won it in a wager?' 'I don't know,' Caroline's eyes narrowed. 'But it wouldn't surprise me at all-' 'But if so, why should he—Mr Raynor—your brother —be so definite that my father stole it ?' She bit her lip. 'I mean, your father was still alive when I went on that holiday in Norway——' 'My father was ill for many years before he died. Those notes you're working from were made when he was well.' Caroline's eyes clouded slightly. 'He was obsessed with getting this book done during these past ten years or so, but of course he wasn't fit enough. Nick must have had a difficult time with him, I can't deny that. And who knows what might go on in the mind of a sick man, racked with pain? Memories can become distorted. He may have been obsessed with that medallion—who is to say now? It's part of the very first find, isn't it?' 'Yes.' 'Well, that would explain it. You know how completely wrapped up Nick is with this collection—or if you don't you soon will—and I suppose to him anything from the very beginning of it all would have far greater significance than, say'—she pulled a small face—'a nineteenth-century ornament, or brooch.' 'I always wear it,' said Sara, 'but I was almost wondering if I should leave it off—the sight of it seems to-' 'Don't you dare!' Caroline's eyes sparkled. 'It's yours, whatever he says. To do that would almost be like admitting you agreed with

him. Oh, I'm a woman, and quite frankly I don't set such store in things from the past, but Nick is different. He has a pride in anything to do with "family".' She pointed to the portrait over the fireplace. 'Look at him, old Bartram Raynor, our grandfather. Just the same. Nick's a chip off the old block all right, stubborn and arrogant and so damned sure of himself-' she stopped and put her hand to her cheek. 'What on earth am I saying?' Her eyes sparkled. 'I've only known you five minutes and I'm telling you all these things!' Her mouth twitched. 'Heavens above, my dear brother would kill me if he heard-' 'Heard what, Caroline ?' the deep voice came from the doorway, and Caroline turned, every movement as graceful as she herself. 'Listening again?' She shook her head. 'Listeners never hear any good of themselves-' 'I wasn't listening. I could hardly help overhearing your words. I was on my way in to tell you that Mrs Wilson is feeding your three children in the kitchen and if you don't join them there'll be nothing left, and I'd like Miss Good to start work as soon as possible.' 'Miss Good?' Caroline rose from her chair. 'Miss Good? For heaven's sake call her Sara. Don't tell me you let her call you Mr Raynor? You're getting very stuffy in your old age,' and she smiled at Sara. 'I wish you'd make up your mind,' he said. 'One minute I'm leading an apparently riotous existence, the next I'm getting stuffy--—1 Caroline stood on tiptoe and kissed him on his cheek, effectively interrupting him.

'Don't carry on, darling. I'm just going to the kitchen. Sara's all yours. I'll see you later, Sara. We'll continue our interesting chat about books.' Books? Sara smiled weakly. 'Yes. Lovely.' What she really wanted was to go somewhere quiet and lie down to recover from the impact of meeting one of the most unusual and interesting women she had ever encountered. And instead she had to look brisk and ready for work. She followed Caroline out of the room, then went into Nicholas Raynor's study. There she sat down, very carefully, picked up two sheets of paper and a carbon, and began to roll them into her typewriter. The door slammed shut with some force. Nicholas Raynor stood over her desk. His face was dark, deep— expressionless. 'Right—Sara,' he said. 'I trust you are ready to begin?' Sara looked up, smiled a little smile, and answered him. 'Perfectly ready,' she said. 'I was before, when you first asked. But I could hardly walk out when Caroline wanted to talk, could I?' 'No. Just as long as you remember you are here to work.' 'I could scarcely forget it, could I?' She looked away from him, down at her desk, and opened the exercise book. She couldn't help it; she knew she shouldn't, but the next words came out almost of their own volition. 'You could always forbid her to talk to me, I suppose,' she said. 'But I don't imagine it would work. She doesn't look frightened of you, somehow.' And she ran her finger down the page, as if searching for her place. 'And what is that supposed to mean?' his voice was icy. 'Why, nothing!' she looked up, all innocence. 'Just a comment in passing.'

'Then I suggest—as you once remarked to me—that you keep your opinions on anything except work to yourself,' he answered. 'Have you finished? If yew have, I'd like to get on.' Their eyes met across the desk, and the tension throbbed with an almost tangible force. There was leashed violence in him, subtly controlled, but there in every line of his face arid body, a tautness that told of temper stretched fine, almost to breaking point. She felt it in herself too, as if the sheer force of his feelings filled her too. Very deliberately she lifted her hand to brush some hair from her cheeks and saw the muscle tighten in his jaw. A strange kind of recklessness possessed her. She smiled, very slowly, and gently touched her pendant, almost as if absentmindedly. 'Is there a smut on my face or something?' she asked sweetly. 'You're staring hard enough. If there is, I'll get my mirror-' she wasn't allowed to finish. With one stride he was beside her, pulling her out of her seat, so quickly that she was up before she knew what was happening. Breathless, she opened her mouth to protest—but too late. Savagely he jerked her head back and kissed her hard, silencing anything she might have tried to say. Instantly she was fighting with every ounce of strength she possessed, her arms flailing in- a vain effort to escape the sheer violence of the attack. Her mouth was bruised —he released her— and she struck out wildly at him until he caught her arms and held her. 'You swine!' she breathed. 'You utter swine— you-' 'You asked for it!' his voice had gone harsh, and deeper, and he was breathing raggedly, as if he'd been running. 'Asked?' she gasped. 'From you! Let me go at once!' Using all her strength, she wrenched herself free and stood facing him, panting, her hair dishevelled, falling about her face. 'You're an animal-'

'You deserve a good hiding-' 'You touch me again and I'll—I'll-she looked round for a weapon. 'No, you won't. You won't do anything. Except get on with your work.' And he turned away abruptly. For a few seconds Sara watched him, and incredibly, something like pity washed over her. His face was dark and shadowed, away from the light, and he looked as if he had just emerged from a fight—almost exhausted. She had sensed he was near breaking point—had driven him to it— and now she knew she had done it deliberately, compelled by some strange madness that had come over her. The desire to taunt him. In a way, what he had said was true. She had asked for it. Very slowly she sat down at the desk, opened her handbag, and took out her comb. Her hands were shaking as she pulled it through her tousled hair. The next moment the door opened, and he had gone. She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes, completely drained of strength. She heard distant voices, children's laughter, and it seemed to her that she had been a long way away, and was just coming back to the present. With steadier hands she put the comb away, closed her bag, and started to type.

She did not see him again for over an hour. There was plenty to occupy her, and the work gradually took over to the extent of allowing her to forget what had happened. She had done several pages, and was looking up the spelling of a difficult name in a reference book on her desk, when the door opened again. For a moment she dared not look up, then did so, slowly. Nicholas Raynor stood there holding two beakers. He put one down on her desk. 'Coffee,' he said.

Sara closed the reference book, typed the long German name, picked up the beaker, and drank some. 'Thank you.' It seemed for a moment as if he were about to say something else— then he walked to his own desk, and sat down. She took a deep breath, looked down at the exercise book, and began typing again. 'You can have a break, you know,' his voice cut in. 'I don't want one, thank you.' She didn't stop typing as she answered, nor did she look up from her work. 'There's too much to do.' It had changed, it had all changed. The crackling tension and aggression were gone. In their place, a certain wariness, a kind of waiting, breathless atmosphere as if of a fragile truce. Incredible, but so. Sara was so aware of it that she knew he must be. Yet her hands were steady on the keys, and in the background she heard the scratching of pen on paper, and very slowly, she found herself beginning to relax. He Wasn't going to attack her again, and she in her turn just wanted to get on with what she had to do. And then she turned the page in the book, and stopped. She read and re-read the first paragraph and it didn't make sense. She waited, finished her coffee while she thought about it, then said: 'I'm sorry, but there's something here that's not very clear.' The chair moved, and the back of her neck tingled as she heard his footsteps, soft on the carpet, nearing her. He picked it up, read it silently, then said: 'No, you're right—it's not. Just a minute.' He turned away, opened one of the filing cabinet drawers, and began searching through. Then he came back bearing a sheet of paper. 'Look, I'll dictate that first part to you. I should have marked that page. My father meant to

go back and clarify it, but it got forgotten, I suppose. Are you ready?' Fingers poised, Sara waited. 'Yes.' During excavations on a site in Egypt in 1856, Professor Medway and his two fellow archaeologists—am I going too fast for you?' 'No.' 'Right—were arrested and accused of robbing the tomb—' he read on, slowly, using both notes and exercise book to fill in the rather confusing paragraph in greater clarity, and Sara typed, keeping pace, her own imagination colouring the words she put down, making her see the fascinating picture being built up of yet another discovery that was eventually to form part of the Raynor Collection. '—which are still considered to be some of the finest grave ornaments ever found. End of paragraph. You can then put in brackets if you will, "see photographs numbered 35 to 40"—the publishers will sort them out. Then - you can get on with the exercise book. It's clear after that.' ' 'Yes, that's fine.' She took it from him, and he went back to his desk. A silence fell. What had happened before would never be forgotten, she knew that, but it was as if it had, in some strange way, cleared the air slightly. Most odd, considering the violence of his action, and yet Sara knew it was so. Because she had seen him at his worst, because some imp of devilment had made her behave as she had, she no longer had the desire to provoke him. She felt almost calm. She didn't understand quite why, herself, she just accepted the fact. And when five o'clock came, and he stood up and came over to her desk, she was surprised to find just how much work she had done. 'You can finish now,' he said. 'Dinner will be at seven. In the dining room—with my sister and her family.'

'Then I'll have mine in my-' 'In your room? No, we'll all eat together.' She stared at him. 'But we arranged——' 'I know what we arranged. That was before Caroline arrived.' Sara met the hard challenge of his eyes and the fragile calm wavered. In a quiet voice she said: 'I don't see what difference that makes.' 'It makes a hell of a lot. You can talk to her, not me. Or to my nephew—he likes a pretty face.' There was nothing complimentary about the way he said it, and Sara felt her cheeks go warm. Her answer was swift and sure. 'How strange—I thought he was like you.' She smiled slowly. 'I must be mistaken.' She looked him slowly up and down, and the memory of that contemptuous kiss returned to goad her. 'He was quite charming when I spoke to him.' And she picked up her bag and walked towards the door. She had to pass near to him, and she had to stop herself from flinching as she did so, in case he touched her, but he didn't, he just stood there. As she went out, and closed the door after her, she heard a sound, as if something had been thrown, with force to the ground, and she wondered what. There was a small sense of triumph within her—yet it was accompanied by a strangely hollow feeling. She didn't understand why. And a minute later, when she met the twins for the first time, she forgot the sensation completely.

Caroline had been given the room next to Sara, and she popped her head out of the door as Sara went along the thickly carpeted corridor

upstairs, 'Oh, come in, Sara, and meet my two little darlings. You've actually finished work for the day?' Sara smiled. 'Yes.' She went into the large room, similar to her own, but looking completely different with various cases lying about, half unpacked, contents strewn about the room—and two tall thin children standing facing her by the window. She "thought for a moment that they were both boys. Dressed in jeans and matching red sweaters, they looked remarkably alike, and both wore dubious expressions that said quite clearly that they weren't sure if they would like her. 'Hello,' said Sara brightly, aware that attack was sometimes the best method of defence. 'This is Andrew—and that one is Amanda. Say hello to Sara, don't just stand there.' 'Hello, Sara,' they both said, cautiously, reasonably politely. And Amanda added: 'It's very nice to meet you. Hal said-' she was stopped by a nudge from her brother. Caroline sighed. 'Off you go, dears. Go for a walk or something, and try not to get too dirty before dinner.' They were out of the room in a flash, and two pairs of legs could be heard hurtling down the stairs. Caroline sat on the bed and lit a cigarette in a long ebony holder. 'Oh, I could do with a drink! I've not done a scrap of writing today and my head is bursting! Mrs Wilson's promised to take them out tomorrow, thank God, so I'll have a bit of peace. Tell me, how did you get on with my dear brother this afternoon ? He came out of that study with a face like thunder just after you'd started work. I nearly went in to see if you were all right, but thought better of it. I'm sure you can look after yourself as well as I can, my dear.' She laughed. 'Do sit down. Want a ciggy ?'

'No, thanks.' Sara found space on a chair and sat down. 'It was just a slight difference of opinion.' Like describing a volcano as a little shower of sparks—but not for anything would she tell anyone of what had happened. 'Hmm. I can understand—after what you've told me —just how awkward he can be, but I won't interfere, I promise you. He has a very professional attitude to his work, and he is very keen to finish this book. I didn't realise he had such a close deadline—he never tells me anything when we're on the phone—but I'm glad I've come, and I really do intend to keep us all out of your way and let you get on with it, though I'm sure he doubts it.' She smiled. 'He knows what a scatterbrain I am.' 'I'm sure you're not,' Sara protested. 'Oh, but I am! Completely out of touch with reality is the way he expresses it, with his usual brotherly frankness. But there, if I wasn't I wouldn't be writing the books I do, would I?' 'What kind of books do you write?' Sara asked. 'Oh, Gothics, historical novels, some with quite a ghostly theme—I don't suppose you'll have read any?' 'Well, I don't recall the name Caroline Lazonby,' answered Sara truthfully, hoping she wouldn't offend the other--and was startled by the peal of delighted laughter that followed. 'Oh, heavens, Sara, I don't write under my own name! I never have. My pen name is Georgina Black.' There was a moment's stunned silence. Then: 'But you're famous!' Sara managed at last. 'My dear, you should see your face! How nice of you to say so.'

'I've read several of your books!' Sara put her hand to her forehead, convinced she must by now have a high temperature, 'Temple of Assyri, and The Singing Caves— but I didn't know!' 'How could you,' Caroline could hardly stop laughing to speak, 'if no one told you ? I'm highly flattered. Well, well, I had a feeling we'd get on just fine when we met, and now I know we will!' She looked at her watch and frowned. 'Nearly five-thirty. Look, what say we get ready for dinner and then go down and have a sherry or something together? I've got a little proposition to put to you.' 'Fine,' agreed Sara. She was beginning to feel slightly bemused again. After all the shocks and surprises of this one day, the thought of a sherry was almost soothing. 'Do we—er—dress for dinner?' 'I live in long dresses all the time—have you brought any? We're much of a size and I have several-' 'Oh, yes, I brought two, just in case. I didn't really know what to expect when I came-' Sara's voice tailed away as she remembered her first vague feelings of what Mr Raynor—the elderly Mr Raynor, might be like. It all seemed so long ago, almost like a dream now— heavens! She-put her hand to her mouth. 'My sister! I said I'd phone her—and she goes away to St Ives tomorrow !' she looked wideeyed at Caroline. 'No problem. Phone her when we go down. You can use the one in Nick's study, I'm sure. No one will disturb you.' 'I'll have to ask him first,' Sara said. 'Oh, nonsense, tell him I said you can. He'll have gone off with Hal and the dogs by now. He always takes them out when he needs to unwind—-I know him. Then he comes in starving for dinner, and he's almost human—— she laughed; 'No, I'm being cruel. He's a sweetie, really—although you won't have seen much of his nicer

side yet.' She smiled. 'Off you go, love. We'll sort him out, between us, before my visit's over.' Sara left with those rather ambiguous words echoing in her ears, and went to wash.

She wanted to look her best. It was not conceit, it was subtly different. She knew that they were enemies, it was as simple and uncompromising as that. In spite of any minor truces brought about by their work, Sara knew that basically Nicholas Raynor disliked her. with a force that was almost frightening. The feeling was mutual, and any advantage she could take, she was determined to do so. She washed, then slid herself into a slender figure- hugging black dress with a deep V-neck and long sleeves. Helen and she had made it one weekend, because they couldn't afford the kind of clothes they liked—and had been used to, in times past. Instead they window- shopped, decided what they wanted—and copied them. Helen's skill at pattern making was matched only by Sara's at sewing, and between them they had an expensive-looking wardrobe of inexpensive clothes. She stood thoughtfully in front of her long wardrobe mirror, then twirled slowly round. It would do. It would do very nicely. She put a towel round her shoulders and began to brush her deep auburn tresses until she could almost see the electric sparks. Then she sat down at her dressing table and began to make up. She needed little, but . that which she did use was put to its best effect. Finally she blotted the glossy red lipstick and stood up again. I'm ready for you, she thought, Mr Nicholas Raynor. Oh yes, I'm ready for you. Walking slowly and gracefully as befitted the elegance of her long black dress, she went down the stairs. It was almost as if she had

known what would happen. If she had planned it, she could not have timed it better. Nicholas Raynor was standing in the hall, talking to his nephew Hal. As she was half way down she heard Hal's low whistle, and saw his uncle turn. He turned—and he looked up, and for a moment it was as if time stood still, as if she were back in that Norwegian hotel, running through a door, bumping into a laughing stranger—there was no one else there, just the two of them', each looking at the other. Hal, the whole world, had melted away, simply vanished, it was almost as if there was a swirling mist around them, blotting everything else out—and the tension, built up until it was about to explode—and Sara saw what she had hoped to see in Nicholas Raynor's eyes. She saw shock, and a deep intensity that almost had the power to knock her over, and she saw, just for a brief flickering second—but it was enough—she saw the naked desire of a man for a woman. Then it was gone— dissipated in an instant as he turned away; said to Hal: 'I've just remembered. I have to see Mrs Wilson,' and he called the patiently waiting dogs and, walked away, leaving Hal alone. Hal looked for a moment as if something had hit him, but he wasn't sure what it was, then he grinned up at Sara, bounded up the last few steps and held out his arm in a gallant gesture. 'May I escort you down, madame?' he inquired, a broad and appreciative grin splitting his face. 'You may. Thank you.' Sara smiled at him. She felt almost lightheaded. 'I'm meeting your mother for a sherry before dinner. Will she be in the dining room, do you think?' He pulled a face. 'She'll still be deciding what dress to wear if I know her! However, fear not, fair lady, I will see you safely there and do the necessary. If you will excuse this humble knight's

apparel.' He looked down, grimacing apologetically at his well worn jeans. 'I will away and change the nonce! But first-' and he-took her arm and guided her into the dining room. On the table stood a silver decanter and six goblets, also in silver, long-stemmed, quite beautiful. Hal picked up the decanter, removed the lid, and gave a delicate sniff. 'Ah, yes, a cheeky little fellow—but gentle to the palate, I would dare to say. I may pour you some?' 'Of course.' Sara sat down and watched him fill two of the goblets with a rich deep sherry. So like his uncle in looks, and so like his mother in humour, she thought. A devastating combination, undoubtedly. And then she remembered the moments on the stairs, and gave a little shiver. Had Hal been aware of the strong undercurrents ? Perhaps not, even though a brief puzzled look had crossed his face as his uncle left them. 'Thank you.' She-took the goblet and sipped the sherry. Tour good health,' said Hal. 'And before you ask- yes, I am going to change in a minute, but I don't like leaving you alone, and may I say that I have never seen anyone looking so ravishing as you?' 'You're very kind. But you really don't have to stay and look after me, if you want to go now. I'm quite happy just sitting here.' Because I want to think, she added to herself. - 'Wouldn't dream of it.' He pulled up a chair and sat next to her. Tell me all about yourself—please.' Sara was, amused. 'I'm a working girl, I run a staff agency with my sister, and I've come up here for three weeks to help your uncle do his book.'

'Beautiful,' he murmured. 'I mean, the way you speak. That voice— like heavenly—— 'My dear, is he boring you to death?' His mother had entered and stood in the doorway looking quite ethereal in a flame chiffon dress that seemed to flow round her in waves. Hal jumped to his feet and went over to her. 'And you're looking super yourself, dear Mama,' he said. 'Thank you, child. Away "you go and change. Let's see how decent clothes can transform you into something fit to be seen. How you dare sit here with Sara looking like that I can't imagine-—' 'He was looking after me,' Sara interposed. 'And very well too.' 'Hmm, he takes after all the male Raynors in that respect. Off you go, Hal.' Caroline glided over to his vacant chair and sat down. Sara poured her a goblet of sherry. 'Thank you, dear. How I need it! Ah, that's better.' Bracelets jangled as she picked it up. 'Now, Sara, to business before the men come in. When you've finished here, how would you like to come to my house for a week or so and type out a book for me?' Impractical she might look, but she had a certain directness of manner that Sara appreciated. 'It sounds marvellous,' she answered. 'I'd love to—but I'd have to check with my sister first. I haven't phoned her yet. I'm sure it will be all right, though.' 'Good. You go in a minute and call her. We have half an hour before dinner, so there's plenty of time. You see, 1 write all my books by hand and then send them to an agency to be typed, which means waiting, of course. I'm nearly through with this one and the ideas are just bursting inside me for the next—-and if you're there, getting on

with it, I can go ahead with a clear conscience on this next one. You do see what I mean?' 'Yes, of course.' 'We'll come to some proper financial arrangement. I'll pay you the same as my brother is doing—and this will be only straightforward typing, so it should be a little easier, no research or anything.' 'That sounds fine.' Sara's mind raced ahead. It was just the kind of break she and Helen needed, for with her food and accommodation provided, she would be able to save far more than was normally possible. Their overheads were kept to a minimum, and both girls lived as economically as possible, but jobs like that were few and far between. 'And I'd really enjoy it too,' she added. 'I can't tell you how much.' Caroline Lazonby looked thoughtful. 'If I like your work—and I see no reason why I shouldn't—I could put more in your way,' she said. 'I have writer friends in London who pay the earth to get their books typed-' 'I promise you,' Sara said, 'that you won't be disappointed.' 'We'll drink to that.' She raised her goblet. 'To a fruitful partnership.' And Sara looked round and saw Nicholas Raynor standing silently in the doorway. She was just swallowing some sherry and had to fight to get her breath. He stood there dressed in black evening suit and dazzling white shirt, a tall arrogant figure, superbly elegant, dark and virile—and he looked at Sara, and his eyes were dark and fathomless. 'I seem,' he said, and his voice was deep and calm, 'to come in on the most riveting bits of conversation every time.'

'You do, don't you?' Caroline responded sweetly. 'But it's quite simple—I've just asked Sara to come up to Carlisle when she's finished here and help me for a few days.' It was as if Sara sensed his deeply indrawn breath. Not, saw it, it was more subtle than that—and it was with a sense of shock that she realised something she had been nerve-tinglingly aware of ever since she came; that she could feel his mood even without him speaking, that she could almost read what was in his mind. She put her goblet down slowly, was aware of his response to his sister, a non-committal, 'I see.' But it spoke volumes. She looked at Caroline, to see if she had noticed, but the other gave no sign of having done so. She was smiling pleasantly, as if the whole world was as serene and calm as she herself. 'Well, that's settled, then. You'd better go and telephone your sister. That is all right, Nick dear, isn't it?' 'Of course. The phone in the study is quite private.' 'Thank you.' Sara rose, picked up her handbag, and went out, closing the door softly behind her. She dropped her bag, bent to pick it up, and heard Caroline's voice, low yet urgent: 'You're a stubborn fool, Nick. Just like Father-' 'I can do without your counsel, Caroline, thanks.' Sara picked up her bag and hurried silently away. Her heart was beating fast. His voice had been like chipped ice, as hard and cold. What did it matter to him if she went to work for Caroline ? Short of asking him, she had no way of knowing, and she could not—would not do that. But she could guess. He wanted her away, just as soon as possible, just as soon as his book on the Raynor Collection was finished. And it was at that moment that Sara decided he would have his wish, If she worked as hard and fast as possible—and in the

evenings—they could do it under three weeks, perhaps in two. And then, she would leave, go to Caroline, who was so different that it was hard to believe they were related, and she would forget him completely. Head held high, she walked into the study. She felt much better.

CHAPTER FIVE She had dreams of men gambling; vivid disturbing dreams that only just escaped a nightmare quality. Money changed hands, and silver, vast hoards of silver coins being showered down, glinting and glittering, and medallions—and pendants— Sara woke up drenched in perspiration, and sat up in bed, her heart thudding violently. For a moment she only remembered the dream, but didn't know why it had been like it was—then the conversation with Caroline at lunch time came back to her, and she knew the reason. The large clock on the mantelpiece ticked sonorously and showed that it was nearly seven-thirty. Tuesday morning, the beginning of her third day at Raynor House, and so many things had happened that it seemed as if she had been here for ages. She pulled the warm duvet to one side and went to wash. It was a cold frosty October day, the grass almost silvery in the early light, and she stood at the window for a few moments when she had dressed, just looking out, and thinking over the previous evening. She had said nothing of her battles with her new employer to Helen over the telephone; merely that the work was interesting, that his sister had offered her further work, which might in turn lead to more—and Helen had been delighted. They had promised to keep in touch, and Sara had given her sister the number of Raynor House, for it would be easier for her to ring from St Ives than the other way round. ' Dinner had been a highly civilised meal with no awkward undercurrents or tensions. Sara didn't let it lull her into any false sense o£ security; she knew that Nicholas Raynor was different when his sister was present, for varied reasons. The surprise had come afterwards, when they all sat drinking coffee in the lounge. During a comparative lull in the conversation, Hal had said: 'Nick, why don't you let me help with this book of yours?'

'You?' His uncle had seemed almost amused. 'Why not? Mum will be shut away with her book—:and no one is ever allowed near her, the kids-' he had nodded towards his younger bother and sister, 'will be away tomorrow with Mrs Wilson, and I,' he had paused dramatically, 'I shall be alone, with nothing to do,' and he had winked at Sara so that no one else had seen. A long mock sympathetic 'ah!' had gone up from his mother and the twins, and Nicholas Raynor, frowning thoughtfully, had said: 'I don't see why not, if you insist. You can do some of the fiddling bits of looking up facts and figures while Sara gets on with the typing. But I warn you, no dodging off if you get bored half way— once you start, that's it.' Hal had managed to look both hurt and indignant, difficult considering his cheerfully extrovert manner. 'But, my dear uncle,' he said. 'You obviously haven't seen me in action. Beaver is my middle name. Er—do I get paid ?' For a moment, Sara had seen a glint of humour in his uncle's eyes. Had seen the quick glance he exchanged with his sister—and had seen again something of that laughing stranger in Norway. Just for an instant, but her heart had skipped a beat. 'I was waiting for that,' Nicholas Raynor answered. 'All right, it's a deal.' They had shaken hands solemnly and Caroline said quietly to Sara: 'That might solve a little problem.' They were sitting on the same settee, at the other side of the room from the men, while the twins watched a television set, on low, behind them, so they couldn't be heard. 'What do you mean?' Sara whispered.

'Hal's very sharp—he'll be a big help once he gets the hang of it. You may find your work getting finished sooner than you thought.' Sara looked at her, and Caroline smiled. 'I shouldn't imagine,' she said very softly, 'that you want to work for him any longer than necessary.' Sara had taken a deep breath. Caroline was very astute, as well as being direct. 'No, you're right,' she answered. 'And anyway, the sooner I can get on with working for you.' 'Precisely.' Caroline's eyes sparkled with laughter. 'It seems to be working out very nicely all round, if you ask me.' Sara, looking out across the morning-lit lawns, recalled the words with a smile. Caroline was one of those people, she imagined, for whom everything worked out smoothly in life. She had that air about her, not of selfishness, for that was something that usually revealed itself very soon in a person, but of complete sureness in her ability to do anything she had to successfully. Combined with the charm she undoubtedly possessed, it was irresistible- Sara wondered fleetingly if Caroline had put the idea into her son's head, and decided to ask later. She turned away from the window and went downstairs to breakfast. She should have known it was too good to last. Everything went smoothly at first during the morning. Nicholas spent some time explaining to Hal what needed doing, which books were to be used for reference, how he was to tie up the facts with the photographs, and Sara, unable to concentrate on any new typing while that was going on, went over her previous day's work and checked It. Hal listened intently, asked all the right questions, clearly eager to start, and eventually his uncle seemed satisfied that he had enough to keep him occupied and went out. Hal put down the book he had been holding and went to Sara's desk. 'All right, Sara?' he asked.

Sara looked up. 'Fine, thanks. Why do you ask?' He looked at her, and she knew that look of old. She had seen it in enough men's eyes, old and young, to recognise it. Oh no, she thought, please, no. 'Can't you guess?' he said lightly. 'I mean, do you really think I'm dying to help my dear uncle finish his grotty book?' 'Yes, I do, as a matter of fact,' she said, giving him a very firm nononsense look. 'After all, you don't have anything to do, as you pointed out, and you'll be getting paid-' 'And working close to you,' he added. 'And work is the word,' she said. She liked Hal, she hated what she had to do, but if she didn't squash any ideas he had right now— 'I'm working very hard, because it's what I've come here to do, and get paid for, so if you think I'm going to--' 'Please,' he begged, and put his hand lightly on hers. 'Please, don't say any more. Just let me look at you. Gosh, you look marvellous when you're annoyed. Your eyes are sparkling, your cheeks are as pink as--' 'Hal! Shut up!' He drew in his breath sharply. 'Oh! That's it! Kick me when I'm down, go on, if only you knew what you were doing to me-' Sara couldn't help it. How could she stay angry with him for long with that impudent puppylike manner? She began to laugh. 'You're hopeless!' she managed at last. His hand was still on hers, and she tried to ease it away, which made him curl his fingers round it. 'Hopelessly in love is more like it—honestly, I've never met anyone like you. You are the most gorgeous girl—and oh, Sara-' his joking, bantering manner suddenly vanished, and she felt the pressure of his hand holding hers. His face had gone serious, and his eyes were very vulnerable, and she knew with a deep sure instinct which had

only once let her down, that he was going to try and kiss her. She stood up, because trapped in her, chair she would have no defence, and she tried to move away, and clumsily, like an eager young puppy, he put his arms round her—and Nicholas Raynor walked in. Sara jerked herself free and sat down; Hal, red-faced, moved away, and Nicholas Raynor put the tray of coffee on to the wide windowsill. He looked at Sara, and she saw the hard contempt in his eyes, then he said: 'Get your coffee, Hal.' He put Sara's on her desk. She didn't look up. 'Thank you.' Very busily, trying to disguise that her hands were shaky, she leafed through the papers. Was he going to lash them both with his tongue? She waited, heard him go to his desk, heard the chair pulled back, and then the soft click of his pen as it moved across the paper. Hal was now very much occupied at the small table that had been brought into the room the previous evening, stacking various books, not looking anywhere but down at his task, and the tension throbbed in the room like an electric current. Sara realised that she had just read a page three times, and put it down. The typewriter was ready for action. Praying that she would not have to ask him anything at all for the next hour or so, she began to type. With each 'ting' of the bell as she reached the end of a line, with each page completed, she felt the atmosphere ease. Perhaps after all he hadn't seen anything. Perhaps it was just her vivid imagination. After all, he had been carrying a tray, balancing it; opening the door, careful not to spill the coffee— 'Hal, there's a book in the library that I need. Will you go and get it, please? Third row from the door on the . left, second shelf down, a big red book, called, I think, Renaissance jewellery—you can't miss it.' 'Will do.' Hal went out very quietly, not moving with his usual exuberance, and Sara hastily picked up another two sheets and

carbon and began to roll them into the typewriter. Then she felt a familiar prickling at the back of her neck. It was almost as if he had touched her. 'You are here to work, not to indulge in necking sessions with a young man who should know better, but clearly doesn't.' Nicholas Raynor's voice came from behind her right ear and in it was the hard vibrant anger she knew so well. Sara swung round in her chair and glared up at him. 'I was not-' 'You could have fooled me.' He bit the words out, his face as implacable as a mask, his eyes filled with anger she suddenly wanted to wipe out. .' 'Don't be stupid,' she snapped, her control breaking in a second of time. Because she had had enough from him, quite enough. 'Use your eyes. He's a boy.' She glared at him, and the words tumbled out. 'Do you think I need to encourage boys?' There was fire in her face, her eyes sparkled, she didn't care any more. Let him sack her if he wanted! 'My God, you must be joking,' she breathed. 'Unless he takes after you—which I pray he doesn't— although I can remember quite- well what happened yesterday. Did you think you were the first man who's ever kissed me? I've been fighting wolves off since I was sixteen, so it's nothing new to me to have unwanted attentions forced on me.' She stood up, looking into his darkly angry face. 'I hope you were satisfied. Men like you make me sick!' 'Have you finished?' He was big and dangerous-looking, but Sara no longer cared. 'No. I'm here to work—as you so constantly remind me. Perhaps you'll let me get on with it instead of giving me the kind of lectures I don't need.' She slammed some paper down on her desk. 'I can cope with Hal, never fear. And I can cope with you. And as far as I'm

concerned you can go to hell!' And she sat down abruptly, her whole body shaking with emotion and drained anger. She knew she had gone too far. She waited for what was to come— and Hal walked in. Without a word Nicholas Raynor went to his desk and sat down. She had had the last word— for now—but when would the next fight be ? Vaguely she was aware of them talking, going over some obscure point in the book, but she wasn't listening. What had she said? She'd told him to go to hell, she'd practically called him a wolf—Sara found herself going warm with each memory that returned. Yet he had asked for it, hadn't he? He had accused her of something grossly unfair, and implied—~ 'Sara, will you come here a minute, please?' This is it—the moment of truth. She rose slowly and turned. Both of them were bending over the book on Nicholas Raynor's desk. 'Yes?' she said. 'Nick's found something that might affect what you're doing now,' said Hal, looking, for him, quite unhappy. It was as if he realised he had caused trouble, and wished to make amends. 'Yes.' Nicholas looked up. 'Are you on page twenty of the exercise book yet?' 'I'm not sure-' she peered at the neat writing in the book on her desk. 'No, eighteen. Why?' 'Then that's all right. Let me know when you get to it, will you? I've a couple of minor corrections to make. See-' he pointed, and Sara looked at a paragraph of fine print in the large book on the desk. 'We must get this down accurately. It involves certain items in the collection which my father mentions in Chapter Two. Just stop when you get to that page and then we'll go over it.

'I can sort it out-' she began. 'We'll sort it out together.' Sara turned and went back to her desk. About five more pages of typing to do, and then he was going to be working with her. So be it, she thought. He's the boss. Perhaps he's not going to fire me after all. She finished the page she was doing and laid it carefully to one side. Her temper had faded, and she felt almost weak with reaction. She knew one simple yet overwhelming fact, though—she would not be able to bear three weeks of this. She was going to work overtime and at week-ends, and every spare moment she could, to finish what she had to do. Later, when they were at the end of sorting out the important points on certain items in the Raynor Collection, she found her opportunity to tell him. It was nearly lunch time, and Hal had been sent out again to the library, and as Nicholas finished what he was saying, Sara spoke: 'I'd like to work this evening,' she said. Dark grey eyes met hers, expressionless. 'Why?' he asked. 'Because I want to. get this book finished, and the sooner the better,' she answered. 'You can't work all the time, it would exhaust you.' 'I'm used to hard work, it doesn't bother me,' she said. 'Don't worry, I don't expert overtime pay-' 'I didn't mean that,' he cut in sharply, 'and you know it. But seven hours day is enough on this.' 'I disagree. It doesn't tire me.' She looked straight into his eyes, and met them without flinching. She had gone past caring what he thought of her. There was a brief, silent clash, and then he shrugged.

'As you wish.' 'Thank you.' She turned away from him. 'I'll have my dinner on a tray in here.' 'What are you trying to prove?' Surprised at the sudden harshness of his tone, she turned back sharply. 'What do you mean?' He shrugged. 'Do I need to explain? I would have thought it obvious.' 'I'm not trying to prove anything—but if you'd like to know why I want to work, it's because I'd like to see this finished as soon as possible so that I can get away from here. I've been here three days and that's about as much as I can take of you,' her eyes sparkled angrily. 'It will be a pleasure to work alone, without you breathing down my neck, making assorted accusations about my character, and that of my father—do you want me to go on?' 'I think you've said enough!' 'I haven't even started, but I'm well aware that you're my employer, so I'll shut up.' She felt her hands tighten into fists, and fought the desire to wipe the look of hard mockery from his face. 'If I were a man you wouldn't dare say those things to me!' 'If you were a man I'd hardly have need to say some of them,' he replied swiftly. 'But the other basic fact would still apply,' and he looked at her pendant. 'You hate me wearing it, don't you?' she said. 'I can see it in your eyes. Well, I'm going to continue doing so—and short of taking it from me there's nothing you can do about it.' And she smiled, because she loathed him intensely, and she knew he hated her

smiling. And her instinct warned her of his mood, of the latent anger in him, and he no longer cared. 'And if you were a man,' he said harshly, 'by God you wouldn't stand there saying the things you are doing-' 'Why? Because you'd hit me? Is that your solution? Violence?' She looked him up and down slowly. 'Oh yes, I can see that. I'll bet you enjoy a good brawl now and then-' 'Get on with your work!' His voice was deep, and he looked as if he could strike her. Sara laughed. 'I can't wait,' she said. 'That's what this conversation has been about—me working, if you remember, and the sooner I'm allowed to, the better.' She smoothed her hair from her cheek, deliberately making him aware of her femininity, and opened her eyes wider. 'May I sit down now?' He didn't answer. He simply turned away from her and walked out of the room, leaving her alone. Sara sat down. She had done it again, driven him almost to the point of violence. The awful thing was, she didn't really know why. And so for the rest of the day Sara put all she had into the work she was doing, and at five o'clock she left the study, went up to wash her face, and came down again. The room was empty. Hal's work was spread out neatly on his table, Nicholas Raynor's desk was stacked high with papers and books—and Sara's, typewriter waited. She opened a book she needed to jot down some facts for the index and began making notes. She had found this easier to do as she was going along, had explained her system to Nicholas the previous day, and he had told her to do it in the way which suited her best. There was a certain fascination in this aspect of the work, for it involved cross-references and a keen awareness of alphabetical order. Sara

was fortunate in that she had done indexing before, and enjoyed it. The typing temporarily forgotten, she busily checked and rechecked names, listed them in order, made notes of certain photographs that were used in the earlier stages of the book—and lost all count of time. The door opening startled her, and she looked up, wondering for a moment who it could be. It was Caroline, dressed for dinner in a dramatic blue velvet evening skirt and white blouse. 'My dear Sara, what on earth are you doing?' she exclaimed. 'It's nearly seven! What is my brother thinking of?' 'It's all right. I wanted to work.' Sara smiled at her, not sorry to break off for a few minutes. 'I'm doing some indexing. I've found it helps to do it as I go along, then, it's not such a huge task at the end.' Her head was still reeling with names—Pietro Torrigiano, Francesco Primaticcio, Paul de Lamerie, Paul Storr, porringers, caudle cups, rope moulding, gadrooning—and her hand ached with the writing and the constant turning of pages to check that she was attributing the right pieces to the correct silversmiths. But with it all a certain order was emerging from chaos, and she had no intention of leaving it for long. 'Well, I must say I admire your devotion to duty,' Caroline smiled, seating herself on the edge of the desk. 'But there is such a thing as overdoing it, my dear-' 'I know. But I want to get my work here finished as soon as I can.' Sara answered very simply. Caroline pulled a face. 'As bad as that, is it? I've a good mind to speak to that brother of mine-' 'No.' Sara shook her head. 'Please. Please don't. It won't help. The best thing is what's happening now. I'll work all the hours I can. Hal

is doing a lot of stuff that would take time up. Caroline,' she hesitated, 'did you— put the idea into his head to offer to work?' Caroline smiled a beautiful smile. 'I—how shall I say it ? I dropped a little hint, no more.' 'I thought so.' Sara shook her head. 'He's not being a pest, is he? You know he's quite smitten with you.' 'I know,' agreed Sara dryly. But she had no intention of telling tales. 'And I like him.' She flexed her aching fingers. 'He's a super help really,' even if he was the cause of an unpleasant scene with that brute, she added mentally. 'Honestly, we get on fine.' 'Good. Well, what about dinner? You're surely not staying in this stuffy place while we eat! I forbid it!' 'But I--' 'No buts! Come as you are. The kids are back from their day out, full of chatter about their glorious trip to Ambleside, and my brother and Hal are swigging, the best sherry, and I insist you come and talk to me.' Sara looked up. 'All right, of course I will. But I'm coming in to finish, this after. How's your book going, Caroline?' She hoped it would work. It did. 'Oh, my dear! Splendidly—in fact, if you're working, I think I'll get back to' it as well. I've no mind for television, and the two men can entertain the twins, so that's settled.' Caroline stood up. 'Off we go, then. I can't really wait to get back to it, actually—I've got the hero and heroine in the most delightfully complicated situation and it's all working out beautifully-' she drifted through the door and Sara, with a last quick look at her laden desk, picked up her bag and followed. It's all working out

beautifully, Caroline had said, and her words seemed quite appropriate to Sara, because she suddenly knew that she was doing the right thing in working as she was. Nicholas didn't want her there any longer than necessary, and the feeling was utterly mutual, and the way things were going now the book would be completed far sooner than he had anticipated. Ai\d then she would turn her back on Raynor House and him, and she would be free.

It was strange, but oddly peaceful, to be working at night, while the rain lashed down on the windows and her desk lamp cast a warm glow of light around her, and Sara stood up to stretch her muscles and went to the window to look out. She had not drawn the curtains together. When she had returned after dinner, she had switched on only the anglepoise light so that it illumined everything necessary, started work where she had left it when Caroline entered. She was surrounded by silence as she stood looking out into the darkened gardens, for the walls of the rooms were thick, and the two men were in the lounge with the twins, watching television, and away in a corner of the house Caroline too worked away On her book, alone and silent. Sara stretched and yawned. Nearly ten o'clock. She would have to finish soon, for the names had started to blur and dance and she would begin making mistakes if she wasn't careful—which would only cause more work and waste valuable time. Her reflection, a pale ghost in the darkened glass, looked back at her, and she half turned away, and saw Nicholas Raynor standing silently in the doorway, watching her. She had heard no sound, and her breath caught in her throat. 'Did I startle you?' His voice was deep. 'I beg your pardon.' 'No, it's—I didn't hear the door opening.'

'You can't go on working any longer. It's ten o'clock.' 'I know. I'm just finishing now.' She wanted to go back to her desk, but she couldn't move. She didn't know why. The study was a different place at night, full of shadows, just one lamp alight, on her desk, the rest, blackness. And no sounds save that of the rain pattering on the glass outside as if seeking to come in, and a tall dark stranger standing in the doorway. A stranger she would never know, had never known, facing her across the darkness, just feet away from her, and with the harsh reality of their dislike filling the room with even more shadows. She put her hands up to rub her arms, suddenly cold, even though the house was warm, and in the dimness it was as if he frowned. 'What's the matter?' he asked. 'Are you cold?' 'No,' she lied. 'It's nothing. Just stiffness with sitting so long-' 'Nobody asked you to work,' he said harshly. 'You know that'No.' She could move away then, away towards the safety of her desk, and the light. 'We've been over that before. Please. Just let me tidy the papers away now and I'll-' 'Leave it until, morning. It can wait. You've done enough.' She stood very still. She was too tired to argue with him, and his voice held a note of such authority, and he walked towards the desk as he said the words so that she felt suddenly, and quite absurdly, frightened of him. 'All right,' she answered quickly. 'Is Caroline still working?' 'As far as I know. She hasn't come down.' 'Then I'll go straight up to bed. If you don't mind?' There was just the slightest trace of her former spirit in the last few words.

'Don't you want a bedtime drink or anything?' Sara hesitated. The offer was tempting, and coffee and a biscuit would go down well... 'It's all right,' she said, without too much conviction. 'No, it's not. What's it to be? Cocoa, coffee—tea?' 'Coffee, please,' She went towards him and he held the door wider. 'Shall I go and ask Mrs Wilson-' 'No, I will.' She walked past him. 'Goodnight; Sara.' 'Goodnight.' She never called him anything if she could help it. She went to the stairs and walked slowly up, running her hand along the smooth teak banister rail, aware that he still stood in the doorway, even though she couldn't see him, and had no intention of looking back. And spine-tinglingly aware that he was watching her.

The next day, when five o'clock came, Sara wondered, quite seriously, how much longer she would be able to carry on. It was all her own doing, she knew that. She had pushed herself to the limit, not only the previous day and evening, but for the entire seven hours during which she had worked this day, Wednesday. Typing— indexing—cross-checking with Hal on some obscure points to do with the hallmarking of silver—searching through three huge envelopes of photographs with Nicholas because a two-handled Cup and Cover by Paul de Lamerie, mentioned in Chapter Two, had apparently been lost without trace. And over it all, the atmosphere of prickly unease that existed whenever she and Nicholas were in the same room. Hal had changed. He seemed eager only to please, his bantering manner subdued—but even he was no antidote to the crackling antagonism that was there all the time. Once, when his

uncle had left the room, he had asked Sara if they had quarrelled. She had looked at him. She couldn't tell him. Instead she had shaken her head, and answered: 'There are certain people who just can't get on, Hal. We're two of them.' 'He must be mad!' he had said indignantly, and Sara had smiled. 'It happens,' she had answered. And now it was five, and dusk, and she was going to work again in the evening, for with all Nicholas's efforts that day, she now had a good twenty pages of typing crying put to be done. As Nicholas Raynor stood up, she said: 'Is it all right if I go for a walk in the garden?' He looked surprised for a moment, then: 'Of course. You are free to go anywhere, but I advise you to keep to the paths. Unless you know the grounds you could-fall easily. We have a large rabbit population hereabouts.' 'I know.' She went up to her room, put on her warm red coat, and went out of the front door. The air was so fresh and cold that she could feel the colour surging into her cheeks, could feel her head clearing with the sheer sparkling quality of it. She thrust her hands into her pockets and began to breathe deeply as she started walking down the drive. At intervals there were lamps by the trees at the side of the long gravel drive, and as it twisted and wound along, and the shadows elongated and changed shape, something of her fatigue left her. The physical exercise was good in itself, for she ached from sitting at a desk, and her spirits rose slightly. She should have done this before; should have taken a walk after lunch, or before breakfast, to set her up for the day. A bird called distantly, then the silence wrapped round her again. She caught a last glimpse of the house before it vanished beyond the

curve, and turned away, walking on, retaining the image in her mind's eye of the gracious building ablaze with light, its austere beauty framed against the darkening sky to make a picture she would not easily forget. Darker now, the path, and she walked more slowly as she made her way towards the gate. She had no fear of darkness, but the shadows on the drive were deceptive and she didn't want to stumble. And because she was entirely alone, with nothing to distract her attention, the thoughts came tumbling into her head, fragments of conversation with Helen before she had come here, before she had even known, and could not have imagined, who she would meet; with Caroline; and Hal; more briefly with the twins, who were really quite funny when you got to know them—and with Nicholas, the ever-present dominating character with whom the conversations inevitably became battles, struggles for survival almost. Hard-eyed, hard-faced, hard-working—and demanding a standard of work from her that was a challenge in itself. With that she had been able to cope, and working alone in the evening although naturally tiring at the end of the day, she had felt a small measure of triumph, because she could do what she had to do at her own pace, and successfully. In spite of all else, his bitterness and dislike of her, she knew he could not fault her work, nor did he wish to. Why, oh, why, she thought, does he have to be who he is? With anyone else, the work would have been a joy. They were a good team, the three of them, even though Hal's contribution was necessarily smaller. And the book would be done far sooner than Nicholas imagined. She knew it in her bones. She was nearing the gates. They were closed electronically at dusk, so Wilson had told her, and if any visitors were expected they had to press a bell in the gatepost which rang in the house. The gateposts loomed up in front of her, and Sara walked right up to them and stood looking out through the wrought iron for a few moments at the

quiet track outside. She could visualise the stream of cars winding a way up when there were parties, could almost see the headlights and hear the noise of engines. Raynor House would be a good place for a large gathering, and music and laughter—but she would never see anything of it, for soon she would be gone. It was time to go back and wash, and get ready for a couple more hours of work. Sara's fingers ached, and her back hurt, and tonight she would have a lovely hot bath again and pour in her favourite bath foam and lie back and let it all soak away ... She blinked. I'll be asleep in a minute, she thought, and began walking briskly up the drive towards the house again. And then, when she was half way there, and the house could just be glimpsed through the trees, she stood still, caught in a wave of sudden and overwhelming emotion that she didn't understand. It was dark now, with the trees outlined starkly against a grey sky, and an utter silence everywhere, and the house glowing with light, etched sharply in the background, and Sara's breath caught in her throat at the sheer overwhelming beauty of it all. She had once known this kind of life, years before, when she and Helen were young, and their mother had been alive, and now it was gone for ever, but the memories caught and held just for a moment, as fragile and delicate as a butterfly's wing, bringing an overwhelming sadness with them which combined with Sara's fatigue and left her feeling weak. Tears blurred her eyes, and her heart ached for what was past and gone. There was a bench nearby, at the side of the drive, under a lamp, and she had noticed it on the way down. From it you could see the house clearly. Sara walked to it and sat down and looked across the rolling lawns, sloping upwards and away, vanishing into darkness. She closed her eyes then, and let the tears well out. It was better to be alone in this introspective mood. And when she went back in, to face other people, nothing would show, she would make sure of that.

Then her scalp prickled with fear at the sounds she heard, faint and indistinct and all the more frightening for that. About to get up, she stopped—-and then laughed in sheer overwhelming relief. One of the dogs bounded up to her, whining softly, stumpy tail wagging as if in delight at having found her. 'Wolf!' she exclaimed, and held out her hand. 'You scared me!' He let her stroke his head, then he turned as Nicholas Raynor's voice called : 'Sara ? Where are you ?' She had a handkerchief in her pocket. Quickly she wiped her cheeks and stood up as the other two dogs bounded into sight followed by their master. 'Oh, you're there.' 'Yes, I'm on my way back to the house.' She watched him approach her, a dark shape, with the light from the lamp on his face as he neared, tough and tall, a powerfully built man who was afraid of nothing. Why should that thought come to her? She didn't know, but it had. He stopped a few feet away from her. 'There was a phone call for you, from your sister,' he said. His eyes were upon her. It was too dark for him to see her face, surely? She felt herself freeze, frightened lest he be aware of her thoughts. The tension was there, all around them again, as it always was, and always would be, all-enveloping, intensely disturbing. She took a deep breath. 'Was it anything important?' she managed to say, surprised to find that she could speak normally after all. The tension was changing subtly; it was an awareness, a sharpening of every nerve so that it was as if she read his mind, as if she knew each thought. How strange, she said inwardly, we are strangers and yet there is this feeling. 'I don't think so. I took her number and said I'd get you to ring back.'

'Thank you.' She must move, and she would have to pass him. Her body felt stiff and sore, and there was a tiredness within her that she knew came from doing too much work in the last two days. 'I'll do it now.' 'On the phone in my study. The number's there.' He called the dogs to heel and they bounded out from the shrubbery, and sat waiting patiently. 'I shall be away all day tomorrow,' he went on, as Sara was about to pass him. She paused. 'Yes?' 'But I've left a lot of notes that you will be able to follow up. I'd like to discuss it with you after dinner, if that's all right?' 'Of course. I shall be working.' Where was he going? She wouldn't ask. 'I'll go back and ring my sister now.' 'I'm taking the dogs down to the gate.' And he called them and strode away, leaving Sara by the lamp, and she turned slowly to watch him go, unable to help herself, saw him and the dogs grow more shadowy, and then they weren't there any more. She suddenly felt very cold.

CHAPTER SIX SHE ate her dinner in the. study, because Caroline was busily writing, completely incommunicado, as she had been for a while, and without her Sara preferred to eat alone. Both Nicholas and Hal ate with the children in the dining room, and as she got up to put her dinner tray on Hal's table, Sara paused for a moment by the open door, to hear the voices and laughter coming indistinctly through to her. She shut the door firmly and went to sit down at her desk. Soon absorbed in the typing she was doing, she had forgotten that Nicholas had said he wanted to speak to her. Her head began to ache, and she stopped to rub her forehead, to look away from her desk towards the window. It was very dark and quiet, but her mood was anything but calm; she felt wretched, ill—and uneasy. Helen's call had been simply to tell her that everything in St Ives was going well—and how was Sara? If only she knew, thought Sara, holding her throbbing temples. If only she knew! It was easy for her to say the right words on the telephone, but how far from the truth they were. This work, and that for Caroline, were important to them both, doubly so because they both knew that further work from Caroline's London friends would almost inevitably follow. Suddenly the burden of responsibility seemed almost overwhelming to Sara. She flexed her fingers and began to roll more paper into the typewriter. Suddenly Nicholas Raynor walked in. She looked up, and blinked. He seemed indistinct, almost blurred. 'Oh!' she ;was confused. 'I forgot—— her voice tailed away. 'What's the matter?' he frowned, and stood by the other side of her desk. She shook her head. 'Nothing.' She was beginning to feel almost dizzy. 'I have a—a headache, that's all.'

'Hadn't you better stop work for the day? There'll be lots of time tomorrow—especially as I'll be out.' 'Oh, yes, I'd forgotten. You were going to tell me-' she couldn't think clearly. What had he been going to talk to her about? 'I was going to show you the notes I wanted checking and typing up tomorrow. Yes.' But he was just standing there looking at her, and it was strangely unnerving. Sara stood up, and nearly overbalanced. She had to clutch the chair to steady herself. She looked at him. ' 'Then we'll do it now.' 'No. No, we won't. What on earth's the matter, Sara?' 'I told you—I've got a bit of a headache, that's all. It'll go away.' 'Maybe it will. But you nearly fell over then. Is that what a headache does for you?' 'Why don't you leave me alone!' she burst out, nerve ends ragged. 'Just tell me what I've got to do-' The room was starting to spin round—and the next moment he was holding her. 'For God's sake, you're ill!' His voice was near, in her ear, and those arms—they were like bands of steel, holding her, not brutally, not as it had been, that time They were almost gentle. 'You'd better sit down. Better still, lie down. Come on, up to your room. We'll talk about work in the morning-' 'No! You're going away-' she was shivering. 'Do as I tell you!' He moved, almost as if equally conscious of the disturbing power of their mutual awareness. Then it was just his hand on her arm, firm, guiding, 'I'll get Caroline to look after you. Come on.'

It was no use resisting. She felt almost as if she might have 'flu, so wretched was she. They went together up the stairs, into her room, and there Sara sat on the bed. Nicholas Raynor looked down at her. 'Don't move a muscle,' he commanded. 'I'll be back in a minute.' Alone, she looked desperately round her. What would they think? That she had no stamina, wasn't capable of doing the work. Caroline would have second thoughts, would be polite but regretful... 'My dear, what on earth's been happening?' Caroline swept into the mom, took one all-encompassing look at Sara, and turned to her brother, hovering in the doorway. 'Go and get the brandy, darling.' She shut the door and came over to sit beside Sara on the bed. 'Now you're a very silly girl! Slaving away over a hot typewriter for that bossy brute-' 'But I-' Sara protested weakly. 'It's nothing, really! I'll be fine in a minute—' 'Rubbish! You're as white as the proverbial sheet. All this overtime—ridiculous. I know what I'm talking about, so don't argue. We're going to tuck you up in bed and see you get a good night's rest. And if you're not fit in the morning, you're taking the day off, so there!' she nodded. Sara managed a weak smile. In a way Caroline could be as bossy as her brother. 'I didn't want him to tell you,' she confessed. 'But he didn't give me a chance. Honestly, Caroline, I'm as tough as old boots really, I assure you. You mustn't worry that I won't be able to do your work-—-' 'Heavens! Is that what's bothering you? That I'll change my mind about employing you?' Caroline began to laugh softly. 'My dear, you're like me, a worker—I can see that without being told. You've

been overdoing it, that's all. Even I have to have a day off occasionally or I'd go raving mad!' The worries seemed to be gradually dissolving. Caroline would have probably made an excellent doctor, even a psychiatrist. Sara, much to her surprise, found herself starting to feel better, less ragged. Even her headache had almost disappeared by the time, fifteen minutes or so later, that she was sitting up comfortably in her warm bed sipping hot milk generously laced with brandy. ' Caroline, from her perch at the end of the bed, surveyed her much in the manner of a mother hen with her chick. 'Hmm, every drop, mind,' she said severely, 'and no reading. It's lights out when I go, and straight to sleep!' Sara couldn't resist it. 'Yes, Mother,' she said demurely, and Caroline laughed. 'I am old enough to be your mother—well, just,' she said. 'How old are you? Twenty-two—three?' 'Four,' answered Sara. 'Hmm, well,. I'd have been very young,' Caroline admitted, 'I'm forty-two—seven years older than my dear brother Nick. Though you'd think he was the elder, the way he goes on sometimes. Men!' she sighed, and rolled her eyes expressively. So Nicholas Raynor is thirty-five, thought Sara. Eleven years older than me—now what on earth made me think that? Slightly confused, she said quickly: 'You're looking after me beautifully, but please don't let me keep you from your writing. I promise I'll go straight to sleep.' Caroline rose. 'I know you will. And we'll see how you are in the morning. Goodnight.' She took the glass from Sara, switched out the

light, watched from the doorway as Sara snuggled down under the blissfully warm cover, then went out very quietly and closed the door.

Sara went down the following morning before eight- thirty and opened the study door, her mind full of the unfinished work she had left the previous night—and Nicholas Raynor rose from his desk and said: 'Good morning, Sara.' 'Oh—good morning. Will you give me the:—' 'Notes? No. You're having the day off today-' 'Oh, but I can't!' Wide-eyed, she stared helplessly at him. 'I've got too much to do-' 'So? It will get done. But not today.' Sara was rallying her defences rapidly. 'But you'll be out all day.' 'Correct. What difference does that make?' She shrugged. 'I'll start when you've gone. With or without your notes, I have enough typing to last me until five or six.' She lifted her chin defiantly. 'Then you leave me no choice.' He walked to the window and stood looking out. 'What do you mean ?' He turned slowly to look at her. 'It's quite simple. You're coming with me.'

She took a deep breath. 'But I--' she stopped, because he had a certain look about him, that hardness she knew so well. 'Where are you going?' 'We. Where are we going? To an auction of antiques near Cartmel. So you see, it will be work in a way, if that satisfies you.' Something that might or might not have been the beginning of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. 'And please don't start to argue about it. I am your employer.' He looked at his watch. 'We're leaving in less than an hour. I suggest you have your breakfast now. Are you really better?' 'Yes. I'm fine, truly, and I want to get on with the typing,' she looked at her desk. It was suspiciously tidy. She looked at him. 'I didn't leave it like this last night——' she began. 'I know. I straightened everything up and looked through what you've been doing this past couple of days. You've put in an incredible amount of work. It's no wonder you nearly collapsed.' It was most odd. If he had decided to go out of his way to be actually courteous, he could have done no better. The hard aggression had disappeared, the dark grey eyes were watchful, no more, not filled with the dislike she was so accustomed to. It had the effect of confusing Sara. Why couldn't he be as she expected him to be ? 'I'll take it easily today, I promise.' 'I know you will,' he answered calmly, 'because you'll be with me. Breakfast is in the dining room. I've had mine. I'm just preparing something for Hal. I'll see you when you've eaten.' 'But I-' 'At nine-fifteen,' he went on. 'In the hall. And we're going in the Rolls. No speeding-'

'It's not that. I-' 'Please don't argue. I have a lot to do in the next half hour or so.' 'Do you always interrupt people in mid-sentence?' she burst out. 'Occasionally.' And he actually smiled, then walked to the door, and opened it wide. 'But then I'm a busy man.' She glared at him, was about to answer, thought better of it, and walked out of the study.. She heard the door close firmly after her.

Sara would not have believed it possible; that she could actually find that she was -enjoying herself in his company, yet it was so. For some reason—perhaps, she thought cynically, because he thinks I'm .delicate— Nicholas Raynor was a different man that morning. As they drove steadily along the road to Cartmel, he told her about the auction, where it was being held, and what he hoped to buy. 'And what do I have to do?' she asked, as she leafed through a shinypaged brochure full Qf photographs of exquisite antique furniture, pictures, and silver items. 'I am working, as you reminded me.' 'I don't think you know much about bidding, do you?' he said. 'So you'd better leave that part to me. But when we view, this morning, you can look around and check that all the items I've marked in the catalogue are there—and you can also see if there's anything extra interesting that I might have missed.' 'I should hardly think that likely,' she said dryly, flicking the pages as she spoke. 'But possible,' he answered smoothly.

Sara didn't reply. She looked out of the window at the countryside sliding past. It was as she thought. He had brought her simply to ensure that she didn't do any typing that day. Not for assistance, certainly not for company, for she was the last person he would choose, but because she had foolishly told him she would start work when he left; instead of keeping quiet about it. She sighed. So much for defiant gestures! 'Why the sigh?' Nicholas asked. Could that be amusement in his voice? 'I should have told you I'd take the day off, then you wouldn't have made me come with you,' she answered, seeing no point in evasion. The undercurrents were still there, despite his apparently easier manner. True. But you did, so here you are,' he replied easily. 'And as you'll probably enjoy seeing round this house we're going to, I suggest you relax. You'll feel better for the change tomorrow, I promise you that.' Will I? she thought. And how can I relax with you, knowing what I know, with all the words said, with the knowledge in me of what was in the past, of everything that has happened? Some things could not be changed, or undone—or ever, ever forgiven. She took a deep silent breath. All right, she thought, I will relax; There's no point in doing otherwise. And I'll make the best of this day off work, but I will never like you, not in a million years. She was to remember that thought later in the day.

The room was filled with sober-faced men, and a few women, and Sara found herself trying to spot the dealers and those who had come simply out of curiosity. It became almost a game as she

wandered around looking at the auction items set out, neatly numbered, everything beautiful and obviously costly. The discreetly dark- suited men standing at intervals with expressionless faces, not seeming to be actually looking at anyone, were clearly security guards. She wasn't surprised. There was a fortune here. Nicholas Raynor had vanished into another part of the large mansion and Sara was on her own, and actually finding that he had been right in one thing. She was enjoying the looking round. Voices were hushed, as if in church—or as if no one was giving away any secrets. She stood beside a couple who were studying a picture on the wall and heard their whispers, the discreet shushing that followed as they realised someone had stopped by them. She was about to move on when she looked up at the picture. The shock was like a physical blow to the heart, and she caught her breath in her throat feeling as if she might faint. There was no doubt about it, none at all. She didn't even have to look at the card below the picture, with the lot number and description on it. For she had lived with that picture nearly all her young life. It had hung in the library of her home for years. A Klee original, a simple picture of a beach, with people in the distance; she knew every inch of it, had stood in front of it for hours, fascinated at the simplicity and cleanness of the lines—and at the shattering effect it could have on the viewer. It had been sold when the crash of her father's business had come. Sold, like everything else, in an effort to recoup the losses and repay debts. And, until this moment, she had never seen it since. It was like an instant journey to the past, a -sudden time switch that left her feeling weak and vulnerable. 'I admire your taste.' A deep voice spoke in her ear, and she turned, wide-eyed, to see a perfect stranger, a man of about forty, standing beside her, that old familiar look in his eyes. She was still too

drained of energy to want to speak to anyone, least of all this warmvoiced intruder. 'Yes,' she managed, and turned to move away. 'Don't go,' he said. 'I've been watching you for a while. You're alone?' he grinned lazily as if surprised. 'No, I'm not,' she answered shortly. She was still recovering from an intensely personal experience, one she did not wish to share with anyone, least of all this wolf in sheepskin jacket. No one was taking the slightest notice of either of them, being too engrossed in the auction items. 'And he's gone off and left you? Shame!' he said mockingly. 'I wouldn't go away if I were with you.' 'But you're not,' she answered. She was regaining strength with every moment. She would think about the Klee later, when she was alone, and allow the memories to flood back freely. 'If you'll excuse me, I'd like to look round now.' 'Anything in particular you want to see? I'd be delighted to-' 'Everything all right, Sara?' The cool deep voice of Nicholas Raynor cut in, and Sara's heart leapt. She never thought she'd be pleased to hear that voice. Her would- be escort turned, saw him and began to laugh. 'Oh, my God! Raynor,' he said. 'I might have known she'd be with you.' 'Yes, she is,' answered Nicholas Raynor pleasantly. 'Come on, Sara, there's something I'd like you to see in the hall. You'll excuse us, Miles?' He nodded, took Sara's arm and led her away through the

press of bodies. When they were in the comparatively less crowded hall he looked down at Sara. 'Was he very obnoxious?' he asked. She looked at him quickly, seeking the sarcasm she detected in his voice. Quickly on the defensive, still raw- nerved from the sight of the picture, she answered: 'I've met worse. And I wasn't encouraging him, in case that's what you're thinking.' Her eyes sparkled. Let him say one wrong word... 'I know. I was watching from the doorway as he came up to you— why did you look as if you'd had a shock?' The abrupt question caught her off balance. 'Nothing. I'd rather not talk about it,' she answered. "But it wasn't him. I'm used to people like him, believe it or not—and I could have dealt with him if you hadn't come along-' 'I'm sure you could. Was it the picture?' She felt her breath catch in her throat. It was almost as if she were choking. There was a pause. 'I thought you had something to show me,' she said eventually. 'Not really. That was just a polite get-out. He's a dealer from Ambleside and we have a mutual healthy dislike of each other. It seemed simpler than punching him on the nose, especially as I'm hoping to buy some things.' 'Of course,' she agreed. 'It would have been unpleasant to be thrown out and miss all your bids this afternoon.' She paused. 'And he might just have punched you back.' She smiled sweetly at him, and heard his indrawn breath. 'Well, you've got over your shock, whatever it was,' he said smoothly. 'You're quite back to normal, I notice.'

'Yes, I am.' She looked away for a moment. 'So if you'd like to go and do your looking round, don't let me stop you.' 'I've seen all I want to see. Come on, we'll go and have some lunch.' Sara hadn't thought about that. She regretted her hasty answer, but like a lot of other things, it was too late to take back. 'Very well,' she said. She didn't want to eat alone with him, but there seemed no choice. She took a deep breath and went towards the front door.

But they did not eat alone after all. And looking back on it afterwards, Sara thought she would not have missed that lunch for anything. They walked into the pub in Cartmel, and a delighted voice cried: 'Nick! If it isn't the man himself!' and a hearty, fairhaired rugger-playing type pushed across the crowded room towards them and grabbed Nicholas Raynor's arm. 'Hello, Jack, long time no see.' In contrast to the encounter with the dealer Miles at the auction, he looked genuinely pleased. 'Sara, this is my friend Jack Collins, Jack—Sara Good, my secretary.' They shook hands. Sara liked the man instantly. He. grinned at her. 'Come and sit with us.' He made a vague head-jerking gesture behind him and Sara saw Nicholas look, smile very slightly, then: 'You seem to be busy enough, Jack--' 'Busy? They're driving me mad, if that's what you mean. Give us a break, Nick old man. Let them talk to you while I get to know Sara,' and he winked at Sara, then leered amiably. She didn't know exactly what was going on, she didn't know who the 'they' were, but she thought that anything would be preferable to having to sit and talk to Nicholas Raynor while she tried to force some food down.

'Okay. You have such a charming way of talking me into it. Take Sara over and introduce her while I fight my way to the bar. What will you drink, Sara?' 'Oh, a shandy—anything.' As Jack began to guide her through the noisy crush, she looked into the corner from where he had come, and she saw his companions, and a bubble of laughter grew inside her and escaped in the smallest of giggles. Jack heard, turned his head, whispered : 'See what I mean ? God, they are so conceited it's, just not true. Now you, my love, are the most human- looking human being I've seen in days.' 'Thank you, kind sir-' but then they were there, in the corner, and Sara found herself being weighed up, dissected into the tiniest of pieces and put together again by two pairs of beautifully made up, heavily mascaraed eyes set in the exquisitely gorgeous faces of the two models who sat on the bench seat. Neither had a hair out of place, one sleek and dark, the other sleek and blonde. Jack waved his arm. 'Delia, and Kerri,' he said. 'Sara.' Delia pouted a little. 'Hello,' she said. 'Hello,' said Kerri. But their eyes had turned to stone, and as Sara squeezed in next to them, to be followed by Jack, which meant that Nicholas, when he arrived, would have to sit facing them all on a stool upon which Kerri rested her elegantly booted legs, it was clear that the one thought uppermost in their minds was: Who the hell is this? 'Doing some fashion pictures,' Jack said in confidential tones, 'using the Priory in some of the shots, as a black- ground, and the square outside in others.' 'Are you a photographer?'

'Am I a photographer? My dear, where have you been for the last five years ? I am the greatest there is !' 'Forgive me,' Sara murmured, well aware that although the two other girls seemed deeply engrossed in conversation, they were in fact listening. 'But you just don't look like my idea of one. I thought—I thought you might be a rugby player or something.' Jack smacked his forehead with his hand. 'Oh dear, oh dear, where does Nick get them from?' He began to laugh, and at that moment Nicholas returned bearing a tray holding glasses and two plates with mouthwatering- looking pasties and sandwiches. The difference in the two girls was instant and electric. Sara saw the rather sulky expressions vanish to be replaced by warm smiling interest. I don't believe it, she thought, and wondered how on earth she was going to manage to keep her face straight. He had bought drinks for them all, explaining to his apparently fascinated audience of two that he had merely had to ask the barman what those beautiful women were drinking to be told instantly. He handed them their vodka and limes to be very prettily thanked, and then he might just as well not have been with Sara or Jack. They took him over, not subtly, but in a way that give him no chance of escape. He didn't even have to sit on the stool. Two fabulous fur jackets were pushed on to a windowsill behind them and he sat between them. Jack whispered: 'He's a true friend, you know. He wouldn't do this for everybody.' 'No?' Sara was only half listening. She was watching how they went to work. Bracelets were jangled, eyelashes fluttered, and she discovered to her horror that Kerri had a slight, little girl lisp which she was using to full effect.

She looked at Jack desperately. 'I don't know how much I can take,' she whispered. 'Are they like this all the time?' 'Whenever there's a handsome male around, yes,' he said. 'Now you know why I was so glad to see you both. Do you know what we were talking about when you came in? Can you guess?' 'I can't wait to hear.' 'We were discussing whether the new Smoky Pink lip gloss was more sexy than the hew Sunburst lip gloss— and I was just about to jump out of the window in sheer desperation and commit suicide, when salvation, in the shape of you and Nick, walked in.' She muffled her laughter .'But this is the ground floor.' 'I know! I mean, what an undignified end it would have been!' He took a deep swallow at his pint. 'Ah, that's better. Now, what are you doing this weekend?' The question, following as it did on the humour, took her completely by surprise. 'This weekend?' she repeated foolishly. 'Yes. He did say you were his secretary, didn't he? I mean, I'm not rushing in where angels fear to tread or anything, am I? Tell me if so. The last thing I would want to do is steal a girl from Nick.' It was said so innocently—or apparently so—that Sara bit back an unconsidered retort. She took a deep breath instead. 'I'm here to work on his book with him,' she answered, 'that's all. But I thought I'd work all weekend, actually-' 'Rubbish! He can't do that. Is it this book on the Silver Collection?' 'Yes. You know about it?'

'Oh yes, we meet quite often, you know.' Then, suddenly, before Sara could- guess what would come next, he raised his voice. 'Hey, Nick, just lend me an ear for a mo, will you? I've just asked Sara out at the weekend and she says she's got to work for you.' In the brief silence that followed, Sara was aware of two things. The two models looked at each other in a brief meaningful manner, not flattering to her, and Nicholas Raynor paused in the act of lighting a cheroot for himself, and looked with his hard grey eyes at Sara, in a way she knew only too well. Desperately she began: 'I didn't say I had to work-' to be interrupted by him. 'But you mean you'll still be here on Saturday? Great. I was going to ask you to the house anyway, Jack. We can have a good talk and a few drinks.' And Sara knew, with that sure instinct she had, that he was lying. And his lie had been triggered off by Jack's words. Which could only mean one thing—he didn't want her to go out with his friend. But why not?

CHAPTER SEVEN JACK'S grin would have spread from ear to ear if he had let it. It was minutes later, the ripples had closed over the little scene, and Nicholas was once more being fully-occupied by Delia and Kerri, who seemed determined, from the snatches of talk Sara could hear, to get themselves invited for the weekend as well. , 'I seem to have made a mess of that one,' Jack said. 'You should have warned me.' 'About what?' Sara's eyes sparkled. She was beginning to lose patience with that stupid brute of a man who was supposed to be her employer. The way he sat there smirking as two empty-headed girls plied him with flattering insincerity was jarring on her. In fact it was making her feel quite nauseated. She pushed away her half empty plate and waited for Jack's response. He shrugged. 'I don't need things spelling out for me, ducky. Still, I'll see you at the house—that's something. And when you get back to London-' he smiled slowly. 'Let's get one thing straight,' said Sara very calmly. 'There is nothing, absolutely nothing, between him and me.' He held up one hand in a gesture of surrender. 'I believe you, my pet. Honest, cross my heart.' And he solemnly did so. But his eyes glinted with humour—and something more. There seemed to be movement nearby. Nicholas Raynor stood up, was saying something to the two girls, was looking at his watch, then at Jack. 'We must go now, Jack. Make it tomorrow evening if you can-' Jack rose, they shook hands, Sara smiled goodbye at Delia and Kerri, and noticed their unsuccessful attempts to conceal a certain frustration, Nicholas said something quietly to them that made them laugh very prettily, and she winced and turned away.

Outside the door she let out her breath in a long sigh. The next moment he was beside her. 'Straight to the auction,' he said. 'It begins at two, with the smaller items. We've got half an hour to get there.' They drove in complete silence for the entire journey. Nicholas didn't refer to the encounter with Jack and the models, he said not a word about their visit to the pub; it was almost as if it had never happened. And now, oddly enough for Sara, she could not even guess at his mood. He was like an abstracted stranger who just happened to be driving her somewhere. The mansion was buzzing with activity, but Nicholas found a place at the back of the large room where the auction was being held, told Sara to sit down at the side, and then looked away. The crowd was large, he was on the fringes of it, but she did not doubt that any bids of his would be noticed, for not only was he a head taller than most of the other people there, but he had that- power which came from a dominant personality. He stood there easily, one hand in the pocket of the grey suede jacket that he wore, the other holding the programme. Sara watched him. She couldn't help herself. She knew he would not even look round, for all his concentration was on the auctioneer at the far end of the room. Dark, hawklike profile, eyes watchful, he stood there, and Sara knew his leashed strength, his power, and could almost see it in him as he waited for the sale to begin. There was a hush, an echoing tap-tap as the microphone was switched on and tested, then the auctioneer's voice: 'Ladies and gentlemen, we are here today for the sale of this magnificent collection of antique furniture and ornaments, being the property of the late Sir Jeremy-' the-voice droned on, and feet were shuffled, and throats were cleared as everyone waited for the first

items to be called. '—and here we have Lot One, ladies and gentlemen, two porcelain figurines dating back to-' She watched him. Not a muscle moved in his face. He was as still as a leopard before it pounced, waiting, listening. '—thirty-five, do I hear thirty-five? Forty—fifty— sixty—sixty, any advance on sixty pounds, ladies and gentlemen? Going for the first time—going for the second time-' Thud. The gavel hit the desk, and the brown-overalled youth walked away holding the two delicate statuettes with great care. The silver started later. There was an imperceptible heightening of interest in the room. Having seen some of the items, Sara was not at all surprised. And now she watched Nicholas, curious to see how he would make his -bids. '—a pair of German table candlesticks by Johannes Mittnacht, about 1680. Ladies and gentlemen,-who will start the bidding on these exquisite items?''A voice murmured from the front, and the auctioneer began. Sara saw the movement then, a barely noticeable nod, heard the amount go up by ten pounds, and knew just how he did it. For she had seen the candlesticks ticked off in the catalogue. After that she knew precisely what he was after, which items he bid for, and those that he bought. And she realised something else—he was getting everything he wanted. It came as no surprise to her, that fact. She couldn't imagine he would let himself be outbid in anything he had really set his mind on. Mentally totting up the sale price of the things he had bought, she felt a trickle of sheer disbelief run down her spine. If her calculations were right, he had already spent nearly seven thousand pounds—and the sale was not yet over. And then came the further, the more disturbing surprise. Sara had allowed her attention to drift, had stood up by her chair to get a

better view of the auctioneer, and the objects being held up to" view. Nicholas had not once turned round. She might have ceased to exist for all he knew—or cared—she thought wryly. She realised the last silver item had been knocked down, and they were carrying on some pictures. Then she knew what the first picture would be. And as they held it up, her picture, her Paul Klee, and the bidding began, at a reasonable figure, something made her look at Nicholas Raynor—and she saw that same imperceptible nod, heard the amount jump by two hundred pounds. Her mouth went dry. He had not said anything about this. She had assumed he had come only for the silver, had in fact been expecting him to signal her to get up and leave any minute. Still the bids went on, in a dizzying rapid spiral. And then his final nod, the silence, the waiting. '—for the second time-' Third. It was his. He had bought her picture. Then he turned and looked at Sara and began to move away from the crowd. 'Come,' he said quietly. 'I've seen all I want to now. We're leaving.' The voices faded as they left the room. Sara felt totally confused, unreal. Had she been mistaken ? Had she imagined it? 'But don't you have to wait?' she asked. To pay?' 'No. They know me. It's all straightforward. Nothing to worry about for you.' The door was opened for them by one of the dark- suited men, who saluted Nicholas as if he also knew him, and then they were going down the steps. 'Did you—buy all you came to?' she asked, as they walked down the car-lined drive towards the Rolls- Royce.

'I did.' He seemed distant, unapproachable, as if he were still thinking about his purchases. As if, she thought, he had just come out of a supermarket and was mentally adding up what he had spent. She couldn't help herself. 'You bought a picture,' she burst out. 'I didn't know you'd intended buying one.' 'Didn't you?' he looked down at her. 'I don't tell you everything, you know.' The casual rebuke was like a slap in the face. She saw his eyes, saw the hardness there again, and felt a helpless kind of anger. What did it matter? What did anything matter? The sooner she got away from him, the better. Yet the nagging question remained to haunt her as she got in the car. Had he known what that picture meant to her ? Had he seen it in her face before he had come to rescue her from his rival, Miles, and had he guessed, just from that brief moment, exactly why she was so shocked? There was no way for her to know, ever.

It was getting dusk. They were on their way back to Raynor House, and little had been said since getting in the car, except of the utmost triviality. Nicholas reached out and switched on the stereo cassette, and music filled the car. Only it wasn't just any music. It was her Norwegian music, and after all the shocks and surprises of the day, Sara felt her heart contract in sudden anguish. She sat back, not daring to beg him to switch it off, hardly daring to breathe, so great was her emotion. First the picture, now this, almost as if her past were crying out to her to be recognised, as if she must remember, must go back—the haunting music filled the car, not loud, but there, all-pervading, flooding back the painful memories, making her feel upset and shivery. He didn't know, of course. How could he? The music was associated with the holiday itself, not him in particular— and yet—Sara no longer knew anything very clearly. Confused and uncertain, she put her hand up to her eyes, and closed them. It would

soon finish. They would soon be at Raynor House. Tomorrow, Friday, would be a normal working day, everything safe again, and then Jack would arrive, and Nicholas would be too absorbed with him to bother with her— 'Sara, what's the matter, for_ God's sake?' To her horror she realised the car had stopped. 'Nothing.' But her voice came out muffled, and he might not have heard. 'I said—what is it? Sara?' Sharper now, and at this she looked at him, and all the helpless anguish was in her eyes, for she could no longer hide it. 'Nothing. Leave—leave me alone.' She heard his indrawn breath, and in the dim light from the interior, saw his face, shadowed, dark. Quite suddenly her heart was beating so fast that she wondered he couldn't hear it. She was shivering as well; she wanted to cry—yet she must not. The car was filled with tension, but of a different kind than usual—it was smothering, allenveloping, with an awareness she could not define. And she looked at him, and knew that something had happened to her that she could not have foreseen. She didn't really hate him after all. 'Please drive on. Please,' she said. It was almost a cry for help. 'It was a headache, that's all. It's gone now.' Whether he believed the lie or not didn't matter. Silently he reached out and switched on the engine, which purred into life. It was as if something had reached out and touched him too, she knew. Something he did not understand. He drove quickly—and he turned the music off, and Sara sat, numbly looking out of the window, not daring to think about anything, least of all her new discovery.

'Why are you stopping again?' she asked, minutes later, then saw the lights gleaming from a small building to their left. 'We're going to have a drink,' he said. There's time.' 'No, I—don't——' 'Just one. It will do you good.' 'But you're driving.' 'One won't hurt me either.' There was a yard next to the public house, with a low stone wall, and the light shone out and showed an oak- beamed, low-ceilinged room; 'Come on,' he said, as he opened the door. 'What will you have? Brandy?' 'Anything.' The warmth hit them as he opened the door, and an old English sheepdog rose to greet them as they went in. Apart from the dog, the bar was empty. Sara looked round her. Small lamps, brass ornaments, bowls of flowers, a long table and benches, a dartboard, bare stone floors with mats—someone had made an effort, and succeeded. The place welcomed them. She bent to stroke the dog and a distant voice called, 'Shan't be a moment!' Nicholas Raynor looked at the dartboard, then at Sara. 'Any good at darts?' he asked. It was as if he was trying to keep everything very casual. Sara shrugged. She had the impulse to shake her head, to say no— then thought: why not ? Everything was so confusing anyway, a

game of darts with a man she hated—had thought she hated—could hardly complicate matters further. 'I'm not hopeless,' she answered. 'But I'm not an expert either.' 'Good,' he grinned. 'Neither am I. Ten pence to the winner?' 'Why not?' The dog woofed once, as if in agreement, and a thin man appeared, from a room behind the bar, and Nicholas ordered two brandies and paid. Sara put her bag and drink on the long table and a ten- pence piece. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a coin which he put down on hers. 'Right. Winner takes all,' he said. She hadn't played for ages, but that didn't seem to matter, for she had a natural flair for the game, and the sense of satisfaction when she got a double three was surprising. Nicholas, following close behind her, muttered something under his breath that might have been damn—and Sara laughed. She couldn't help it The concentration needed in the game had just been sufficient to snap her out of her depressed mood before. 'Hmm. Double three. So you're after seven next?' 'Right.' He took his stance, face intent, watched by Sara and the dog. She thought, he's just spent a small fortune and now he's determined to win ten pence off me. And quite suddenly, in that moment, she discovered she was enjoying herself. It was not something she could explain. But it was there. 'I'm going to beat you,' she said.

He turned, watched her sip her brandy. 'Oh, are you?' he answered. 'I think not.' He was after four. But if he managed a double as well, then it would be nine he needed next. She waited, tense, and let her breath out in a long sigh of relief when he got the four. He missed five with his third dart and handed them to her, his eyes glinting. 'Don't get complacent,' he said. 'I'll get a treble next.' The slight tingle as his hand brushed hers was nothing to get worried about, she told herself firmly as she stood facing the board, toes carefully behind the white line on the mat. But all the darts went wild, and she handed them back to him, a rebellious spark in her eyes. 'Like this,' he said, and flicked the first dart with great precision on trebly five. Then he got the sixteen with his third. Sara stood, took a deep breath, aimed dart number one beautifully into double seven, the second into fifteen, the third into sixteen. 'All even, I think,' she murmured, letting him get the darts out, because it was clear he didn't believe what had happened. After that it was neck and neck. Even the barman had stopped polishing glasses and leant on the bar watching them, cheering at everything Sara did, until Nicholas turned round and asked him whose side he was on. 'The lady's, of course,' came the prompt reply, and they all laughed. How different he was now! And when, only minutes later, she won, Nicholas picked up the money and handed it to her. 'I was beaten fairly,' he conceded. 'Even if you did have support. Another brandy?' 'No, thanks.'

'One won't hurt. Same again, barman, and one for yourself.' Sara sat down and patted the dog which had come to sit at her feet, pink tongue hanging out, eyes nearly invisible behind thick fur. A glass was put down, and Nicholas sat on the bench opposite her at the other side of the table. 'You play very well,' he said. 'Thank you. So do you.' He grinned wryly. 'But not well enough, it seems,' he said. 'I shall have to practise.' Then, suddenly: 'Are you feeling better now ?' 'Yes, thanks.' A sudden suspicion took her. 'You didn't let me win, did you?' 'Me? No. Why should you think that? Did it look as though I did?' She wished she hadn't asked. 'No, of course not, but I thought—I mean, if you thought it might make me feel better-' 'I always play to win. Always.' He looked at her. 'And so, I think, do you.' 'It all depends what the game is,' she answered lightly, and subtly all was different again. The barman had had his drink and vanished, with the instruction to shout if they needed anything. They had hardly noticed him going. Nicholas looked at Sara, and she looked back at him, and the growing thread of awareness, never far away, was there again, only stronger. 'Do you mind if I smoke?' he broke the silence. 'Of course not.'

'Then we'll get back. We'll just be in time for dinner.' 'Yes, of course. Dinner.' She watched him light up, the flame illumining his face, softening the hardness momentarily, casting flickering shadows. She wanted to reach out and touch him— shocked, she looked away. He blew smoke from the cheroot towards the ceiling. 'And tomorrow, Jack will be there,' he said. 'That will be nice for you.' He looked at her. 'He's a very old friend. He's fine as long as you don't take him too seriously.' 'Is that why you didn't want me to go out with him?' He frowned. 'What makes you say that?' Sara smiled. 'I should have thought it obvious. He asks me out, you immediately invite him to the house.' 'What an imagination you have! He's an old friend of Caroline's too. And Hal. Naturally I asked him to stay.' 'I notice Delia and Kerri seemed keen to go as well,' she said very sweetly. 'You seem to have made a very good impression on them. Did you ask them too?' She already knew the answer. 'No. He would probably have changed his mind if I had. He works with them, I would think he'd be glad to get away from them at weekends.' 'I certainly would, if I had to work with them,' she agreed. 'I'm sure they're delightful girls, but a teeny bit boring after a time.' She sipped her brandy thoughtfully. 'However, I'd have thought you'd

have enjoyed their company—I mean, they made it perfectly clear that they found you utterly fascinating.' 'Sure you wouldn't like a saucer of milk?' he inquired. Sara widened her eyes. 'Did you think I was being catty? Heavens, I was merely stating facts.' He looked at his watch. 'Then it's time we went. Perhaps hunger is making you waspish.' He crossed to the bar. 'Goodnight,' he called. 'Goodnight, sir—madam," the distant voice answered. 'Call again.' 'We will,' Sara finished her brandy and rose slowly. She allowed herself a little smile. She had got under his skin very nicely. First about Jack—then Delia and Kerri. As they walked out to the car, she said: 'I must thank you for a most interesting day. You were quite right. I needed the rest from work. I wouldn't have missed it for anything.' He glanced sharply at her as he opened the door of the Rolls. She smiled very innocently at him. 'Get in,' he said. Thank you.' She made herself comfortable, and he closed her door. He drove out of the yard and then swiftly along towards the main road back home. He didn't switch the music on, nor did he speak, and Sara found herself thinking of everything that had happened in the last eight hours or so. Certainly eventful almost from the word go, and she had seen new aspects of his character—him bidding for the silver he wanted— talking to the models—playing darts. She caught her breath at that memory. Just for a brief time, no longer than half an hour, she had seen him relaxed and natural with none of his usual arrogance. Perhaps he had used the time to unwind; whatever the reason, he had teen completely different from normal.

And then, when Jack had been mentioned, the subtle change back. I do it, she thought. I do it deliberately, but I don't know what makes me. And why had he bought the picture? That question kept returning. Tomorrow, she promised herself, tomorrow I shall be able to think clearly about that. Perhaps it was just coincidence. Why should he tell me of everything he planned to buy? But some instinct told her there was more—much more—to it than that.

Jack arrived late Friday afternoon in a sports car of uncertain pedigree and vintage The roar from the exhaust could be heard from half way up the drive, and Nicholas, who had been writing at his desk, flung some papers down, stood up, said to Hal: 'That's him,' and went out. Hal looked at Sara. 'You met Jack yesterday, didn't, you?' he asked. 'Yes.' She wondered when he had told Hal. Certainly not when she had been there. 'I like him.' 'So do I. He's a great sport. Hey, how are you on table-tennis?' She looked blankly at him, and he laughed. 'I've not gone dotty. Only if you can play we can make up a foursome.' 'You mean with you, Jack, your uncle—and me?' inquired Sara. 'Yes. Say you play. Please.' He got down on his knees very dramatically, and she burst out laughing. 'All right. I play—I enjoy it, actually, but I can't say I've ever played mixed doubles with three men.' She paused. 'Hmm!' 'Nick's the best, so you can be his partner,' Hal went on, his voice filled with enthusiasm. 'That should make us fairly evenly matched.'

'I might be a better player than you,' said Sara severely. 'Yes, yes, of course,' he agreed soothingly. 'Anything you say. And we'll soon see, won't we?' 'Perhaps,' she murmured, 'on the other hand your' uncle might not want to partner me'Oh, he will. He told me what a super shot you were at darts.' Did he now ? she thought. That's interesting. I wonder what else he said ? And she smiled to herself. Work had been going well, all three busy all day, and now it was possible to see the book taking shape, becoming no longer just a pile of typewritten paper and photographs, but taking on a certain form and character of its own. And the index too, being done separately, was something of which Sara felt justifiably proud. She would do some work on that over the weekend, but she would not make the mistake T5F getting overtired again. They had reached the half way mark. It would all be downhill from now on,' and if luck held, she might be finished in another week, and away... 'Sorry?' 'I said—a penny for them. You're miles away.' Sara smiled at Hal. 'I was just thinking how well we're all doing. Don't you think so?' He shrugged. 'You're doing well. My own contribution is smaller, but yes, I suppose it is going far better than Nick imagined. You're a fantastic worker, you know.' His face was gentle; he really was a considerate young man.

'Am I ? Thank you. I do my best,' she smiled. 'And just for that, I will play table tennis with you. You see? Flattery will get you anywhere.' They were both laughing when Nicholas Raynor walked in. Subtly the atmosphere changed. 'It's nearly five,' he said. 'We might as well pack up for the day.' Sara immediately began to stack her work neatly. Hal went to his table and became very busily occupied doing the same. It's strange, she thought, strange how he can alter the atmosphere in a room just by walking in. She looked briefly at him as she put carbon paper back into the folder. He was leaning down, absorbed in something on his desk. His dark hair gleamed in the light, his shoulders were broad; all about him lay an air of strength. And then, as Hal spoke, Nicholas looked up, straight into Sara's eyes, and she experienced a shock that made her catch her breath. It was as though he knew she had been watching him; as if he had sensed her eyes upon him, and wanted to confirm it. His gaze didn't leave Sara's face. 'What did you say, Hal?' 'Can I go and talk to Jack? Everything's straight here.' 'Yes. He'll be in the lounge in a minute. He's just gone to wash.' 'Okay. I'll see you.' He went quietly out, and Sara, quite confused, bent down to pick up an eraser which had fallen on the carpet. She straightened up and put it on the desk. Each movement became deliberate as she stacked the papers, gathered up several pencils and put them in the drawer, for it was as if everything had become more sharply defined, as if the very air had a clarity to it that was concentrated in the one small area that surrounded their two desks. At last, unable to bear a silence that seemed as if it might go on for ever, she said:

'You know that I've nearly finished the index? Is it all right if I work on it over the weekend ?' She hadn't really intended to ask him; she had meant to just do it quietly, but the words came out almost of their own volition. 'This weekend?' She saw one eyebrow raise fractionally, as if in disbelief. 'Yes. This one. Only for a few hours. I can't-' 'As you wish, of course. But there's no need.' 'I know. And I shan't overwork again, I assure you of that. I've learned my lesson.' He moved away from his desk. His height was always a shock, close to. Sara was tall herself, but near him she always felt quite small. 'The index can't be completed until the book is finished,' he said, in the tones of one explaining something to a child. 'I'm aware of that,' she answered. 'But I can keep it up to date as we go along, can't I?' She looked down at her desk, and then up to him, and added: 'It should all be done sooner than you thought. I mean, before the three weeks are up.' 'I know.' The tension, the subtle awareness, bound them in a spell. Sara wanted to move away—but she couldn't. 'But you'll get all your money-' 'I didn't mean that,' she interrupted. 'But I can go sooner to Caroline's'-' 'Is that why you're hurrying?' His voice had gone deeper, almost harsh, and Sara found the strength to meet his eyes. 'Partly.' The word hung in the air between them. 'And?'

She shrugged. 'I shouldn't need to say it should I? You don't want me here any longer than absolutely necessary. You made that quite clear when I arrived—and that feeling is mutual. The sooner I go, the better I'll be pleased,' and she turned away from him and picked up her typewriter cover and fitted it with careful precision over the machine on her desk. She heard his movement, felt her scalp prickle, then looked up to see him walking out of the door. She let out her breath slowly. It happened; every time they were alone together, it happened. The invisible sparks flew; only this time he had just walked out, instead of responding. Sara felt restless, on edge; she had the sudden impulse to sweep everything from her desk, and had to clasp her hands together to stop herself from translating the thought into the deed. She looked around her helplessly. She didn't know what was happening to her; she found her heart pounding—and saw the image of his face again, as it had been only moments ago, when she had said what she had. Every line of it was etched on her memory; the strong features, the stubborn chin, and mouth, the deep grey of his eyes, silent, watchful, under thick brows—the way he stood looking at her, just looking and listening silently—and then walking out, walking away from her because he didn't want to reply. She pressed her palm to her cheek. 'Why, oh, why?' she whispered, and the words vanished into the silence of the room. Sara picked up her handbag and walked slowly to the door.

'But, my dear Nicholas, of course we'll have a party!' said Caroline, with a wink at Sara. It was later that evening, and they were all drinking coffee in the lounge after, dinner. 'What better excuse now that Jack is here and I'm on the last few pages of my book!' She looked around her to see what result this announcement would have, and wasn't disappointed.

'That's great!' exclaimed Jack, followed by Hal's: 'Super, Mum!' and Sara said: 'Why didn't you tell us?' 'Because I wanted it to be a surprise.' Only Nicholas Raynor had said nothing. He had been, thought Sara, remarkably quiet during dinner, and was now seemingly engrossed in finding his lighter from an inner pocket of his jacket. 'And I've been in daily touch with the twins' school and it looks as if they'll be able to go back next week—so I'll be leaving on Monday.' She looked at her brother. 'I said I'll be leaving on Monday.' He gave the ghost of a smile. 'I heard you. Congratulations on finishing the book. Very well—we'll have a party.' He looked at his watch 'Jack and I are going out now. I trust I can leave it to you to phone around and invite all those you want to? Though at such short notice I don't imagine you'll get many here.' 'Won't I?' Caroline smiled her sweet dreamy smile. 'You wouldn't care to bet on it, would you ?' 'Knowing you, I wouldn't,' he stood up. 'Coming, Jack? And you; Hal?' Hal jumped up,-clearly having been waiting to be asked. 'Don't wait up for us, dear sister,' said Nicholas, 'because we may be late. But I'll look after your son for you, never fear.' Jack looked at Sara and gave a small apologetic shrug, as if to say: 'I'd rather be here, but he is my host,' and Sara smiled at him. It had been Jack who had virtually ^ kept the dinner going, regaling them with tales of various photographic assignments and the odd, bizarre, and sometimes downright hilarious things that had happened on them.

After they had gone, and the two women were alone, the twins being busy playing table tennis in the games room in preparation for a match with Jack, Caroline looked at Sara. 'What on earth is up with Nicholas?' she asked her. 'I've never seen him so silent, certainly not when Jack is here. It's usually impossible to get a word in edgeways when those two get together.' Sara thought she knew, but it would have been ridiculous to try and put into words. 'Perhaps he's not well,' she said. 'Hmm, I doubt it. He's never had a day's illness in his life.' She looked at Sara, and there was a depth and perception to her gaze that made Sara go warm. Then she smiled, very slowly. 'Hmm,' she said again, thoughtfully. Sara couldn't help it. She smiled. 'May one ask what that means ?' she said. Caroline looked very innocent. 'Oh, nothing, dear—I was just drifting off into one of my daydreams again— it's a bad habit I have. Just a little idea about something I might put' in my book tomorrow.' She rose gracefully to her feet. 'You finish your coffee, my pet, while I go and make a few phone calls and have a word with the Wilsons. Oh, it will be such fun to have a party here again. It's been ages-' and she drifted towards the door. Sara watched her go, and thought: I know when he's lying, and now I know when you're lying, and if you were thinking about your book I'm a Dutchman. But if ^ that ,'hmm' hadn't referred to 'her writing, then it could only have been about Sara herself—or Nicholas. Or both. Sara wondered just how much Caroline could see, with her writer's mind, and she closed her eyes in despair. She was leaving on Monday, and then there would only be Nicholas and herself

working together. And after all that had happened, and kept happening, she didn't know how she would be able to stand it.

CHAPTER EIGHT IT was so quiet, the whole house was asleep, and in the distance an owl shrieked—and Sara lay wide awake wishing desperately that she could still the turmoil in her mind. They hadn't returned, and it was nearly one o'clock. She sat up and punched her pillow to make it more comfortable. She was too warm, that was the trouble. She pattered to the window and opened it wider, leaving the curtains apart so that the cool air could come in. Now she would sleep. She lay down and waited, but the minutes ticked slowly by, and she heard the clock downstairs chime one-thirty after what had seemed like an eternity, and wondered if perhaps she was going to remain awake for ever and ever... The distant drone of an engine, coming nearer, nearer, and louder— then doors closing, men's voices and laughter, and somewhere far away, the front door of Raynor House opened, then closed. He was home. Sara closed her eyes, and the tiredness swept over her, and minutes later, she was fast asleep.

Sara worked on the index all morning, because Nicholas had insisted on Jack going out with him for a long walk with the dogs, and Caroline had shut herself away to try and finish the book, and Hal and the twins had failed to persuade her to play table tennis, and it seemed the best thing to do. The more she did now, the less there would be next week. She sat at the desk, completely engrossed in the intricacies of matching up photographs and names and dates and putting them in good order ready to type out. It was like doing a giant crossword puzzle, and equally fascinating. She worked better alone; she always had, and when lunchtime came, she surveyed the results of her morning's labours with quiet satisfaction. A couple more hours on it,

and it would be up to date. She stretched herself luxuriously. Perhaps tomorrow she would manage to do a bit more. She had promised to play table tennis after lunch, and in the evening there was this party. She pulled a face. Caroline at least was looking forward to it—and Jack, and no doubt Hal. But Sara wasn't so sure. What would they be like, these friends of Nicholas and his sister? It was different for them; but she was the outsider, the employee, not really a guest at all. She went to the window and looked out over the lawns at the bare autumn trees. Soon the drive would be filled with cars, and the house would be full of people and noise and light, and she, Sara, would be there, wearing a smile and pretending she was enjoying herself. She touched the curtain, stroking its velvety darkness, imagining what the evening would be like. The Wilsons had gone out to order the provisions and hadn't yet returned. The whole house was gearing itself, it seemed, for the evening to come. Caroline had reeled off various names to her brother at breakfast, and he had nodded, agreed that she had indeed managed to persuade half the county to turn up, and deserved a medal, and no doubt everything would go swingingly—and while he and Caroline had been speaking, Jack had been watching Sara, and when, for a moment at the end of the meal, they were alone, he had said: 'Not looking forward to the big party, Sara?' She had looked at him with a wry smile. 'Not particularly. Are you?' 'Sure!' he had grinned, 'I love 'em. I'll take a few photos as well.' Then he had added: 'Don't worry, I'll look after you.' And he had grinned. Sara recalled his words now as she stood at the window. She didn't need looking after—she just wanted not to go to it at all. Yet she wasn't sure why, it was just an uneasiness within her. She

sighed and turned away. Lunchtime. Perhaps the table tennis afterwards would do her good. Although she doubted it. She was wrong. The sheer physical exercise turned out to be just what she needed to get rid of the restless energy that filled her. Exhilarated, exhausted, she reeled away after a particularly gruelling singles game with Hal and said: 'Enough! I'm going to have a bath.' 'Just one more,' pleaded Jack. 'A doubles. Go on, I'll be your partner this time,' and he had picked up the bat she had put down on the table. 'Please. Come on, let's beat them hollow.' 'But I--' she protested, as Hal added his own plea. Nicholas said nothing. He appeared to be testing a radiator to see if it was working properly. 'All right. "Best out of three, and that's all.' The twins made an appreciative audience, sitting on the sidelines as it were, cheering every good shot, booing the occasional bad one, and bursting into applause when Sara and Jack beat their brother and uncle. Sara picked up her bag from the bench at the end of it, and said her farewells. The clamour rose from the twins as she left the games room, begging Jack to play with them because they'd been practising for hours... She walked up the stairs to her room. At five they were going to have a light tea because the guests would be arriving at eight, and there would be a buffet supper at nine. All the arrangements were made, and everything was going smoothly. Sara ran her bath, and added plenty of salts. The uneasiness was, returning, yet she didn't know why. She stepped in and lay back in the hot water, feeling it soothe away all the aches from her exertion. What did it matter? She didn't have to stay there all evening. She wouldn't be missed if she slipped off to bed after a couple of hours. Judging by the names

Caroline had reeled off to her brother, there would be thirty or forty guests at the party, enough to ensure that her absence wouldn't be noticed. The thought cheered her considerably. It was quite simple really, nothing to worry about at all. Sara began to soap herself, humming a little song.

Sara had underestimated the number. She stood quietly by the door of the dining room and looked about her, both in the room, and then towards the hall and lounge. Everywhere there were people, laughing, holding glasses, talking above the music that filled the house, some dancing, some old, some young, all enjoying themselves hugely, if facial expressions were anything to go by. Jack had been true to his word, but Sara had escaped both his and Hal's attentions, and was just taking time to gather breath before going to get some food from the lavish buffet spread out on the dining table. It was nearly ten, and the party had begun at eight, when the first guests had arrived. Caroline was the star of the party, dressed in an eye-catching kaftan of blue, heavily embroidered and quite beautiful. Sara had dressed in a long black skirt and white lace blouse with a rose at the throat. She had gathered her hair back and caught it in a chignon. Her one wish was to be unnoticed—slightly dashed when Jack had seen her and clutched his chest, exclaiming: 'My God, but you're beautiful! Why aren't you a model ? No, don't answer that! Stay just where you are, let me drink it all in!' They had been in the hall, Sara having just come down after getting ready, and she had shaken her head, hoping no one could hear him. 'You're an idiot ! Can't you keep your voice down?' 'No!' he whispered dramatically. 'You realise I shall have to fight all the male guests off you?'

'No, you won't,' she had replied calmly. 'Because I won't be staying long enough for anyone to notice.' 'My dear, if you look around you, you'll see that you're already causing a stir. Glances of pure poison from certain ladies who shall be nameless, and little whimpers of excitement from their husbands,' and he had taken her arm, 'Fear not, though, I shall defend you to the last breath in my body-' and so he had continued, in the same vein, making her laugh—and unaware that what he said was true, that despite herself, she was attracting considerable attention. Nicholas and Caroline were busy being good hosts so that it was not difficult to keep away from him. Once, just briefly, Sara had looked up from talking to a middle-aged couple who were friends of Jack's as well, and her eyes had met Nicholas Raynor's. He had been standing across from her, in the doorway of his study, glass in hand, and he had been watching her. She turned away. Since then she had scarcely seen him at all. The music came from the stereo speakers, and the delighted twins had been put is charge of seeing that the selection of records was as varied and interesting as possible, and everything was going so smoothly that it seemed as if the party had been planned for months, instead of within twenty-four hours. And Sara watched, and waited for she knew not what—and decided that when she had eaten something, she would slip quietly away to bed, and read a book. She was tired, aching slightly from the table tennis, but more fatigued in another way. She had lain awake for so long the previous night, and only slept when the men had returned, and that fact still puzzled her. She walked towards the table having to peer around those that crowded round it busily loading food on to their plates, and two men were talking quietly, their backs to her, and she had to pause near them, for a woman was in her way, and she overheard their words, and then quite suddenly she knew that this was what she. had been

waiting for, subconsciously, all evening, and she froze as the words, spoken with peculiar clarity, seemed to echo around her. '—my dear fellow, there's no mistake about it. The likeness is too obvious, even if her name is supposed to be Good—I suppose Raynor has his own reasons, though I'd have thought he'd have better taste than to want to employ someone who'd remind him so forcibly of what happened all those years-' Then one of them, as if sensing her presence, looked round, and as she turned away quickly, cheeks burning, she saw the shock on his face. She ran out of the dining room, seeking refuge, nausea overwhelming her. The study door was ajar, the room in darkness, and she pushed her way through the people dancing in the hall, went in, and closed the door, fighting the dizziness that threatened to overtake her, leaning against the closed door, hand to mouth. She stumbled in the darkness towards her desk, found it, and felt for her chair. There she huddled, hearing the words echoing around her— '—even if her name is supposed to be Good—supposed to be Good-' was everyone in on it? Did everyone know? Were they all talking about her? Sara put her head in her hands, and the tears fell, and her body shook with sobs. Light dazzled her, and she gasped, looking up, blinking, everything blurred because she was blinded with tears, and she heard Jack's voice as if from a distance: 'Sara, oh, Sara—what is it, love?' 'Go away!' She put her hand up as if to ward him off, but he came towards her and crouched beside the desk. 'No. And leave you like this? What's upset you? Who's upset you ? I'll break his arms for him-' 'Nothing. No one-' but her voice shook with sobs, and when he put his arms round her it was strangely soothing.

'Tell me. Please. I'm not leaving you till you do, so you might as well. Is it Nick?' She looked up startled. 'Nick? No.' A clean white handkerchief was pressed into her hand. 'Go on, have a good blow. That's it.' Jack straightened up and drew her gently to her feet. 'Now sit on this desk, and tell me.' And Sara, to her own surprise, found herself doing just that. Then, when she reached a certain point, she touched the silver pendant, which for this one evening, she wore inside her blouse, and said: 'It was recognising this as well that set him off-' As she said the words, the door opened—and Nicholas Raynor walked in. He walked in, closed the door very quietly and deliberately behind him, said: 'I trust I'm not interrupting anything,' then stopped, because he saw Sara's face. He stopped, and looked hard at her, and the room was filled with sudden, unbearable tension. 'My God,' he said quietly, and stared at Jack. 'What the hell goes on?' and as he said it he came towards them, and Sara saw that in his eyes which shocked her. He looked as if he was going to knock Jack down. He looked powerful, menacing—frightening. 'No,' she said. 'Please—no-' Jack's voice cut in on her. 'I'd like to kill you, Nick,' he said. He said it flatly, quietly, without violence, without any emotion at all—and Nicholas Raynor stopped as if he had been struck, looked at his friend, and said: 'What did you say?'

'You heard.' Jack's face had gone hard, nearly as hard as the other man's. 'Sara's just told me everything. And do you know why she came in here ? Why, because she overheard part of a conversation between two of your charming friends. Is that why you wanted the party? So that you could humiliate her?' Without answering him, Nicholas turned and went to the door and bolted it. He walked back, and his face was pale, and a muscle worked in his jaw. Sara knew that both men were at flashpoint. The wrong move, the wrong word, and the situation would erupt into sudden violence. She was trembling with shock and fear. 'Please listen to me,' she said, and her voice broke with the sobs that threatened. 'Please-' Just for a moment, it had the desired effect, but it was enough. Both men, tensed, looked at her, and she put her hand forward and touched Jack's arm. 'I don't feel well,' she said, and it was true. 'Please don't fight. I couldn't—b-bear it,' she stopped to catch her breath. 'I was in the dining room, and I heard two men talking, and it—it upset me, that's all, so I came in here, and Jack must have seen me come in—and I was'—she stopped, fumbling for the handkerchief—'I was crying, and he asked me what was the matter.' She stopped. Whatever happened now, the immediate danger of violence had gone, and that was all that mattered. She sat down in the chair and put her right arm on the desk. 'Please may I have a drink of water?' she said. She saw the two men look at each other, then Jack nodded. 'I'll get it,' and he went towards the door. As he unbolted it, he turned and looked at Sara. 'Don't worry, I'll not be a minute,' he said. There was a silence as the door closed after him, then . Nicholas said quietly: 'Who were the men?' She looked up. 'I don't know. Does it matter?' 'Yes.'

Her mouth trembled as she tried to smile. 'Why?' She didn't succeed. 'Because I would ask them to leave.' 'And cause more talk? The damage is done now. I—I wouldn't tell you even if I knew anyway.' She put her hand to her forehead. 'It's better if I just go to bed. I don't want to spoil Caroline's evening-' Jack came in carrying a full glass, and closed the door behind him. Taking it from him, Sara drank thirstily. 'Who were the men? Did you see them?' Nicholas said to Jack. 'No. I wasn't in the dining room at the time. I'd been talking to a friend of Caroline's—what the hell does it matter, anyway?' He stared hard at Nicholas. 'It's you that upset her in the first place, not them-' 'That has nothing to do with you-' 'Like hell it hasn't! I've known you for twenty years, Nick, and we've been good friends—up till now. And now all I can think of is that I'd like to punch you in the jaw—' 'Then why don't you try it?' Nicholas' voice cut in like steel. And Sara saw the subtle tautness, the quietness and stillness that conies before the storm as both men tensed in preparation for battle. She had had enough. It was as if, now, she were no longer there, no longer a part of it. She jumped to her feet and went between them, all nervousness gone, replaced by white- hot, blazing temper. 'That's it!' she said. 'Brawl like a couple of schoolboys—wreck the study! Will that make you feel any better? Will it?' Eyes flashing, she glared at first one, then the other as they stood there on either side of her. If either man tried to move her, dared to touch her ... She was more than ready. They had both been angry before, but it was as nothing compared to her mood at that moment. 'I'd like to bang your

heads together,' she said, 'because that's just what you need. I've been sitting here typing for the past week,' she exclaimed, and pointed to her desk. 'There it all is, all neat and in boxes, ready to go to the publishers. And it's my work, and I'm getting paid for it. I've not done it for fun, so if you're going to scrap I suggest you move everything from my desk first and to a safe place because I don't intend doing it all over again for you or anybody!' She stopped, her breast heaving with emotion, and turned to Nicholas Raynor. She had never been so furious in her life. Not ever. Now there was no holding her. His face was as hard and impassive as stone, his eyes deep and shadowed. Sara lifted her arm and gave him a stinging slap right across his face. Then she turned to Jack, equally motionless, and did the same to him. 'That's for you both!' she said. 'And now I'm going to bed, and you can fight yourselves silly for all; I care!' and she marched to the door, opened it and went out, slamming it shut behind her. Oblivious of the stares that followed her, she ran up to her bedroom, flung herself on the bed, and burst into tears.

She froze as the gentle tap-tap came at the door. Half an hour had passed, and she was completely calm, drained of all emotion and strength. 'May I come in? It's me—Caroline,' a voice said. 'Oh, just a minute.' Sara rose from the bed where she had been lying and unlocked the door to admit the woman who came in, took one look at Sara, and put her arms round her. 'Are you all right?' she asked anxiously. 'Nicholas just told me what happened.'

Sara bit her lip. 'I suppose he wants me to leave,' she said quietly. 'I'm sorry, Caroline, but I couldn't help it—-' 'What on earth are you talking about?' Caroline's face was a picture of puzzlement. 'Couldn't help what?' She stood back. 'I thought he'd told you what happened?' Now it was Sara's turn to be bewildered. Caroline raised her arm. 'Hold it! We're obviously working on crossed lines here. Let's start at the beginning again. I've just seen Nicholas in the kitchen to where we'd both escaped for a few minutes' breathing space, and he told me how you'd been upset by overhearing two men talking about you, and had come up to bed. Now, what's your version?.' Sara began to laugh. It was more as a release than anything else. 'Is that all he said?' she asked at last when she could speak. 'Is there anything else? I'm so sorry, my dear. I wouldn't have had anything like that happen for the^ world.' Sara shook her head. 'I was upset about it at the time, but so much happened afterwards that I'd almost forgotten it' She sat down on the bed. 'Oh, Caroline, he and Jack nearly had a fight—due to a complete misunderstanding—and I ended up telling them both off-' she stopped. 'Is everything all right? I mean, he and Jack don't have black eyes or anything?' Caroline burst into amused laughter. 'Not that I've noticed—and Jack too was in the kitchen when I went in, sneaking a chicken leg, and there didn't seem to be any aggression floating about—only cigar smoke—or I'd have noticed it. So I said I'd come up and see if you wanted anything?—this party's lovely, but one does get a bit bored after a while, and wish that they'd all just go home.'

'I'm starving,' Sara realised it even as she said it. 'I was' just about to eat when I overheard—you know—those men—and I never did get anything.' 'Enough said. I shall go and see what I can find. Er—do you feel like coming down again ?' Sara shook her head. 'Not really. Thanks all the same, Caroline, but I'll read for a while, I think.' 'All right. Shan't be long,' and Caroline slipped out quietly. Sara removed the pins from her hair and brushed it until it shone. Then she selected two books from the bookcase in the corner of her room and put them on the bedside table. There was a small warm secret feeling that she hugged to herself, a glow of contentment that she didn't quite understand, until she sat down to think about it, and realised what it was. It was relief. Relief because two men had not had a fight, when one had seemed quite inevitable. She said 'come in', when the knock came at the door without realising that it was a completely different kind of knock from Caroline's. And Nicholas walked in carrying a tray of food. 'Oh—you.' Sara sat on the bed and stared at him, her composure rapidly crumbling away. 'Yes, me.' He moved the books to one side and put the tray down on the table. 'Is there enough there?' She looked, 'Yes, thank you.' She swallowed. 'I thought Caroline was-' 'Yes, she was, but she got collared by a guest, so I offered. I just thought you'd like to know that your desk is still intact.' He looked at her. 'Your shock therapy worked. Goodnight, Sara.' And he went out.

Sara stared at the closed door. Shock therapy? What on earth-? Then she realised, and warmth flooded her face. She looked at the tray. Slices of chicken, salad, ham on one plate, bread and butter on another, and a piece of rich chocolate cake, a pot of coffee and a cup and saucer invited her to feast. She did.

It was quite simple. Sara had already made up her mind when she awoke the following morning that she was going to keep out of everyone's way. She supposed, when she allowed herself to think about it rationally, that she really meant out of Nicholas and Jack's way, for the scene in the study had returned to her in her dreams and left her with a sense of unreality mingled with horror at her own temerity. She had stepped in—literally—tongue-lashed them both— the echo of her words haunted her even now—and then hit them. The fact that Nicholas had clearly not said anything to Caroline, and had seemed reasonably calm when he had brought her supper, hardly counted. She went warm as each memory returned, and knew that she couldn't face either of them; either separately or together. Especially not together. So, she reasoned, it was Sunday, the party had gone ok until very late—at least, when she had woken up at three-thirty to hear car doors slamming, it meant that somebody was only just leaving, and so it was safe to assume that everyone would still be abed for quite a while. She looked at the clock. Eight-fifteen. She would creep down to the study, collect all the papers she needed to complete the index up to date, and bring them- back to her bedroom. The table by the window would be an ideal place to work, if rather cramped, and she would worry about lunch later. She washed, dressed, crept down, across the hall and into the study, and gathered up everything she needed. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of stale tobacco: everywhere, looked around her at the scene of

what had so nearly been a fight, and went very quietly to the door again. The half empty glass of water still stood on hee desk, a mute reminder... 'What on earth are you doing?' She jumped and nearly dropped everything in her fright at the sight of Nicholas Raynor in the doorway. 'Oh!' She put her hand to her heart. 'You frightened me!' 'Did I?' He looked down at her. 'Not half as much as you frightened me. I thought some guest had been forgotten and was just sneaking out homewards. Where are you going with that lot?' He tapped the pile of papers she carried. 'To my room.' 'Why?' 'To work.' 'I gathered that,' he answered dryly. 'But why there?' There seemed no point in prevarication. 'So that I'll be out of the way,' she answered simply. 'Why else?' 'Because of what happened in here last night?' It was getting easier by the minute to look at him. The fact that he wore a blue silk dressing gown over pyjama trousers, that his feet and chest were bare that he was unshaven and tired-looking, were only minor distractions, in fact they gave Sara confidence. She had slept surprisingly well—considering—and she was neatly dressed, and wide awake.

'In a way—yes,' she agreed. 'So if you'll excuse me?' She attempted to pass him, but he blocked the doorway. 'No,' he said, 'I won't. Go back in the study a minute. I want to talk to you.' He came forward, leaving her no choice but to move backwards. 'I don't really think-' she began. 'Then don't,' he interrupted. 'Just listen.' Sara put the bundle of papers down on the desk. She didn't know why, except perhaps that it gave her greater freedom of movement. He shut the door firmly. Sara swallowed and had to pass her tongue over lips that had suddenly gone dry. 'Yes?' she said, in a rather small voice. He ran his fingers through his hair. For a moment, she thought, with faint surprise, he Seemed to be at a loss for words. Then he looked at her. . 'Caroline leaves tomorrow,' he said. 'I know. But why are you telling-' 'If you want to go back with her, I'll not stop you.' For a moment the words didn't register, then, with an icy shock, they did. It felt just as if someone had trickled cold water all down Sara's spine. 'You mean—you're dismissing me?' she said, very quietly, when she could speak. He shook his head. 'No, not that. But I know that you want to go. And the work is sufficiently well advanced now—I'll do it before the deadline.' 'Alone?'

He looked at her. His eyes were shadowed. Perhaps he had been so late to bed that he had had little sleep. 'Yes.' Sara's throat felt constricted. Here was the chance to leave—the opportunity she had been waiting for. She" had only to say one word, and her stay at Raynor House would be over. She looked down at the piles of paper on her desk, saw the bundle of work she had been about to take upstairs, and looked back at Nicholas Raynor. 'No,' she said. 'I can't leave it now, not like this. I will stay and finish it. That's what I came to do.' She lifted her chin; 'Unless—unless after what happened last night —you want me to leave.' There was a heart-stopping silence in which she was very conscious of the clock faintly ticking in the hall, and strongly aware of him, just standing there, tall and dark, a powerful man she had seen balanced on the brink of violence, only hours before, and the room was filled with the memories of it, and of so many other things, she felt almost stifled, as if she could not breathe. 'No, I've already said that.' His voice was deep and harsh as if he too were under a tension he did not understand. 'Then will you please let me go and work?' 'You may do it in here. I shan't be doing anything today—I'll see that you're not disturbed. That is what you want, isn't it?' 'Yes.' 'But only for this morning. You're not to work this afternoon.' 'Why? I can do-'

'Because I said.' Their eyes met and held, and it was Sara who looked away first. She put her hand out to touch the papers. 'Very well,' she answered quietly. 'Just this morning.' 'Then I'll leave you to get on with it. Jack goes after lunch.' He seemed about to say something more, then turned away and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Sara sat down in her chair. What was it he had said? 'If you want to go hack with Caroline, I'll not stop you' ? She seemed to hear his words again, and it. seemed to her now as if she had had a split second to make a momentous decision—and she had chosen to stay, and finish what she had come to do, and she didn't know why. It had been there, handed to her on a plate—go or stay, the decision is yours—and she had decided to stay. I must be mad, she thought, as she picked up her pen. Quite mad. Then she remembered the look on his face and in his eyes when he had spoken. For a brief second she had seen something she had never expected to see. She had seen pain.

CHAPTER NINE SARA frowned as the knock came on the study door, and she looked up from a complicated piece of cross-referencing and said: 'Come in.' He had promised she wouldn't be disturbed— 'Sara, it's nearly one-thirty.' It was Nicholas Raynor, and he stood in the doorway and looked across at her. 'Oh!' she looked at her watch. 'It's stopped—I didn't realise-' she looked round her helplessly. 'I'm just in the middle of something.' She felt bemused, completely unaware of time. She had imagined it to be about ten. 'I can't leave it now. I'll just finish this—can I have my lunch in here ?' 'No.' His tone was unequivocal, and she felt her cheeks go warm at this unexpected touch of arrogance. 'Did you have breakfast?' 'No.' Sara hadn't even thought about it. Then you will have a proper lunch.' 'Very well, I'll come in a minute-' She kept her finger on her place. 'Now. That can wait, lunch can't.' A swift, involuntary retort rose to her lips, and she bit it back with difficulty. Now was not the time to begin another fight. She stood up, placed a ruler carefully at a certain spot on the paper, and picked up her bag. Nicholas held the door wider and followed her out. 'Jack .naturally wants to say goodbye to you before he goes.' 'Oh, yes, of course.' She felt her spine stiffen. Jack! At remembrance of what had happened in the study, she went cold. Poor Jack. All he had done was try to help her, and he had finished up within a touch of ruining a twenty-year-old friendship, having a fight—and had

been soundly slapped. And he wanted to say goodbye. Hardly surprising really, she thought, I'll bet he can't wait to get away after all that. And she resolved to apologise if there was the opportunity. So it was all the more startling when he greeted her warmly as she went into the dining room, rose and handed her a glass of sherry. 'Afternoon, Sara,' he said. 'Nick says you've actually been working all morning.' She looked at him. His cheerful face held no, hidden surprises, no black glances—just friendliness. 'Thank you,' she took the glass. 'Yes, I wanted to get on with the index.' 'I'll go and get the others,' said Nicholas, and went out. This was the chance. It was probably the only one she would get. 'Jack,' she began, 'I want to say-' He lifted his glass to his lips. 'Don't,' he said. 'Whatever it is—and I have a good idea—please don't. Whatever happened last night, it certainly wasn't your fault.' She knew the colour was rushing to her face, she could feel the warmth. 'I shouldn't have hit you!' she burst out. He grinned. 'It wasn't the first time—though not for the same reason, I must confess.' He stood in front of her. 'I wouldn't have missed the evening for anything— in fact, looking back on it afterwards, you did just the right thing. We both needed telling, Nick and I—and you did, very effectively.' He stroked his cheek. 'I shan't forget the way you stood there and gave us both a rocket.' He raised his glass in salute. 'I'm only sorry you had such an unpleasant experience first.' 'I thought you'd be-' she paused, unable to put it into words.

'Yes?' he prompted. She sighed. 'I didn't imagine you'd be like this.' She smiled at him. 'Well, I am.' His glance was gentle upon her face. 'How could I be otherwise? I hope we part as friends?' 'Of course!' The feeling of relief was almost overwhelming. She was just about to tell him so, when the door opened and Caroline came in, followed by Hal, and the twins and Nicholas, and immediately the room was filled with conversation, the chink of glasses as more sherry was poured in celebration of Caroline having just that minute written The End' to her masterpiece, and the moment was lost for ever. Two hours later they all saw him off at the front door as he set off on his journey back to London. As his car vanished round a bend in the drive, Caroline took Sara's arm. 'Come on, my dear,' she said. 'Come and talk to me—I need a bit of conversation after being closeted with that damned book these past few weeks.' 'That damned book!' Sara burst out laughing. '1 thought you were enjoying writing it?' 'Oh, I was,' Caroline assured her, all wide-eyed. 'But once it's done, it's done, and now I'm itching to begin the next.' They walked into the lounge with Hal, and Nicholas vanished with the twins to take the dogs for a walk, and Hal, after a look at his mother and Sara, announced that he was going too, and went. Caroline sighed. 'That's better,' she said. 'Now we're alone, and we can talk. How soon—roughly—do you think your work here will be finished, and you can come to me?'

Sara had expected her to ask about the previous night, and it was with a sense of relief that she answered Caroline. She didn't know why, but she didn't want to talk to anyone about the incident in the study. Not yet, at least, not until she had had time to think about it, and about certain other things that puzzled her.

The afternoon passed pleasantly, and in the evening after dinner they all watched an excellent spy thriller on television, and when, at ten o'clock, Caroline took the twins off to bed and said she was going to pack, Sara excused herself too and went upstairs. There was no point in staying up longer. She was tired, and the prospect of watching the news and play following it, with Nicholas Raynor, did not appeal. He had been quiet all day; not obviously so, yet in a subtle way that made Sara uneasy. She no longer knew what he was thinking—if indeed she ever had—and his face, whenever he looked at her, or spoke to her, was impassive. She was preparing for bed when Caroline knocked and came in with a card. 'Just in case you want to phone me,' she said. 'And certainly to let me know when you're coming up so I'll have everything ready for you.' 'Thanks, Caroline.' Sara put the card safely in her purse. 'I'll miss you when you go.' Caroline pulled a face. 'Don't let him get you down,' she said. 'I don't know what's the matter with him lately. Perhaps he should have been spanked more when he was a boy!' The picture conjured up by that was so ridiculous that they both started laughing. 'Still,' she added thoughtfully, 'I suppose this book must be a strain on him— even though I'm sure you're doing most of the work.' She sighed. 'Ah well, there's no understanding men sometimes, is there? They're like children.'

Like children. Sara thought about her words when Caroline had gone. He and Jack hadn't been like children the previous night when the air bristled with tension and aggression. There had been nothing childlike about that. And yet, somehow, within half an hour it had all been apparently forgotten as they had sneaked into the kitchen for a quiet snack and a cigar. And Jack; he couldn't have been nicer at lunch. Sara shook her head. What a pity Helen hadn't come instead of her. He was just the type she liked, humorous, gentle, kind, not like that—no, she told herself, don't start thinking about him again. We'll be working alone tomorrow and the day after, and the day after that—so you might as well get used to the idea, and think kindly of him instead— she grinned at the sheer hopelessness of that, and began - to get ready for bed.

The only thing to do was to work so hard that she could ignore him, she thought, the following morning as she went into the study. Caroline and her children had departed at last after much hugging and fond farewells all round, and they had watched her car vanish down the drive—driven by Hal, because as Caroline had candidly admitted, she was possibly the world's worst driver, and also hated it—then Sara had gone in, leaving Nicholas to close the front door. Her work was exactly as she had left it the previous lunch time and she picked up the ruler and started writing. 'Coffee?' He stood in the doorway. 'Only if you're having some.' She looked up. 'I am.' He vanished. She let out her breath in a long silent sigh. It was just like the beginning all over again. She could even feel the same atmosphere creeping back, though with the going of Caroline, whatever fragile peace had existed had gone too.

Yet it was different, of course. The work was so far advanced that she needed little or no help. She knew exactly where any reference books were, and all the work Hal had done was stacked neatly on his table ready for when she needed it. She saw everything so much more clearly now; she was familiar with photographs and cuttings and names, and it made a difference. She put her head down and concentrated on the task in hand, the index. 'Thanks.' She didn't even look up when he brought the coffee, and for the next three hours they both worked silently away. Why, this is easy, she thought, when lunch time came, how silly I was to worry ! And after she had eaten—with him—in the dining room, she went back and picked up a batch of photographs and began to sort through them. No problem at all, she thought, I just get on with it as I am doing, and everything will be all right. It was at that moment that her headache started. She knew it had been too good to last, she had known all morning, while she was busily convincing herself that she was perfectly relaxed and getting on very nicely— that there was a growing tension within her. She had successfully pretended it didn't exist. Now it suddenly caught up with her in a way that made her gasp with pain and put her hand to her temples. 'Anything the matter?' he asked. 'A headache. It will pass. It's just the—er—the small print I've been reading-' she improvised rapidly. Perhaps it was any way. 'You'd better stop for a while.' 'No, it'll go.' But it didn't. It got worse. A few minutes later, whitefaced, she stood up. 'I'll go and get a couple of aspirins-' 'No, Mrs Wilson has some. Stay there.' Nicholas went out, and Sara sat down again feeling quite wretched.

As he handed them to her, together with a glass of water, his eyes searched her face. 'You'd better stop for the afternoon,' he said. 'You'll only make mistakes if you keep on working now.' His concern was touching, she thought wryly, as she swallowed the tablets. He was more worried about any errors than anything else. And why should it be otherwise? 'I'll go for a walk,' she said, and looked out of the window. The sky was grey and overcast, but it wasn't raining, and she felt she needed fresh air. 'As you wish, of course.' He had already gone back to his desk. Without another word, Sara picked up her bag and went out of the study.

She had put on walking shoes, and her warm coat, and she went as far as the gate and looked round outside. The drumbeat pounded in her head, but she was breathing deeply and feeling slightly better. She looked upwards to where the track petered out. She had never been that way, only down to the main road. There was nothing on earth to stop her going where she chose, and the route appealed to her sense of adventure. It was thickly wooded, shady, cool with the autumn air, and she sensed that somewhere up there would be a magnificent view. She set off walking at an easy, steady pace. The trees grew thicker, and the path grew steeper and it seemed that it would go on for ever. Sara trod on dead branches and twigs which crunched satisfyingly underfoot, and to her right was a narrow stream that meandered down from some unknown source way above her. There was utter stillness everywhere, even the bird calls seemed distant and far away, and when she looked up, the trees stretched endlessly, reaching to the sky.

Sara dug her hands deeper in her pockets and slowed her pace. The headache had dwindled down to a vague sensation that could hardly be called a pain, and if she wanted, she could go back and begin work again. But she didn't want to. She wanted to think, and here was a good place to do just that. She sat down by the small stream on a fallen tree trunk and looked at the sparkling, never-ending water. In a few days she would leave this place for good. She had come here less than two weeks previously, quite unaware of what was to happen—and had her whole life turned topsy-turvy almost immediately. Because of him. There was no getting away from that fact. She had never in her life met anyone like Nicholas Raynor, and probably never would again. And in Norway—she paused, sat very still as memories flooded back—in Norway, just for a few moments, one day, she thought she had known what it would be like to love someone, to love a man. Until he had deliberately shattered that dream by his actions. And now, and now— Sara caught her breath, because here, completely alone in the privacy of this quiet wood, she could no longer avoid the truth she had known for several days—it had happened again. Only perhaps it wasn't again, perhaps it had never been otherwise from that first moment of seeing him five years ago—and love was no respecter of persons—she hadn't chosen this. It had happened, that was all. This man, Nicholas Raynor, would never know, would probably find it hilarious should anyone tell him, for although he clearly respected her work, that was the only thing. The contempt was barely hidden in everything he said or did. Sara picked up a twig and threw it into the stream to see it pulled rapidly away downwards. He hates me, she thought, and nothing will change that. He hates me—and I love him. She even said it out loud, just to test the words. 'I love him.' And now it was admitted, she began to feel slightly better.

It was probably time to go back to the house. She had been away over an hour and soon it would be dark. But she didn't want to return. Somewhere, somehow she was going to see the view she had promised herself. The darkness didn't frighten her, and all she had to do was follow the stream back when she returned. Sara stood up, brushed the twigs from her clothes and set off upwards. The stream twisted so much that she had to cross and recross it several times, and it became almost a game to count the jumps, to try and keep track of where she was, to feel the tiredness in her legs growing with the determination not to return until she had come out of the wood at the other end, and so wonder if she would make it. Then, suddenly, she was there. The trees cleared, and she stood at the top of the hill and looked over on a spectacular sweep downwards to a lake surrounded by trees, and at its far end a small farm, so far away that it looked like a child's toy from where she stood. Sara drew in her breath at the sheer beauty of it all. She'd made it! This place would be beautiful in summer, but even now, grey day that it was, it was breathtaking. She was satisfied, her headache had gone; she might one day even be able to accept the fact that she had been stupid enough to fall for a man who disliked her. She might even manage to forget him. She turned for a last look at the lake and then blinked, wondering if her eyes were playing her tricks. It had vanished, and so had the farm. Below a certain level everything was blotted out by a grey cotton wool blur. She smiled to herself and shook her head, bemused. She'd just made it in time. Five minutes later and she would have thought there was nothing there. That was all that registered—then. It was only when she had walked a certain way back down the hill, and the wispy tendrils of mist changed and became more dense, that Sara realised her predicament. It wasn't just the lake that had been blotted out, it was everywhere below a certain level—and she was literally in the thick of it. She stood still for a moment to get her

bearings. She was by the stream, following it down, and it led all the way back to the track outside Raynor House, so as long as she kept by it, she reasoned, she would be all right. The trees were ill-defined blurs, even the nearest barely visible, and the silence wrapped round her like a blanket, and she shivered. She wasn't frightened, but the world was an eerie place quite suddenly, and she wished she had gone back when she had first thought she should. She jumped across the stream, and shortly afterwards, as it curved about on itself, recrossed it—and missed her footing in the strange grey light and landed badly on the bank, her ankle twisting as she stepped hard into a hidden hole. She scrambled away from the water and sat on the side, rubbing her foot. Pain shot upwards and made her gasp—and now, for the first time, she was afraid. She looked around for a stick, anything to help her walk, and all there was were twigs and grotesquely curved branches—and dead leaves. She looked up- and the trees simply vanished above a certain height, swallowed by the dense mist. She sat gently rubbing her foot and thought about it. She could continue very slowly and carefully if she had to, but she wouldn't be able to jump across the meandering stream as she had done, so she would have to stay oh one side of it—if that were possible. And the sooner the better, for in a while darkness would turn the greyness to blackness, and then any movement would be more -difficult. She stood up and began, slowly and painfully, to limp along the bank of the stream. she had to rest against a tree after only a few minutes. She thought she would scream with the pain of her ankle, and bit her lip to stop the sobs escaping. Then she heard her name being called, and it was the most wonderful sound she had ever heard in her life. 'I'm here,' she called. 'Up here by the stream!'

It was Nicholas Raynor's voice, and it was very distant, and Sara wondered if he had. heard her until his voice came again nearer: 'Stay there. I'm coming up with the dogs. Don't move.' 'I can't!' Twigs breaking, a crashing in the undergrowth, but this was no longer frightening, for she knew it was the dogs searching for her, and she called their names as loudly as she could, and heard their muffled barks in reply. And then, out of the mist, they all appeared, the three excited dogs—and Nicholas Raynor, like some knight out of the greyness to rescue her. 'I'm so glad to see you,' she burst out. 'I twisted my ankle when I was crossing the stream on my way down, and it hurts-' 'Let me see.' He bent and looked. 'Hmm, nasty. Come on, I'd better carry you.' She froze. 'Oh—no—I mean, you might ' 'I might drop you?' He straightened up, and his grin was tight, more a grimace than a smile. 'I doubt it. And you certainly can't walk. Have you a better suggestion?' She looked at him in the quickly gathering darkness^ Having to hold on to him was only slightly preferable to being carried, but she didn't appear to have much choice. 'I'll—take your arm if you don't mind,' she said. His shrug implied that he didn't really give a damn either way. 'Come on, then,' he said. 'The sooner we're back, the better. These mists are the very devil when they come down. Why the hell didn't you have the sense to turn back when you knew?'

'Because I was at the top of the hill when it happened,' she retorted, pain sharpening her voice. 'And I can't fly.' And it wasn't only the pain that made her snap, it was the knowledge of what she now realised about herself, and her own treacherous feelings towards him. 'There's no need for sarcasm,' he responded blandly, as if telling off a child who had dared to be impertinent, 'although I dare say we must excuse it in the circumstances.' 'Yes, we must, mustn't we?' she gritted. 'My foot hurts!' 'Put your arm round me, so,' he demonstrated, 'and I'll put mine round your waist. Okay ? Feel safe?' 'Yes,' It was too ridiculous for words. She could take the weight off her right foot, and that Was a relief—but his nearness had the most devastating effect on her equilibrium, which was nearly as bad as the pain. And thus they struggled on for several yards, the dogs running ahead, keeping out of the way, until he suddenly said: 'Oh, this is stupid. Hold on.' And before she guessed, he stooped and lifted her right into his arms. 'Put your hand round my neck,' he said. 'I won't bite.' Sara felt-so undignified. At first, that was, and then suddenly, and to her own dismay, she didn't. She felt incredibly safe and warm, cushioned by a pair of strong arms, her body against his, sensing his heartbeat against her side, a deep strong beat, not fast, as though he could carry her for hours if he had to. But the worst thing of all was that she was only inches away from his face, and unless she shut her eyes, she had to lode at him. And she didn't want to close her eyes. She wanted to see him, wanted to imprint every shadow and line in her mind's eye so that when she was gone, she would be able to remember...

His lashes were dark and thick. Funny how she had never noticed that before. How grey were his eyes! Not looking at her now but concentrating on the path ahead, and his nose—she wanted suddenly to trace along that fine hawk-like nose with her finger and had to bite her lip to stop her even-thinking, about it. But it was his mouth that was fascinating. It was a well shaped mouth, a warm, generous mouth, built for laughter—and kissing. Just then, as if sensing her regard, he looked down at her, and the corners of that mouth quirked ever so slightly as he said: 'Are you all right now?' 'Yes.' She moved her hand slightly round the back of his neck. It was like holding on to a rock. 'Are you? Aren't I too heavy?' 'You don't see me panting with the effort, do you?' he asked dryly. 'No, but-' she stopped because he was negotiating a twist in the stream, sure-footed yet cautious. Then suddenly, as he held her instinctively tighter for a moment, Sara felt a treacherous warmth inside her, an awareness that made her heart begin to pound so loudly she was afraid he would feel it. 'Don't talk.' Had his voice -gone harsher, or was it her imagination? 'You had a headache, remember? Or has that gone?' 'It's gone.' Hardly surprising really. She had too many other things to worry about. Not least that she was finding the sensation of being carried by him a breathtaking experience—literally. There ^vas a disturbing ache in her throat, and she had to force herself to breathe slowly and naturally—and it wasn't easy. She swallowed to try and clear her throat, but it didn't quite work, and she said: 'Will you put me down for a moment?' He did so, straightened up, looked at her, and said: 'Why?'

'B-because-' oh, heavens, don't let me start stammering, she thought, 'I couldn't b-breathe.' 'I wasn't strangling you, was I?' He looked down and held out his hand to hers, to steady her. His hand was warm and strong, a large hand, a gentle hand— 'No.' This was worse! 'I'd like to try and walk now— we've not got far to go, have we? How did you know where I was ?' She was babbling, but she couldn't help it. She was so disturbed by his nearness and she was desperately trying to hide it. 'I guessed. In any case, I'd been shouting you for a while. At first I thought you'd just gone for a walk in the gardens, and when the mist came down so suddenly, and you didn't return, I knew you'd gone further afield. This was the logical place. So I came with the dogs.' He looked down at her. 'It's getting darker very quickly. The sooner we're back the better.' 'Yes, I know.' She brushed her hair from her face. Cobwebs of mist clung to it, and it was damp to the touch. She looked up at him. His dark hair was shiny with it, and he looked as if he'd been out in the rain and not bothered to dry himself. 'I'm sorry to have put you to all the trouble of coming out to fetch me-1 'I could hardly leave you, could I?' He took her arm. 'Come, if you prefer to walk; let's go.' 'Yes.' She allowed him to lead her, supporting her over the stream as it twisted and turned, and his grip was firm, and the nearness wasn't—thank goodness—quite so disturbing, because of course she had to concentrate on what she was doing. 'It won't stop me working, you know. I mean, it's only a wrenched ankle, it should be all right in a day or two.'

'Are you trying 1p convince me or yourself?' he said. They had just crossed the stream for the umpteenth time, and Sara was tired; not only her ankle, but her leg hurt with the strain of it all, and she just wanted to sit down somewhere alone, and the sheer tension made her snap back at him: 'Neither. I'm just telling you.' She saw one eyebrow lift in cool amusement and she jerked her arm free from him. He was utterly maddening. She wasn't sure she didn't prefer him when he was his usual arrogant self—at least she knew where she was then. 'Of course you are,' he said soothingly. 'Come on, hold my hand.' 'Oh! Don't be so damned patronising!' she burst out. She stood very still. 'Patronising ?' Nicholas looked as if he might start laughing at any second. 'I was merely agreeing with you. What would you prefer me to do—shout?' 'At least it would be more in character.' She knew she was glaring at him. She couldn't help it, her nerves were ragged with the inner turmoil. His face changed, darkened, and Sara sensed he was controlling his anger. 'All right,' he said. 'I'll start shouting if it makes you feel any better!' He reached out, took hold of her arm, pulled it—not roughly—and said: 'Now come on, I haven't got all day to waste.' 'There's no need to grab me!' she burst out. 'For God's sake!' he ran his free hand through his hair, and it was soaking wet. 'You need a damned good spanking!'

'Not from you I don't.' They were progressing slowly, even as they argued. 'I don't need your help.' 'Oh yes, you do, you stupid obstinate child. Ten minutes ago you were glad to see me—in your own words, I will remind you just before you deny it—now you're fighting me like a little wildcat.' 'B-because you're so damned arrogant, that's why!' she retorted. 'Arrogant now? You'd make a saint feel inclined to violence—-—' 'And you're no saint!' she shot back. He stopped moving, simply stopped, and stood there looking down at her. It was growing darker by the minute, the mist swirling round them thickly, and his face was shadowed in that eerie grey light. Sara was frightened, but she managed to glare back at him, defiantly, wide-eyed, unaware of the picture she made, slender—vulnerable. She heard his muttered exclamation, saw him move— and was swept up into his arms. 'Now,' he said, 'no more. Just hold on, I'm going to carry you, and the more you struggle, the tighter I will hold you, and you can fight as much as you like, it won't do you a scrap of good, because I've just about had it up to here with you—do you understand?' Without waiting for any answer, he called the dogs and set off walking with long determined strides, holding Sara as if she were an awkward-shaped sack of potatoes that he didn't care if he dropped or not—and she, sensing this, clung on and bit her lip tightly to keep from speaking—and to stop herself from shouting at him, because she knew quite well that she had gone just one step too far. When they reached the end of the trees, and the wall loomed away to their left out of the darkness, he put her. down unceremoniously on the track. 'Now,' he said. 'Now, you can try and walk if you

want—or you can wait here for me while I get the car—or I can carry you up to the house. Which is it to be?' Sara swallowed hard. In a rather subdued voice she answered: 'I'll wait here while you get the car.' 'That's better. Right, I'll leave Wolf with you. Wolf, stay! You two, come with me.' He walked towards the gate-posts and shouted back to her before the mist swallowed him up. 'There's a stone bench outside the gates. Sit on it—and wait.' She limped slowly towards it and sat down, and Wolf lay down with a resigned sigh at her feet. Sara stooped to stroke his head and he looked up at her, sorrowful brown eyes filled with sympathy. 'It's all right for you,' she told the intelligent animal. 'He's nice to you.' Wolf wagged his stumpy tail as if in agreement and whined softly. Sara waited, and it was strange to be sitting there in the darkness and mist, nothing visible at all, and thinking over all that had happened to her in the past week. And now this. There were some people to whom things happened; they were incident-prone. It's happening to me too, she thought. Since I came here there hasn't been a day without something going wildly awry. And here I am, sitting in the middle of nowhere—well, nearly—with an ankle that's throbbing fit to burst, being guarded by a Dobermann Pinscher, waiting for a man who is quite impossible—and with whom I have had the misfortune to fall in love, and surely nothing worse can happen than this. She caught her breath, because that was tempting fate, even to consider. 'I'll take that back, she thought. I just hope that nothing else happens. And she crossed her fingers in childlike superstition, and waited for the sound of the car.

Mrs Wilson was as brisk and efficient as any nurse. She fussed over Sara after she had bandaged, her ankle and insisted on her staying in her room for dinner. Sara was not inclined to argue. The less she saw of him, the better. When she cleared away the dinner tray she told Sara that Mr Raynor would be working in his study all evening and there was a good film on television, and was she going down to watch? 'Yes, that will be lovely,' Sara agreed. A walking stick had been found, and she limped slowly down the stairs and went into the lounge. There she stayed, with the dogs for company, until it was time to go to bed.

Tuesday dawned bright and clear as if there had never been any mist at all, and Sara went into the study after her breakfast to begin a new day's work. Nicholas looked up from his desk and nodded. Toot any better?' he asked. 'Yes, thank you.' She sat down and immediately started writing, picking it up from where she had left off the previous day. There was silence. Sara didn't feel like speaking, and it was quite clear that Nicholas Raynor didn't either. They worked in silence for most of the morning until Mrs Wilson knocked and came in. 'The men are here with the things from the auction, Mr Raynor,' she said. 'Right.' The clatter of his typewriter ceased and he stood up and went out. 'Want a coffee, dear?' Mrs Wilson inquired. 'Mmm, yes, please, I'd love one.'

'Shan't be a minute, I've got it on now.' She went out. Sara could hear faint voices from the hall, and then the door opened. 'In here, Mr Brierley,' said Nicholas, and two men and a youth came in carrying well wrapped parcels. There was a steady traffic in and out for the next few minutes, and everything was put neatly on the floor at the far end of the room. Then the youth came in while his boss and Nicholas stood talking in the hall, and he carried a picture, covered in brown paper, and leant it against the wall and gave Sara a cheerful nod before going out. Her mouth went dry. With all that had happened since, she had completely forgotten about the Klee. She looked at it, then looked away as the housekeeper came in with coffee for them both. 'There you are, love—why, you look quite pale. Foot hurting?' her warm face was filled with concern. 'Just a bit,' Sara smiled. She wasn't going to talk about anything else. 'But it's not bothering me.' 'Hmm, just you rest it, that's all—and put it up when you get the chance. Drink your coffee, it will do you good.' 'I will. Thanks, Mrs Wilson.' Then Nicholas walked in. 'We're going to check these items now,' he said. 'Sara, get a sheet of paper and write down what I tell you. Mrs Wilson, I'd be glad if you'd come in in about fifteen minutes and clear away all this paper.' 'Very good, sir. Your coffee's on your desk. Don't let it go cold.' With a wink at Sara, Mrs Wilson went out. Nicholas crossed the study and bent down and began to unwrap the first parcel. ' 'Ready, Sara?' 'Yes.' She waited, pen poised.

'Right.' There was a tearing sound as he ripped the final tissue paper off. 'One silver candlestick by Johannes Mittnacht. Got that?' After a moment's pause, Sara answered: 'Yes.' 'Next. German silver-gilt and Meissen porcelain travelling teaservice.' She wrote busily to a background noise of tearing paper.-' 'Next. A German silver-gilt rosewater ewer by Hans Ment.' Then a pause, 'And matching dish. Got those?' 'Yes.' 'Elizabeth I Magdalen cup—write 1573 after that. Okay?' Sara's pen scarcely stopped moving for several minutes, and her wrist began to ache, and during a pause, she managed to sip her coffee before he began again. There was a slightly longer hesitation, and she looked up, and saw that he was carefully unwrapping the picture, easing the paper off at one corner, and she felt herself grow cold. Then he looked round, and it was as if he knew. It was almost as if it were happening in slow motion. Sara saw him turn away, and tear the paper from the front in one huge sweep, and the picture was revealed, and he turned again to Sara and said: 'And lastly, a painting by Paul Klee.' She wrote it down slowly, unable to go any quicker because it was as if her pen refused to move over the paper. He knew. He knew. He came over to her desk and put out his hand. 'May I see the list?' She handed it to him and saw his eyes go down it.

That's fine. Now will you type it out?—two copies, please, and let me have it.' And he walked out of the room. Sara couldn't help it. It was as if she were drawn by a force stronger than herself, towards the picture. She stood up and slowly, painfully, walked across the room to stand in front of it, and all the pent-up memories came flooding back with an even greater intensity than they had when she had been in the auction room. She reached out and touched the surface of the picture gently, and her eyes filled with tears. For a few moments it was as though she were back in time, in her old house, standing in the library as she used to do, just standing looking at it;—and it seemed as if her mother might come in any minute to call her for tea. Then the door opened, and she turned, a smile of pure joy on her face—and she was back in the present as she saw Nicholas's eyes. : She heard his shocked, indrawn breath, saw the strangest look on his face as she moved quickly, guiltily away. 'I'll do the list. I'm sorry,' she said, and sat down. 'It was yours, wasn't it?' he said. He didn't need to say—The picture—he didn't need to say anything else, just that; for the awareness, the knowing, were more acute than they had ever been. She looked up. 'Yes,' she said. 'And you knew. Is that why you bought it? Is it?' 'I bought it,' he answered harshly, because I wanted it, that's all.' Sara looked at him. 'I don't believe you,' she said.

CHAPTER TEN NICHOLAS looked as if she had struck him. 'I don't care,' he said, speaking very slowly, 'whether you believe me or not. The picture is mine. That's all you need to think about.' A muscle moved in his jaw. He didn't look angry; it might have been more bearable if he had. He looked dark and powerful—and suddenly remote. He turned away from Sara as if weary of talking to her. 'Get on with the list,' he said. 'And when you've done it get on with your work. That's what I'm paying you for.' A shudder ran through her. For one second she just wanted to get up and walk out of the room, but she held herself tensely until the impulse passed. For where would she go ? There was nowhere to escape from herself. She picked up paper and carbons and wound them into her typewriter, then began to copy the list. When Mrs Wilson came in a few minutes later carrying a large waste paper basket, Nicholas looked up from his desk and spoke to her. 'I'll be going out after lunch,' he said. 'And I may be home late. Don't wait dinner for me.' 'Very good, sir.' She began cramming the brown paper into the basket. Her tone held no surprise; clearly she was used to it. Sara typed on, knowing why he'd not bothered to tell her—but with an added question nagging her. Had he intended going out before? Or had he just decided in the last few minutes? He didn't speak to her again. He ate his lunch in the study, and when she returned, he had gone. She sat down at her desk. You'll live, she told herself. It's only for a few more days—a week at most. They'll soon pass, especially if you're working hard. And she put the typewritten list carefully on his desk and went back to her own work.

He had removed all the silver items, but he had left the picture propped up in the corner. She wouldn't look at it at all, she thought—but she did. And each time she could see it with less pain in her heart. Whatever his reasons, it mustn't matter. It was too late—all too late, many, many years too late. Then, at four o'clock, came the last straw. Sara needed a photograph to tie in with the chapter she was typing, and it was missing. She checked twice through the envelope on her desk, but it wasn't there. There was only one other place it could be—in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. Standing up, she went over, pulled the drawer out to its fullest extent, and began searching through the crammed contents. And then there it was, at the back, one missing photograph that must have fallen out of the envelope. A photograph of a twohandled cup that Squire Raynor had bought in Italy. She leaned forward, wincing as the movement hurt her foot, and bent—and the chain of her pendant caught on a metal clip attached to the drawer, but she didn't realise it until she tried to jerk her head up. There was a sharp snap, a sudden sensation as of a weight leaving her neck, and the pendant and broken chain fell into the drawer. 'Oh!' She picked it up carefully and clutched it, closing her eyes. Her first thought was that she was glad she was alone—and the second, that it probably would not have happened if Nicholas had been there, for with her sprained ankle, he would probably have insisted on looking for the photograph himself. Sara, still clutching the pendant, took out the photograph and pushed the drawer shut with some force. Only it wouldn't shut.- It bounced open again. She looked down on it. That's all I need, she thought, and if she hadn't had a sprained ankle, she would have taken a certain satisfaction out of kicking the drawer. She pushed it, more slowly this time—and there was this soft resistance at the back. Something was wedged down right at the back, behind the bottom drawer, and all she had to do was leave it and tell Nicholas when he returned—but she wasn't going to, because there was still a photograph that none of them had

been able to find, arid had given up looking for, and wouldn't it be nice if she could put it on his desk and tell him she had found it? She looked at the broken chain in her hand and touched the shattered link. It would mend. Carefully she laid it on her desk and went back to tackle the drawer. It was so awkward. Half way through she was wishing she had left it, or called for Mr Wilson to help—yet it had become a challenge, and she was intrigued by whatever could be hidden at the bottom of the cabinet. She had to force back two small clips that would stop the drawer from accidentally being pulled right out, and then it was free. With a sigh of relief, Sara reached in and pulled out the yellowing envelope. She slipped the drawer back in and it glided shut, most satisfyingly. Sitting at her desk, Sara opened the envelope and lifted out the papers inside. By the time she had seen that they were very private, it was too late—because she had also seen her father's name written down, and there was no power on earth that could have stopped her reading on. At last she put the papers-down and stared into space. She felt numb, drained of all strength, and completely exhausted. She looked down at the pendant on the desk, and across to the picture in the corner. It was almost as if everything had fallen into place, part of some strange and awful pattern that had begun over thirty years ago and was being continued. Sara shivered. If the photograph hadn't been missing—if the drawer hadn't stuck— if—if— She touched the broken pendant. A silver link with the past. And the picture too, in an even stranger way—-and all now suddenly gathered together in one room with papers and letters that had been lost for years. Three things, held together in a link with the past. She walked slowly to Nicholas Raynor's desk with her handbag, opened it, took out Caroline's card, picked up the telephone receiver,

and dialled Caroline's number. She desperately needed someone to talk to, and Caroline was possibly the only person who would understand. 'Caroline? It's me—Sara.' She had to concentrate on holding the receiver steady. 'What is it, my dear?' The warmth and concern carried over the miles. No preamble—she knew, it was obvious, that; something was amiss. 'I've just found some letters at the back of the filing cabinet. Oh, Caroline, I read them—and they're all about business deals between our two fathers over thirty years ago—and I know I shouldn't have, but I did—and there's this picture that Nicholas just bought—and my pendant—you know, that one—it's broken—and oh, it's awful-' 'Whoa, stop a moment, love! Tell me exactly now— what are the letters about ?' Sara took a deep breath. Caroline's calm strength was helping her already. 'They—they must have been business associates at one time, ages ago—did you know?' 'I had a rough idea, yes,' Caroline answered, her voice more serious. 'But I said nothing to you—there seemed no point after all this time. Go on, love.' 'Well, there's details of those here, and everything's in a kind of order—and then the tone of the letters changes —and there's mention of "debts of honour"—would that be gambling debts?' 'Very possibly. And--?' 'And the picture. This Klee that Nicholas just bought. It was ours, you see, it hung in our library when I was a child, but oh, Caroline,

it belonged to you before that! And this pendant—my pendant, the one N-Nicholas accused me about—that's mentioned here as well, and I can't stand it-( She was crying freely now, trying too to control the sobs, to make her voice less incoherent. 'And yesterday I sprained my ankle when I was out on a walk up the hill, and then it went all misty and Nicholas found me—and you could tell he was fed up—and this morning the silver he'd bought at the auction arrived and with it was the picture—and-—and—and I accused him of lying when he said why he'd bought it—and-——' She stopped, appalled at the enormity of the things she was standing here telling his sister. But it gave Caroline a chance to speak. 'Sara,' she said urgently, 'you're too upset to think straight. I want you to do something for me. You are to come here now, today. Do you hear me ?' 'But I can't leave—I—it's not finished-" 'Damn that book! Let Nicholas do it! You can't stay on in that state, my pet. Go and get Wilson and tell him I want to speak to him.' 'Wilson?' Sara couldn't think what possible connection Wilson could have with her conversation with Caroline. 'Yes. He can drive you here. He'll do it for me. Now go on, there's a good girl. And when you've got him, go and pack what you need.' 'But I-' 'No buts! Do as I say!' This was the other Caroline— the one who always got her own way. And Sara-knew in some strange- fashion that it was what she had been hoping for. Someone to tell her precisely what to do. 'All right, yes, I will. Shall I hang up and get Wilson to call you ? He may be in the garden-'

'Hang up. I'll call again, in five minutes. There's an extension in the kitchen. And go and pack. 'Bye, Sara.' The line went dead. Feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Sara went out of the study and along to the kitchen.

It was all arranged, and now, as she looked round the study for the last time, Sara felt a great calm come over her. There was just one thing she had to do to make the break complete. She picked up the heavy silver pendant and put it on Nicholas's desk beside the faded envelope full of those letters of so long ago. Then she sat down to write him a letter. The breaking of the chain had been symbolic somehow, she realised that now. The words she had to say did not come easily to her. But they had to be said, and she was just signing her name when the knock came at the study door, and Mrs Wilson popped her head round. 'He's waiting in the car at the front,' she said, her pleasant face creased in concern. 'He's taken your cases out. Are you sure-' 'Yes, I'm sure.' Sara looked up. 'I've left a note for Mr Raynor. Will you tell him when he gets back?' 'I will. My, but he'll be puzzled——' 'I know.' Sara went over to her and the two women hugged each other. 'I'm sorry I'm leaving like this, Mrs Wilson. You've looked after me so well-' her voice broke.

'I know, I know. Don't distress yourself, love. There's always been something, hasn't there? I knew it when you came. He changed—he became—well, different somehow—but I never knew why, and I don't want to know now, don't worry—and I thought-' she shook her head. 'Oh, take no notice of me, it's just an old woman's fancies-— 'What is?' Sara drew back, puzzled. 'Oh, nothing at all. Off you go now. Have a safe journey.' And she ushered the bewildered Sara out of the door and into the hall. He was in the Rolls-Royce. Sara's heart sank, thinking guiltily of all the expense of petrol—but it was too late to be concerned about things like that. In an hour or two she would be at Caroline's house, and there, coolly, rationally, she would be able to adjust herself to what had happened. Mrs Wilson kissed her husband, then Sara, and waved them off before going in. Sara looked back for a last glimpse of the house before it vanished beyond the curve, when she turned away. It was all finished now. A chapter in her life had closed.

He left her to her thoughts. He switched on the music, and it was something modern, not Grieg, for which Sara was thankful. They drove along in a companionable atmosphere, and gradually she felt herself relaxing. Her ankle hurt slightly, but that would pass, as would all the other things—eventually. The miles were swallowed up by the purring vehicle, and Wilson drove at a steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. Until they reached the motorway where he increased speed perceptibly. He was a good driver, and when he began to talk, telling her about Caroline's house, she listened, and made all the right comments in the right places, listening but not listening, thinking about a man... The signs were lit up in the headlights, and already Carlisle had been mentioned, then there was one which said 'Services 18 miles'

and Wilson said: 'If you want to stop for a coffee, just say so. There's time.' 'I don't mind, it's up to you—you're the driver.' She thought he was pondering his reply, and wondered casually why it should need so much consideration, then she looked at him, for he seemed to be glancing in his rear view mirror a lot, and something she saw in his face puzzled her. 'What is it?' she asked. 'I'm not sure—yet,' he answered. 'But I think we're being followed.' 'By—by the police?' She glanced hastily at the speedometer, which registered a nice safe sixty. 'No. By Mr Raynor—in his sports car.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN SARA went cold, literally cold. It was as if an icy chill swept through her body. 'Oh no!' she said. 'But how-' She looked back. Keeping a safe distance was a familiar car—but there were others; of course. It was dark, and there must be thousands like his on the road. 'I don't know, but we'll see in a minute. He's going to overtake— wait for it.' Sara waited for it. The darkened motorway, headlights flashing past going the other way, and a car now creeping up alongside them, and Nicholas Raynor's face a faint blur as he passed them, and settled down in front, then a flick of his rear lights to acknowledge them. Sara sank down into her seat. 'What—what are you going to do?' she said faintly. She saw Wilson shrug. 'We can't stop here,' he said. 'But he's not come after us just for fun and in about ten minutes we'll reach the motorway service station-' 'But you don't have to stop, do you?' she asked desperately. He looked at her sadly. 'He's my boss, miss. If he signals me to, I don't have much choice, do I?' 'I suppose not. But if he doesn't—if he just goes on, then—' 'Then we go on. It's as simple as that. But somehow-' he stopped. 'I know. How could he have found out?' 'I haven't a clue. Unless he phoned home and my wife told him.'

'Oh!' She waited, tense, as another sign proclaimed 'Services 2 miles', then the lead-off signs began, and Nicholas flicked his lights on and off several times and put on his left indicator. Sara watched the winking red light with a kind of horrified fascination. On—off— on—off. Wilson reached out to switch on his. indicator, and then they began to slow down. A wide sweeping curve into a nearly empty car park, next to a fairly crowded one of lorries, then Wilson switched off the engine and they both watched as Nicholas slammed his car door shut and came over to them. He pulled open Sara's door. She had never seen an expression like the one he had on his face. H.e looked across her to Wilson and said: 'Here are my keys. I want you to drive the other car home. There's a turn-off a couple of miles beyond this where you can get back-' 'No,' said Sara. 'He's taking me to Caroline's.' He looked at Sara for the first time. 'He's not taking you anywhere. He's taking my car home.' He handed a ;very miserable-looking Wilson two keys on a ring. 'But, Mr Raynor,' Wilson began, 'I don't like leaving-' 'I'm going to talk to Sara,' Nicholas cut in. 'I'm not going to hurt her.' 'But I'm not going to talk to you,' she burst out. 'Then you can listen. Take your choice. I don't care. Off you go, Wilson.'

Stony-faced, Sara watched him get out of the car. He had no choice, she knew that, and if she begged and pleaded it would put him in a very awkward position. She didn't want that, Nor did she want to be alone with Nicholas Raynor—and had no intention of being so for longer than a few seconds. There were plenty of lorries. One of them must be going to or near to Carlisle, She would hitch a lift—it was quite simple. Then Wilson had gone. Nicholas Raynor slammed shut Sara's door and went round the front to the driver's door, opened it and got in. 'I'm not staying here, either to talk or to listen,' Sara said. 'In fact I'm only waiting for Wilson to drive off and then I'm getting out of this car. You can send my luggage on.' She watched, saw the sports car move away, waited until it had vanished and began to open her door. Nicholas leaned across and pulled her arm away and held it. 'No,' he said. Sara glared at him. 'You have no right to touch me!' she breathed. 'None at all.' 'Then don't try and get out of my car. Just sit there and listen to me.' 'No, you listen to me. I left you a note which explains everything. And I left you the pendant which caused all the trouble in the first place. What more do you want?' 'You,' he answered. Sara went very still. He had obviously gone mad. She looked out of the window. Nothing moved, now that Wilson had gone, in their car park. But. there were several lorries parked only yards away,

divided by a grass, concrete-edged strip, and there was movement there. One lorry, a huge pantechnicon with 'Glasgow' painted in-vast letters along the side, was just drawing in as she watched. She mentally measured the distance between it and the Rolls-Royce, calculated how soon she could reach it—allowing for the handicap of her ankle— or alternatively how loudly she could call for help once she got outside—then she dismissed the second idea as ludicrous. The simplest thing was to leave the car, go as quickly as possible over to the lorry driver and ask him very nicely if he would give her a lift as far as Carlisle— Caroline would have clothes to fit her. They, were much of a size. All these ideas took a few seconds to pass through Sara's mind. 'Did you hear me?' he said. Humour him, that was important. It was what you had to do with madmen. 'Yes, I heard you,' she answered— very pleasantly. 'I was just thinking.' She gave him a winning smile. 'Did you telephone home or something?' She could see the lorry out of the corner of her eye. It was manoeuvring into position aided by jocular shouted comments from the driver of the lorry parked nearest to it. 'I did. She told me you'd gone, so I set off after you.' 'Oh, so you've not been home?' Very quietly, unseen by him, she was feeling for the door catch, using the handbag on her knee to block his view of her movement. 'No. There was hardly time.' 'I see. Of course not.' She even managed to inject warmth into her voice. The door clicked open, and she was out. Not running—she couldn't manage that—but walking as quickly as she could towards the lorries. She heard the bitten-back oath, then Nicholas was after

her, catching up with her as she reached the strip of grass, grabbing her arm. 'I said we're going to talk!' he grated. 'Let go of me!' She swung her bag at him. Way, way above them, the tall sodium lamps lit the entire car park with a cold blue light; she saw the movement from the lorries, saw the two drivers' attention was on them, and she knew she was safe. 'Hey! What's going on?' Two burly figures ran towards them and Sara called out: 'Please can anyone give me a lift? Please?' Nicholas released her arm. She saw him tense—and for an instant regretted her hasty actions. Suppose they beat him up? The idea was quite unbearable. For a moment it was like a little tableau. Sara standing there with Nicholas to one side of her, and facing them, just feet away, two tough-looking lorry drivers dressed in overalls. Then one spoke, in a broad Scottish accent. 'Are you okay, miss?' he said, with a meaningful look at Nicholas. Sara hesitated. She could answer yes—or no. Quite simple really. And then Nicholas spoke. 'My fiancee is upset,' he said. 'We've just had a row.' The first man looked at the second, then at Sara—but she had turned to Nicholas. 'What did you say?' 'I said you were upset.'

'Yes—but what did you call me?' 'I called you my fiancee.' She had forgotten about the - two lorry drivers. She was only vaguely aware of two dim figures standing watching them. 'Will you marry me, Sara?' She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. She wasn't really sure of anything, except that it was freezing cold and she didn't even have her coat on, only sweater and trews, then she heard a discreet cough and looked round blankly at two patient, rather puzzled men. 'Hmm—look, if it's all the same to you, we've got pie and chips waiting for us in the caff. And we've got stuff to deliver, so do you want help or not, miss?' Sara's eyes sparkled as she smiled at them. 'I—I don't think so,' she said. 'But thank you anyway.' As they turned to walk away, one was heard to say to the other: 'Women? I'll never understand 'em, not in a million years.' The voices faded. Nicholas looked down at Sara. 'You're cold,' he said gently. 'Come, get in the car and I'll put the heater on.' Dazed, she allowed him to lead her hack to the Rolls and help her in. Then he looked down at her. 'Stay there, don't try and escape or scream or humour me—because I've not gone mad, although I suspect you thought so. I'm going to get in my side and switch on the heater, and we're going to have a pleasant, civilised conversation— no fighting, no shouting. Do you understand me, Sara?1 'Yes, Nicholas.'

'That's better.' He closed her door and she watched him walk round and slide in. Then he turned to her. 'That wasn't just a gag, what I said before, to stop those men having a go at me. I meant it—only I didn't intend to have it come out in quite those circumstances. Are you listening, Sara?' 'Yes, I'm listening.' 'There's no need to be so meek and mild.' He grinned slightly. 'I'm not used to it. Not from you.' She closed her eyes for a second. 'I think I'm suffering from shock. I'm not in the middle of a dream, am I?' 'Not unless I'm in it with you, no. It was Jack who made me see sense. He said on Saturday night after the slight—er—contretemps in my study, "By God, Nick," he said, "if you don't marry that girl, I will. What a woman!" So I told him my feelings and he told me I was a fool—and a few other things I won't repeat—and I thanked him for his concern and we nearly had another fight, but the thought that you might come down and catch us was very sobering, So in the end we shook hands and he offered to be my best man.' He paused, and gently took Sara's hand. 'What I'm trying to say—and not making a very good job of it, because for the first time in my life I've found myself hopelessly in love—is that I don't want you to leave me—ever.' With his other hand he stroked Sara's cheek. 'Please say something,' he begged. 'Anything—even if it's only that you think I'm an idiot. And we'll take it from there.' 'I couldn't take any more,' she said. 'Not after what I found today. So I called Caroline and she told me to go-' Her voice shook, and with an instinct of utter rightness, she leaned forward and put her arms round Nicholas. 'I love you too—only I knew you hated me.'

He kissed her then, a long, satisfying, heart-stopping kiss -that made him say huskily when at last he drew himself away : 'I needed that! Oh, Sara, Sara, all this time wasted, all these past five years-' She stopped him by putting a finger on his lips. 'No, perhaps not wasted after all. Perhaps it had to happen like that—who knows? The letters I found today, and left for you—they were full of details of business deals between our two fathers—they were sad, Nicholas, and they were the last straw for me, plus having the picture to remind me, and breaking my pendant chain-' 'It broke?' 'Yes. I left it on your desk, with the letters, and a note for you. It seemed as if I had to-' He groaned, and pulled her to him. His voice was muffled', his mouth at her neck as he said: 'I've been such a fool—an arrogant stupid fool. Will you ever forgive me?' 'I think I could try.' She stroked the back of his head slowly. 'There have been faults on both sides, not only with us two—but it's past now. 'I didn't want to leave you—I felt an immense sadness as I drove away from Raynor House, as I thought, for the last time, and it hurt terribly.' 'I asked you a question before—in front of two rather dazed witnesses. You didn't answer.' 'Then you'll just have to ask your question again, won't you ?' she said demurely," 'I love you, Sara. Will you marry me?' 'Yes. Oh yes, yes, yes!'

He drew back from her. 'Let's go and find a phone and tell Caroline—and the Wilsons.' He began to laugh, a deep, joyous sound. 'And I'll bet she's not surprised. Sit there.' He opened his door and got out. Then he opened Sara's and helped her out. 'I hope you've got plenty of ten-pence pieces—knowing Caroline, we'll need them.' They walked across the car park towards the welcoming lights of the restaurant and service area, and as they neared it, two familiar figures came out. Sara saw the two men exchange glances, as if to say: Oh no, not again! She linked arms with Nicholas and smiled. 'It's all right,' she said. 'But thanks for your help anyway.' 'Aye, well, you'll not forget a piece of wedding cake, then, will you?' said the second one. 'Just send it to this place—addressed to Sid and Jock. That'll find us, eh, Jock?' 'Aye, it will.' 'It's a promise!' Sara looked at Nicholas, and he was laughing. Then, as they opened the door to go in, she looked back. The two drivers were still standing there, and Jock was scratching his head, bemused. Sara waved, and Nicholas put his arm round her as, together, they went in to telephone the news.