The Whispering Gate

THE WHISPERING GATE Mary Wibberley

Andrea reluctantly agreed to help Marco Leoni. Pretending to be his uncle Stavros's long-lost granddaughter, Marco assured her, would be an act of kindness to an old man who had not much longer to live. But Marco's formidable cousin, Dominic Faro, held a very different view of the whole thing--and a very low opinion of Andrea.

CHAPTER ONE 'WAIT,' said Andrea, 'please. The picture - there's something about it—' The room was packed solid with people, a seething mass of humanity shuffling round as best they could to look at the pictures lining the walls of the Bond Street gallery, but there was only one as far as she was concerned. The young man by her side moved uneasily. 'Look, hadn't we better be getting back to the office?' he said. 'You know old Grimstead doesn't—' She looked at him, tearing her eyes from the picture with difficulty. 'You go,' she said quietly. 'I'll follow in a minute. It was kind of you to bring me, very kind, and I don't want you to get into trouble on my account—' she smiled softly at Michael James. 'What is it about the thing that fascinates you?' he grumbled, loath to leave her, at the same time curious at the effect a portrait had had on her. 'I don't know,' she admitted, but her eyes were on it again. A break in the crowd meant they could step nearer, and she did so. Michael followed reluctantly. It was titled simply: 'Woman by a Gate.' You could scarcely see a gate, for the picture had a misty quality to it, almost as if painted in a hurry at dusk, and there was a stone archway somewhere behind her, and the dark greenness of trees and leaves surrounding her. But it was the woman herself that fascinated Andrea, stirred distant memories - and yet not memories, for she had never seen anyone so beautiful in her life, or she would surely have remembered. She wanted to reach out and touch, yet was stopped by the red printed signs at intervals along the walls.

'I know her,' she whispered, and turned to her companion. 'I feel as if I know her.' He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. 'Why don't you come back tomorrow?' he suggested. 'It finishes today. It says so outside. Please - please go.' And he half turned away, as if to obey, then stopped. 'There's a man staring at you,' he said quickly, and so urgently that she looked at him. 'What?' 'I said, there's a man staring at you. Do you know him? I saw him ages ago, when we first came in - look - over there—' he took her arm to move her slightly round. Andrea stared over the crowd, but saw only the back of a man's head as he turned away - as if perhaps he had heard Michael... 'You mean that tall fellow just going out?' she said, and frowned. 'I saw him too when we came in, but I didn't take any notice.' A little shiver ran up her spine. 'How strange.' 'What?' Michael grinned. 'That a man should stare at you? Don't you ever look in a mirror?' Andrea felt her neck go warm - the inevitable prelude to a blush. 'It's all right,' she said quietly, almost forgetting the picture - almost. 'I know what they all call me at the office - Miss Mouse—' 'That's only because you're so quiet,' he said quickly. 'It's quite affectionate really - it doesn't mean you're not—' he faltered. 'It's all right,' Andrea smiled gently at him. 'You don't need to explain. I don't mind, really I don't. If only they knew how happy I

was to just be working amongst a crowd like that, after the children's home—' she stopped. Michael groaned. 'Oh heck, I'm sorry, Andrea. I know you don't talk about it. I just wanted to reassure you, you know, that - well - you're very good-looking really!' he finished in a reckless burst. She touched his arm. Perhaps it was time to go after all. She could come again at five o'clock when work finished. The exhibition didn't close until five-thirty. It might not be as crowded then. 'We'd better go now, Michael. You're right, we don't want to be late.' She felt rather than saw his huge sigh of relief. Poor Michael. He didn't know that she knew about the bet either. That he had only brought her out for a wager - just for fun, not because he was keen on her. It didn't matter to Andrea. She was used to not being noticed - and when she had been kneeling down behind a huge cupboard, painstakingly picking up a box of dropped rubber bands a few days previously, and had heard two girls whispering that Michael was going to ask 'Miss Mouse' out for lunch in order to win a fiver off Charlie Riggs, the office joker, she hadn't felt hurt or insulted or like bursting into tears. She had waited for him to ask, and then said yes. Because Charlie Riggs had expected her to say no, she knew that. And only she and he knew why. She had dented his ego badly when he had tried to kiss her once, and ever since he had watched her sullenly. Poor Charlie, she thought, if only you knew that you were the first man who'd ever tried to kiss me - and when that happens, I want it to be someone nice, not the greasy-haired office Romeo. Michael was pleasant, easy to be with, and they had enjoyed lunch, and then, on the way back to the office, Andrea had seen the notice and said: 'Can we go in, please?' And Michael, probably totting up the cost of the lunch and deducting it from his. nearly-won fiver and there wouldn't be much difference - had nodded and said of course.

And now they were leaving. She had seen the picture right away, and had stayed looking at it, telling Michael to wander off where he wanted, she was happy there. The impact was too great to even think clearly about yet. There would be time when she got back to the office. Friday afternoon was always quiet, the winding down for the week-end, and she might even get out before five if she was lucky. One thing was sure; she would be back here, and she would find out what she could about the picture and its artist. She could not know, as she turned away from it then, that she would discover those facts far sooner than she could have imagined. Michael led the way, pushing where necessary, clearly relieved to be going back to the office. 'Excuse me, sir, madam, but could you step into the office for a moment? There's someone who would like a word with you.' The dark-coated man looked so like a plain clothes policeman that for a moment Andrea was frightened. It was like being stopped for shoplifting. 'Why?' asked Michael, and looked at Andrea with an "I wonder what the hell's going on" expression on his face. Suddenly, absurdly, she was very glad she was with him. He didn't look a bit frightened. The dark-coated man smiled reassuringly. At least Andrea assumed that that was what it was meant to be. He looked like a man who didn't often smile. 'Nothing wrong, sir, I assure you. But the gentleman who painted most of these pictures is here, and he'd like to meet the young lady.' And Andrea knew. She just knew what one of those pictures would be. 'Yes, Michael,' she said. 'Please—' 'But we'll be late-' 'Then you go on. I must—'

'I'm not leaving you!' he declared, and looked hard at the man, as if he might be a white slaver. We'll both go in. All right,' he nodded to the man, 'lead the way.' A small shiver of excitement filled her as their guide turned and took them across to a room. She was oblivious of anyone else, unaware of the people going in and out, some watching her and Michael in puzzled manner. The door of the room was open, and a man was standing there looking at them, and Michael turned and said in a fierce whisper: 'My God, that's the fellow who was watching you—' but she scarcely heard him because it was almost like being in a dream. There was a sense of unreality about the whole place, and if everything had suddenly vanished, she would not have been a bit surprised. But it didn't. The office was solid enough, in more senses than one. Huge desk, old-fashioned chairs in mahogany, thick carpeted floor, large window with thick white net Curtains making the light almost opaque - and an old safe in one corner, large enough for a man to stand inside without crouching. And then, inevitably, she looked at the man. He was tall, and suntanned, and his hair was thick, and bleached by the sun to a rich dark gold. His face was hard, rough hewn, and he was probably in his middle thirties. 'Hello,' he said, and his accent was tantalizingly familiar. 'Thank you for coming in.' He took Andrea's hand. 'I am Marco Leoni.' Then he looked at Michael. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'You must have been surprised to be stopped like that, but I had no choice. The room was too full for me to approach you there—' 'You were watching us,' said Michael flatly. 'Why?' Then he added, as if he might have sounded rude: 'Please.'

'I was watching this young lady looking at my picture. I'm sorry if I seemed rude, but I was startled.' He gestured towards two chairs. 'Will you please sit down? Would you like coffee?' 'We're in a hurry, I'm afraid,' Michael answered. 'We have to get back to work.' 'How far away is that? I can arrange a car—' 'It's only a few minutes' walk,' said Andrea, speaking for the first time. 'It would take us longer by car, really. Please - please tell me why we're here.' And she looked across the room at the painter of her picture. That was, in a way, what it was. Never had she felt such a sense of possession about anything. 'It is difficult to explain in just a few minutes. Very difficult.' Marco Leoni stubbed out a cigar he had been smoking. 'May we meet later - after you have finished work?' For a moment Andrea didn't know if he meant her alone, for he was looking at her as she spoke, then he added, as if realizing: 'Both of you, of course.' 'Yes,' she said, without hesitation, and turned to Michael, who was looking uncomfortable. 'I don't know—' he began. 'I will anyway,' Andrea said firmly. There was no doubt about it in her mind - but she didn't know why, only that there were a thousand questions clamouring in her brain to be answered, and this man could supply them. 'We'll talk about it on our way back.' She looked at her watch. If they didn't leave right now, they would be late. As it was, it would be a dash, but a sense of content filled her. She could not have explained what it was, but it was there. 'Then may I have a car outside your place of work?' He leaned over to the desk and picked up a pad and pen.

'Grimstead Business Equipment,' said Andrea. 'It's number fourteen Holden Street - and we finish at five.' 'Thank you. And your name?' 'Andrea Brown - and this is Michael James. We really must go now. Good-bye.' She held out her hand and Marco took it. He bowed very slightly. 'Thank you,' he said softly. His eyes were deep blue - and there was a certain expression in them that both puzzled and disturbed her. But not in an unpleasant way. Normally shy, Andrea felt not the least bit self-conscious, or bothered. She knew that what she was doing was right. Her only problem was convincing Michael, who looked extremely doubtful. As they went out into the roar and bustle of London's traffic, he said: 'Andrea, for heaven's sake, what's going on? You calmly accept an invitation from a man - a painter— he made it sound faintly improper '—you've never even seen before - and - well, I can't take it all in.' He shook his head as they threaded a brisk way through all the human traffic on the pavement. 'I mean, if it had been anyone else, you know, Rose or Jenny - well, okay, they can take care of themselves—' 'And I can't? Is that it? But he's invited us both, Michael—' 'Huh, it's you he wants. I saw him looking at your hand to see if you were married or engaged. Didn't you?' 'No,' she admitted. 'But don't you see - I must go. The minute I saw that portrait of the woman I knew the strangest feeling inside me. And then, when that man asked us into the office, there was almost a sense of inevitability about it—' 'Hey, you know, it is rather odd, isn't it?' They rounded the corner and into a quieter street. 'I mean, you being fascinated by the picture

- and him being so fascinated by you. But I feel responsible in a way. I mean, I took you there, didn't I?' 'Yes. Thank you.' Just one more corner, and they'd be there. 'I didn't mean that.' His voice was suddenly rather gruff. 'Er Andrea, I've got a confession to make, about - er - lunch.' She decided to put him out of his misery. 'It's all right,' she said. 'You mean about the bet with Charlie?' He looked as if she had hit him, 'Oh, God,' he said, anguished. 'I overheard, quite by accident. I don't mind, Michael, really I don't. In fact I owe Charlie my thanks, if he did but know it.' She stopped as they reached the steps of the office. 'I enjoyed the lunch - and afterwards - so much. Please don't look so worried.' He pushed open the green door. 'Andrea,' he said slowly, 'you know something? You're an incredible girl.' And he sounded as if he meant it. 'I wasn't going to come with that fellow. I was going to try and talk you out of it - but I know now that you're determined. Would you be bothered if I come with you?' She opened the lift door, and they went in. 'No, I'd be glad. Although I'm quite sure he's not a villain - instinct tells me.' 'I'm going to check up on him this afternoon. Do you mind?' They walked down the yellow and brown painted corridor, perpetually gloomy even with lights on, and he pushed open the office door for her. He worked next door. She shook her head. 'Of course not.' A sudden silence told her that she had been the subject of conversation. Then the voices rose again as Andrea's female colleagues began busily working. She smiled.

She didn't care, she just didn't care. There was nothing cruel or spiteful about any of them, but anything that provided a diversion was welcomed. She sat down at her typewriter and pulled the cover off it. 'Enjoy your lunch?' asked Rose, a giggly blonde who was, at eighteen, a couple of years younger than Andrea, yet older and wiser than her in the ways of men. 'Yes, thanks.' She couldn't begin to tell them about the visit to the art exhibition. Their world revolved around the next dance, or pop concert. Someone like Marco Leoni - and the picture - would be quite beyond their comprehension. Andrea sighed and picked up an invoice that needed correction. Three hours to go, to be filled with work. No doubt there would be questions later, once they were sure old Grimstead was out of the place. She would be truthful, tell them that the lunch had been pleasant, that they had stopped at an art exhibition on the way back-and that was all. But they would probably be more entertained by the idea of Charlie Riggs having to pan with five pounds - a fact of which it was assumed she wasn't aware. They were all working now. Because it was about this time that old Grimstead came through to check, and his tongue could be caustic. Andrea bent to her work, and the invoice wavered and faded, and she saw instead a picture, a misty beautiful painting that had enchanted her from the first moment she saw it. And then came again the image of Marco Leoni. She had never heard of him, but that was not important. If his paintings were good enough to be shown in Bond Street, he was hardly a nobody in the art world. But I am, she thought. I'm a nobody. And for the first time, doubt crept in. She had accepted his invitation without hesitation, almost by instinct, without knowing why. She looked up, unseeing, from her desk, and out of the window. A bird flew past, causing a flicker of shadow as it hid the sun for a brief moment, and she blinked. Had

something guided her steps that day? She had passed many exhibitions of paintings, and never been sufficiently interested to want to go in before. And yet, today, she had done so. It could have been to pass the time until they had to return to the office, so as to avoid the questions and smiling glances. Whatever the subconscious reasons within her, she had the inescapable feeling that something in her life would never be the same again - not after seeing the picture of the woman by a gate.

Michael came into the office at tea break. He carried a newspaper which he put down on the desk in front of Andrea. 'Read that,' he said. 'I was throwing a pile out when I saw it.' There was a blurred photograph of Marco Leoni with another man; the picture was on the gossip page. Both men held drinks. Even as she read the words beneath the photograph, Andrea was aware that the babble of the other voices had faded. She was scarcely conscious of the fact, only distantly concerned that they would be speculating why Michael was here - but that was all so unimportant, so very trivial. 'A sight to gladden the hearts of London's society hostesses - Marco Leoni and his cousin, ex-racing driver Dominic Faro. Marco's exhibition of paintings is creating huge interest among connoisseurs, and London's night club owners are rubbing their hands with glee. It's rumoured that these two are a formidable pair on the roulette tables...' She put the paper down. 'Oh,' she said. 'I told you I'd check up. I was going to make a couple of phone calls when I remembered seeing something - so I looked in these papers. Old Grimstead's gone to his golf now—'

She scarcely heard. Her eyes went again to the paper, then she looked up at Michael. 'What can he possibly want with me?' she said quietly, face anguished. He grinned. 'It's not too late to back out, you know. I can phone—' 'No, don't do that. I've promised now. You'll come?' 'Let anyone try and stop me!' He grinned, then leaned over and whispered: 'You realize we have the attention of the entire office?' She looked round. All eyes were on them, Rose's like saucers, cup suspended half-way to mouth. 'You'd better go,' she said. 'Okay. Incidentally -I thought you'd like to know. I told Charlie to keep his fiver.' He grinned wryly. 'So long, Andrea.' He went out and closed the door after him. Instantly Rose was by Andrea's side. 'Hey, what's up? You're as white as a sheet!' 'Am I?' And then Rose picked up the newspaper from the desk. 'Wow - who are these two dishy creatures?' It was no use. The others were crowding round, tea and buns forgotten because they sensed excitement and they weren't going to miss a thing. Andrea sighed. 'Oh dear,' she said. 'I don't know where to start.' 'Try at the beginning,' suggested Jenny helpfully. 'Well - you're not going to believe it,' Andrea said, 'but when we went into that gallery, he—' she pointed to the picture of Marco, 'spoke to us and asked to meet Michael and me after work.' Even as

she said the words, she realized how bizarre they sounded. But it was the simple truth. 'Come off it!' That was Jean, down-to-earth Jean, the one who had first called Andrea 'Miss Mouse' - although she wasn't supposed to know that either. 'What for?' demanded Rose. 'Does he want to paint you?' That hadn't occurred to Andrea. Who would want to paint her? 'I don't know,' she admitted. 'Hmm, well, it all sounds very fishy to me,' sniffed Jean, whose world revolved round her fiance, Harold, who worked in an office on the floor below, and who had never been known to utter more than three words before lapsing into tongue-tied silence. 'Oh, shut up, Jean,' said Rose. 'Just because it wasn't you— 'I should hope not! Harold would have something to say—' 'I'm sure he would, love,' soothed Jenny with a wink at the others. 'We all know Harold. But it's not you, it's Andrea. Go on, Andrea, take no notice of her. What did this fellow say?' 'I can't remember exactly. There just wasn't time to talk. We didn't want to be late back here, so we had to dash, and he asked for the address and said he'd send a car at five.' Whatever happened, whatever else they dragged out of her, she didn't want to talk about the picture of the woman. 'He's sending a car here? squealed Rose. 'Honest?' 'So he said.' And she looked up and saw the scornful disbelief on Jean's features. I hope he comes, she thought. If only to wipe that look off her face.

'Well, I vote we get you made up,' said Rose. 'Oh no, it doesn't matter - I mean—' stumbled Andrea. She wished that Michael had never brought the newspaper in. She hadn't wanted this. Rose and Jenny were kind-hearted, the others simply agog and Jean was probably jealous. The less fuss the better. She shook her head. 'No, really—' 'We insist, don't we, Jen?' Rose said. 'Come on, old Grimstead's away for the weekend, thank the Lord; we'll go to the Ladies. Look after the office, you girls,' and picking up an enormous cosmetic bag from her desk, she and Jenny took Andrea by the arms and marched her out. Ten minutes later she was seated in front of a mirror in the ladies' rest room. It was beginning to be almost fun. She never bothered with make-up, mainly because her limited budget did not allow it but also because she hadn't the faintest idea how to use it. Rose and Jenny were experts. Giggling, thoroughly enjoying themselves, they were carefully applying moisture cream to her face and neck. A towel had been draped round her shoulders and she had been told to sit still, an order she had no intention of disobeying. 'Hey, Jen,' said Rose, face carefully screwed up as she bent to the delicate task of dabbing off the surplus moisture cream, 'won't it be a scream if we make her look gorgeous! Can you see Jean's face? She'll be green!' They're talking about me as if I'm not here, thought Andrea. 'Mmm, yes,' agreed Jenny, busily engaged in brushing Andrea's long tresses. 'I've been dying to do this for ages. Your hair's gorgeous, Andrea.'

'Thank you,' Andrea murmured, trying not to wince as the comb hit a tangle. 'Tell me something. Why aren't you reacting like Jean? I mean, she doesn't believe a word of it—' 'Pooh! Her! She's no imagination at all. Her idea of heaven is a twoweek honeymoon at Butlin's with dear old Harold. Listen, love, when Prince Charming turns up, wherever it is, art gallery or wherever - you grab him with both hands.' Rose sighed. 'That's what we're waiting for, isn't it, Jen? Why didn't we go to the exhibition today?' 'Don't know,' admitted Jenny. 'But it wouldn't have happened to us anyway. Things like that don't.' 'But they don't to me either,' interrupted Andrea. 'At least, nothing like this has ever happened before.' 'You're different,' said Rose wisely. 'How?' Something in Rose's voice puzzled her. Rose shook her head. 'I don't know. You just are, that's all. We've always thought that, haven't we, Jen? It's not something you can explain - it's just there, that's all. I know we laugh and joke, and tease you because you're quiet and not always talking about boys, you know, but in a way it's because you're not like us at all. You've got - well - class. That's the only way to describe it.' Class! Andrea allowed herself a wry smile in the mirror. If only they knew the truth! That she was a foundling, taken into an orphanage as a baby and brought up there with no one, absolutely no one, to call her own. They knew a little, simply that she was an orphan, but she had not given any details save those bare facts. She sighed. 'You're both very kind,' she said. 'I never knew—' her voice faltered.

'Oh, hush!' said Rose. 'You'll spoil your make-up. You're our friend, isn't she, Jen? And what are friends for, if not to help each other?' And the door to the rest room burst open and little Pamela, the office junior, popped her head in. 'Listen,' she cried, 'there's an enormous car standing outside at the front - and there's a uniformed chauffeur reading a paper, and Michael's just been down to see - and it's waiting for you, Andrea!'

CHAPTER TWO ANDREA looked back briefly as they drove off. Faintly she could see the faces pressed against the window. Rose and Jenny had given her the thumbs up sign as she and Michael went out of the door. Ten to five, and the car - a large grey Daimler - had been waiting for half an hour. How it had found space in the car-lined road she couldn't imagine, but it had. Perhaps that was why it had arrived so early - to allow the time to do so. She sat back, sinking into comfortable leather, and Michael grinned. 'This is the life, eh?' 'Michael, I'm scared.' There was a glass partition between them and the driver, and it was closed, so that he couldn't hear them. A tall dark man, impeccably dressed in grey uniform, he had assisted Andrea into the car with grave courtesy. 'You're not the only one. But I wouldn't miss it for anything, don't worry.' 'I wonder where he's taking us?' 'He told me when I went down to check that Marco Leoni is staying at the Ritz. That's where we're going.' She looked down at the simple flowered summer dress that she wore. It was fine for the office - but for the Ritz? Her heart sank. 'Oh, Michael!' 'Don't worry. By the way, I don't know what you've done, but you look absolutely stunning! Completely different from usual—' and then there was a short pregnant silence. 'I mean - don't get me wrong—'

Andrea laughed. It was a small release from the tension. 'Don't explain! I know exactly what you mean. Rose and Jenny made me up. They are good-hearted, I never realized just how kind they were.' She looked at him. 'It's strange, isn't it, you can work with people and never know them properly at all.' 'Yes. But I must explain - please let me. What I mean to say is - you have a beautiful face, Andrea, only I never realized it before -1 mean, forgive me, but you had your hair all pulled back in a ponytail and now it's loose and it makes a hell of a difference.' 'Thank you. But they put some stuff on my face as well, I must point out.' He groaned. 'It's not that. It's just - well, you. You are different. You're glowing, positively glowing. You don't get that out of a tube or a bottle.' There was a mirror at the side of her, set in a recess. Andrea looked into it. Yes, she thought, I am different, but I don't know why. And the image in the glass smiled back at her, high-cheekboned, large dark grey eyes, and a soft full mouth ever so subtly tinted with Jenny's 'Blushing Pink' lipstick. Strange, she thought, that a bit of make-up should do that. But she was still apprehensive. She had never been in anywhere grand at all. And now they were going to the Ritz, in a chauffeur-driven Daimler. All as a result of a childish wager. She sighed. 'Why the sigh?' Michael said, quietly. 'I was just thinking - isn't life funny? You take me out to lunch just for a bet - and we end up here.' 'Charlie wanted to know how we'd gone on, so I told him to look out of the window when we left. That will give him something to think about over the weekend.'

He laughed. 'You should have seen his face!' 'I did,' she said quietly. 'And I've just realized - I feel sorry for him. I never liked him before, all loudmouthed and brash - he used to scare me a little because he seemed so sure of himself. Now - I don't think he's so full of confidence as he tries to make out.' 'Who is?' asked Michael lightly. 'Except your Marco, of course. With all his lolly—' he gave a low whistle. 'They don't hire out cars like this for green stamps, you know—' 'Don't. Please,' she begged. 'I feel trembly enough inside without your assistance—' 'My dear girl, you've no need to worry at all. He's sent for you, remember.' 'You know, you're very reassuring,' Andrea said with a sigh. 'You sound just like I imagine an uncle would—' 'I feel like one,' he answered lightly. 'I feel responsible in a way for you.' He glanced sideways at her. 'So stop worrying. Promise?' 'I promise.' She even managed a little smile.

But that slight feeling of confidence vanished as they followed the chauffeur along a thickly carpeted corridor towards Marco Leoni's suite. A suite, not a room. She glanced at Michael. Until today he had been an office colleague, someone with whom she passed the time of day and little else. And now, suddenly catapulted into a situation quite beyond Andrea's comprehension, he was like a fellow conspirator, and more - an ally. That was what counted. He was on her side. It was a comforting thought to have—

'Please go in,' the man smiled, pushed open a door, and bowed. Taking a deep breath to calm her fluttering heart, Andrea did so, and Michael followed. Marco walked towards them from the huge windows, holding out his hand, smiling in welcome. 'Thank you for coming,' he said, and his voice was as deep and attractive as she remembered. 'Won't you sit down? I have ordered coffee. Would you like something to eat?' She couldn't have eaten a thing, not if her life depended on it. 'No, thanks, not for me.' 'Nor me.' Michael sat beside her on an ornate, heavily brocaded settee. Marco took a chair opposite and looked at them. The chauffeur had not followed them in. There were just the three of them in that magnificent room, ornately furnished, luxurious. And Andrea looked at Marco, and was about to speak, about to ask him why he had wanted them to come here, for she suddenly wanted nothing so much as to get away, and she didn't care if she sounded impatient, when the breath caught in her throat and she put her hand to it as if she might choke. The picture of the woman was behind Marco, and to one side of him, by the window, propped up on a chair. He must have been looking at it as they entered. 'Yes,' he said gently. 'I had it brought from the gallery. For a reason—' And then he stopped as the discreet knock sounded at the door. 'Excuse me, that will be room service.' In a louder voice: 'Come in.' Andrea looked at it as the ritual of coffee pouring was accomplished. She was hardly aware of the waiter leaving, of holding a cup in her hand. Because something inside her, a stirring of strange excitement, a foreknowledge, was filling her being with an intensity of emotion. It was almost as if she already knew why she was here.

Marco went over to the portrait and touched it gently. Then he turned to face Andrea and Michael, 'The reason I have wanted to see you again is connected, as I think you may have realized, with this picture. I saw you first when you went into the exhibition of paintings, and I knew then that I would have to speak to you, but when you stopped by this picture, and were clearly fascinated by it, then I knew with an even greater certainty that what I wanted to do was right.' He paused and came back towards them. 'What I have to say now will probably sound extremely astonishing, not to say bizarre. Believe me, I have been these last two hours trying to find the right words to tell you.' He didn't look like a man who would need to search for words. He appeared to be an extremely confident being. And Andrea waited, because now the sensation inside her was almost dizzying in its intensity. There was a sense of inevitability about it all. She put down her coffee cup on a small table. 'Then please tell us,' she said quietly. 'That woman is - was - my cousin. She was killed two or three years ago in a tragic air crash. And now her father, my uncle Stavros, is dying. There is one wish that he holds most dear, and so far unfulfilled. If he could accomplish that one desire, he would go to his Maker a happier man. He is convinced that he has somewhere in this world a granddaughter, the daughter of my cousin Minerva.' He touched the portrait very gently yet again. 'Do you not see why I have asked you here? Do you not see the likeness?' It was Michael who moved, Michael who spoke then. He stood up and went towards the other man. 'You want Andrea to pretend to be this woman's daughter? Is that why you've brought us here?' 'Yes,' Marco Leoni nodded.

Andrea felt as though she were paralysed. And she could scarcely breathe. Their voices came as if from a great distance. 'The idea's horrible! It's frightening.' Although everything had this unreal quality to it, Andrea could sense the intensity in Michael's voice. She knew that he was, in his way, trying to protect her. But now she had to speak. Slowly she rose to her feet and crossed the room towards them. 'Wait, please, Michael.' She looked at Marco Leoni, and for a moment it was as though Michael was not there. She saw only Marco's eyes, dark blue and intent. Then, tearing her own eyes away, she looked at the picture. The woman looked back at her, a soft gentle creature with a haunting quality to the faint smile at her mouth. It was as if she knew. 'Do I really look like her?' she asked softly. 'Yes. But you have seen that already, have you not? Is that why the picture so fascinated you?' 'I don't know,' Andrea answered truthfully. 'I mean, yes, I was drawn to the portrait in a strange way that I didn't understand. But not because I saw a likeness - it was because—' and there she stopped. There was no way of putting into words what she felt. 'Andrea, I think we'd better be going—' Michael began, and took her arm. 'No, not yet.' She looked at him and a smile touched her mouth. Her colleagues at the office would not have recognized 'Miss Mouse' now. Her shyness had dropped from her like a cloak. A quiet sureness filled her. In the oddest way it was as if she was in complete command of the situation, something so new to her in life that it could have been almost frightening - but it wasn't. 'I want to hear more from Mr. Leoni. You can go if you want, Michael.'

'I'm not leaving you here,' he said. 'Don't worry.' 'Thank you.' She turned to the watching stranger. 'I think you had better tell us some more about your suggestion. But first, I'd like to point out one thing. I'm a working girl. I can't afford to just leave my job and take off for some unknown town with someone I don't even know - even if you are a famous artist, I'm afraid I've never heard of you - I'm sorry to be so blunt, but that's the truth.' Marco bowed, a perfectly natural gesture in him. There was an oldfashioned gallantry about him. 'I appreciate your honesty. I appreciate too that you are, as you say, a working girl. If I offered you a job that would pay you well - and had a contract drawn up quite legally by a solicitor of your choice, and if I guaranteed your return fare to England if you decided to leave, at any time - would that suffice? I will willingly meet your parents and talk to them to convince them that my offer is a genuine one.' 'I haven't—' Andrea began, and Michael cut in very swiftly with: 'I'm sure Andrea would like to think this over for a little while, Mr. Leoni, if you don't mind. Wouldn't you, Andrea?' 'Then, if you will excuse me? I do have one or two phone calls to make. I shall return in a few minutes.' With a last look at Andrea, he strode over to the door, leaving Michael and her alone. He let out his breath in an explosive sigh. 'I stopped you from telling him you didn't have any parents because I thought it better he didn't know. Listen, love, this crackpot idea of his is absolute madness. You don't even know what country he wants you to go to. Hell, it could be Russia or Albania or somewhere equally outlandish.' 'You don't honestly think he's a white slave trader, do you?' Andrea answered. 'He's an artist with an international reputation apparently and well known to the gossip columnists—'

'Precisely,' growled Michael. "What sort of protection do you think you'd have if you left the country with him? And he's with his cousin, who's a racing driver or something. Ye gods! we all know what they're like-' But Andrea was no longer listening. She had gone over to stand in front of the picture - her picture. A tremor ran through her body. She had never had a mother, never known who her own mother, was. And this sweet-faced woman in the picture was dead, and she would never meet her, but suppose, just suppose by some miracle that she was looking at the image of the person who had been her own mother? Just suppose. There was no way of knowing, except by asking lots of questions, and that she would do. If that woman what had he said her name was? Minerva? If Minerva had been in England twenty years ago then there was the possibility, the faint possibility, of that miracle. 'I'm sorry, Michael,' she said. 'I wasn't listening.' He crossed to be beside her. 'You're really hooked on that picture, aren't you?' he said, more in wonder than anger. 'I only want to help you, you know that, Andrea, and heaven knows, there's no one else to do it. I mean, you haven't any strapping brothers to look after you—' A brief tap at the door, and it opened, and Marco came in. 'Have you talked?' he asked. 'Yes,' answered Andrea. 'And I have some questions to ask.' 'Of course.' He smiled slightly. 'I would be surprised if you had not.' 'First, where does this uncle of yours live?' 'In Corfu. We have a villa. There are many people there also, staff and relatives. It is quite a large villa.'

'Second,' she swallowed, 'has your cousin Minerva ever been to England?' She held her breath for his answer. 'No.' He shook his head decisively, then something lit up his eyes. 'Ah, you have a reason for asking?' He paused. It was as if he was unable to frame the words that came into his mind at her question. Andrea looked at Michael. He had only been trying to protect her, in his own way, but Marco Leoni would find out soon enough that she was an orphan if she returned with him to Corfu - and she knew she was going to accept his offer, knew it as surely as she knew she was standing in the room with him. 'I ask because I'm an orphan. I don't know who my mother is - or was - and I suppose I've been searching for her for years—' and there she stopped, closer to tears than she had been for a long time. 'Ah, I see,' a long-drawn-out "ah", almost sad. 'Forgive me, I have no wish to upset you—' 'But you have done.' Michael put his arms round Andrea, and Marco said quickly: 'I regret it. Please allow me to get you a drink of something, Miss Brown.' And then, almost without a change of tone: 'Are you engaged to each other?' 'What's that got to do with it?' Michael demanded. Marco Leoni shrugged. 'Of course, it is none of my business, none at all. But if you are, I have been very rude to ask you like this - only I see no ring on your finger.' 'We're not engaged. We only work together,' Andrea answered. 'But Michael doesn't particularly trust you. I hope you don't blame him for that.'

'Indeed not. Excuse me,' he turned and went over to a drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. 'Please tell me what you would like, there is everything here.' A gleaming array of bottles came into view. 'Sherry - whisky - brandy - Martini?' 'I'll have a dry Martini,' answered Andrea. She never drank anything stronger than coffee, but that seemed to be the drink that everyone had in plays or books. 'Of course, and you, Mr. James?' Michael had an obvious struggle with his conscience. He clearly didn't want to accept a drink from this man, but at the same time he didn't want to be churlish. Andrea smiled a little to herself, the tears forgotten as she watched him, reading his mind, glad that he was there. 'A whisky, please,' he said. 'Good.' He handed Andrea her glass, then Michael, and lifted his own. 'Cheers.' She gasped a little at the sharp taste. Oh dear, was that what they meant by dry? She wasn't sure if she liked it - but other, more important things were happening. Because Marco, after that first polite sip of his whisky, put his glass down, and went on: 'Are there any more questions, Miss Brown?' 'I can't think of any, except - yes - why does your uncle think he has a granddaughter?' He shrugged. 'He is convinced of it - but we do not know why - only that in this past year, since his illness, he has spoken of little else. The doctors say we must humour him - but how do you humour a man with an obsession? Save perhaps by producing a granddaughter for him.' 'But that's cruel—' Michael began, to be interrupted by Marco with:

'Forgive me, but no, it is not. If you saw Uncle Stavros you would know what I mean. He is so ill—' he stopped, a dark sad look coming over his face, then, as if pulling himself together, went on: 'I am sorry. Please - another drink for you both?' 'Not for me, thank you,' said Andrea. She knew what she was going to do. In a way, it had been inevitable from the first moment she had seen the picture in the gallery. And she wanted a clear head. In a few minutes she would tell him. When the moment was right.

'It's all right, Michael,' Andrea said. 'I know what I'm doing. I've decided, Mr. Leoni. I will go to Corfu.' The man looked at her. Once again, just for a few brief seconds, it was as if Michael were not there. 'Thank you,' he said quietly. 'You will not regret it, I promise you that.' 'No,' she answered, 'I don't think I will.' She turned to Michael. 'I know you're advising me for the best, and thank you for that, but it will be all right, I feel it in my bones.' Michael was silent. Then he stood up, putting down his glass with great deliberation on the table. 'If your mind is made up,' he said, 'there's nothing more for me to say, is there? I suppose you'd like me to go sq that you can make your plans.' He sighed. Then as if coming to a decision himself, he smiled at them both. 'You know, Andrea, perhaps he's right. I've been acting as devil's advocate, trying my best to put you off - for your own good - but I can remember your face when you stood in the gallery. I knew then that there was something out of the ordinary about the portrait. Now I know exactly what it was. There is a likeness, in a strange way. Perhaps it's fate - who knows? I wish you luck, my dear.'

'You have no need to go, Mr. James,' Marco Leoni assured him. T admire you greatly for what you have done, and I thank you. But if you wish to stay, you are welcome. Perhaps we can all have dinner in a little while? We can talk. I have a good friend in London who is looking for a man like you. Forgive me asking, but are you perfectly satisfied in your job?' Michael couldn't help a grin at the apparently abrupt change of subject. 'Not really,' he admitted, 'but then who is? Why do you ask?' 'Because I might be able to put something your way - I believe that is the expression - as I say, I have a friend with a good business here, his name is Jack Gladstone - maybe you have heard of him?' 'The Jack Gladstone of C.B.A. Ltd?' asked Michael, his eyes widening. 'The very same. I will confess now, I checked on the firm at which you work this afternoon. Jack is in a similar line of business—' 'Only on a slightly larger scale,' Michael interrupted, with a wry smile at Andrea. 'Like comparing a dinghy to the Q.E. 2.' Marco shrugged. 'As you say. So, if I can help. It is no trouble. I can arrange an interview, strictly in confidence, and the rest will be up to you.' 'Thanks,' answered Michael, 'I appreciate that. But I must say now you don't have to feel you owe me anything, just because I accompanied Andrea here. I did it solely because I wanted to.' 'Yes, I know that. And when we have talked, as I would like us to, I think you will begin to appreciate that I have not asked her to do anything solely out of a spirit of recklessness - but for good valid

reasons. More, I hope to make you see that she will not in any way regret what she is going to do.' Michael nodded. 'Thanks. I'll stay. But I'd like to phone my mother, if I may. She'll be expecting me home.' 'But of course. There is a telephone in the bedroom. Come, I will show you.' When he returned, Marco looked at Andrea. 'Is there anyone you need to telephone? I am very remiss, I should have asked you before.' 'No one,' she smiled. 'No one at all.' 'Shall we eat downstairs in the restaurant? Or would you prefer to eat up here?' She looked at her dress, then at him. 'I'm not dressed for dining out,' she said simply. 'Does that bother you? I promise you that you look just right for eating anywhere. And in any case, as my guest, you can do, or wear, precisely what you like.' It was said without arrogance, merely with a quiet assurance, a supreme confidence. 'Yes, I'm sure. But I'm not used to such places, not like you. I'd really rather eat up here - if it's possible.' 'Then it shall be so. For me, anything is possible.' He smiled gently, to show that he was joking, and Andrea thought: But he means it, because he looks the sort of man who gets his own way wherever he goes. And when Michael returned, Marco picked up the telephone, and asked for menus to be sent up.

And then, a few minutes later, a strange thing happened. Both men had left the room, Marco to show Michael where the bathroom in their suite was, and Andrea was alone, standing in front of the picture, just looking at it, and she heard the door from the corridor open, and turned round, wondering why the waiter hadn't knocked and saw a man walk in. A man who looked as if he belonged. She caught her breath as, just for a second, their eyes met in a silent startling clash. There was a rushing sound in her ears as she stood there watching him, unable to move. He was tall, powerfully built, darkly handsome. She had found and torn out of a magazine years before, at the children's home, a photograph of a man, a French ski instructor, and had carried it about with her for months before it had finally disintegrated. It could have been this man's double - but here was no photograph but a living, flesh and blood creature - all male, hard, dark, arrogant. And then he spoke. His voice was deep, as deep as Marco's but with a harder edge to it. 'What are you doing here?' he said. Andrea was shy, and by nature gentle, but something in his manner strung her. She had a right to be in the room - she wasn't sure if he had, although he had walked in as if he did, and if he thought she was a maid he could have had better manners. There was no need for rudeness. She lifted her chin. 'I'm a guest of a Mr. Leoni,' she answered, and her eyes sparked with the righteous indignation that she felt. 'Who are you?' She deliberately accentuated the 'you', because that was what he had done. Suddenly, almost imperceptibly, his manner changed. He walked towards Andrea. 'I am Dominic Faro, Marco's cousin,' he said. 'Forgive me if I seemed abrupt. Seeing you there, with the window light behind you, I thought you were someone else.' And he held out his hand.

CHAPTER THREE WHO, she wondered, did he think I was? For just a second she had sensed tightly leashed anger in that room as he entered. It had surrounded him like an aura, sparking the response in her. His handshake was firm. There was a deep strength about him, evident in the broad shoulders, the closely fitting brown suede jacket that showed the powerful chest and narrow waist to perfection. But even more clear in his face. There was a faint likeness to his cousin about the features, but it was fleeting. His eyes were dark brown, nearly black, and his hair was jet black, touched faintly with grey at the temples. Thick black brows, sooty lashes, deep tan, a long straight nose, a hard full mouth - she found to her horror that she was staring at him and pulled her hand away, fearful he would notice. But his scrutiny of her was equally keen, those black eyes boring into hers as he said: 'May I ask your name?' 'Andrea Brown.' She half turned away, suddenly nervous. 'Mr. Leoni won't be—' and as she said it, Marco Leoni returned. Relief washed over her. 'Why, Dominic, I didn't expect you back yet this, evening.' If Marco was put out by his cousin's arrival, he hid it well, yet Andrea, with her sensitivity, perceived a slight undercurrent of tension in the air between the two. 'May I introduce you?' he went on, and Dominic said: 'We have already introduced ourselves. No, I didn't expect to be back either, but I was passing by here on my way to the Fowlers' and I remembered I'd promised to take Mark those photographs. I have a taxi waiting downstairs.' Was Marco relieved? There was something about his face that seemed to show he was, but it was gone in an instant.

'Then you've no time for a drink? Pity.' 'No. I'm sorry. Excuse me. Miss Brown.' He went to a writing bureau, passing in front of her on his way. A quick search through some papers, then he found the envelope he had been looking for, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. 'I should be in about midnight, Marco.' He glanced at the picture as he passed it, but there was nothing on his face save that hardness Andrea had already noted. Then he held out his hand to her. 'Good-bye, Miss Brown. It was a pleasure meeting you.' 'Good-bye.' Marco accompanied him to the door, and out into the corridor. She heard their voices, pitched very low. He had said good-bye - as if he didn't expect to see her again. Was he accustomed to his cousin having casual female visitors? Andrea felt her face flame. He had also said it had been a pleasure meeting her, which was palpably untrue, because he had been anything but pleased when he had first seen her. She rubbed her hands together. Her right one still tingled from his touch, which was very odd. 'I'm sorry. I hope Dominic didn't startle you?' Marco came into the room, as Michael re-entered it from the bathroom, face shining after a good wash, hair brushed tidily back. . 'Only a little,' she said, unwilling to speak the truth. 'I was expecting a waiter, actually,' and as she said it there was a knock at the door, and Marco opened it to return with several glossy menus. There was one important question to be asked. 'Does your cousin know what you plan?' she Said. Marco regarded them both thoughtfully, as he handed each of them a menu. 'Not yet,' he said. 'But he isn't related to Uncle Stavros. He's

a cousin on the other side of the family. So it doesn't really concern him.' Doesn't it? thought Andrea. I wonder? She had not imagined that anger, so swiftly controlled, she was too sensitive to atmosphere for that. And if he didn't know about the planned deception, then it must have been for a different reason. But what? For a moment he had thought she was someone else, until she had spoken. She mentally shrugged. It's nothing to do with me, she thought, not now. But there she was mistaken.

She awoke very early from a restless sleep the following morning. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains of her small bed-sitter, and outside, the dawn chorus was in full cry. She groaned and looked at her watch. Just gone six, and there would be no more sleep for her that morning. Andrea reached for her slippers, pattered across as quietly as she could to her tiny kitchen that was more like a cupboard than a room, and lit the gas ring. A cup of tea in bed unaccustomed luxury - would give her time to think about the mindboggling events of the previous day. Events that were not over, for things had only just been started in motion, and no one knew where they might lead. She had several tasks to do today. The main one was to search out her birth certificate from the box of all-too-few personal treasures that she possessed. The second was to write her resignation and post it to work to arrive - with luck - on Monday morning. The third - and this was the one that would give her most pleasure - was to tell Mrs. Burrows, the landlady, that she would be leaving in two weeks. Mrs. Burrows was a sharp-tongued shrew who watched every move that her three tenants - all working girls made, and criticized constantly. If she could have found anywhere else to live, Andrea would have done so, but accommodation was hard to find, virtually impossible unless you had money, which she had not. Her husband was worse, but in another way. Andrea always

avoided him whenever possible, for she knew that any complaints about him to his wife would not be believed. But she had had an extra lock fitted to her door, on the advice of one of the other girls, and had lain in terror one night, hearing a key fumbling in the lock, trying to open her door - until she had remembered, thankfully, that second mortice lock. Mrs. Burrows had been away, there was no proof - but ever since then she had spent week-ends scouring the estate agents' windows, and the advertisements in the papers, in vain. Now, sitting up in bed, holding the hot beaker, she felt a sense of freedom for the first time in her life. Soon she would leave here, this room with its faded, shabby carpet and dark walls. She had opened the curtains and the early sunlight streamed in, accentuating the poverty-stricken air of it all. And she remembered something Marco had told her when Michael had pointed out to him that when she returned to London she would have to start searching all over again for somewhere to live. 'I will guarantee to pay a year's rent on the apartment of your choice,' Marco had told them both. 'In fact that will be part of the contract with my solicitor, I promise you.' 'But,' Andrea had protested, alarmed, 'the rent on anywhere even half-way decent is fantastically high. I'm afraid you don't realize—' and he had cut in with a shrug: 'No matter. You have my word on that. I have contacts in the business world, there is no problem.' And he had changed the subject to something more immediate, as if the rent on anything was of little importance. 'I want you to be prepared to come as soon as possible,' he had said. 'You have a passport?'

'No,' Andrea admitted. 'I've never been abroad.' 'Then we will see to that immediately. Please let me have your birth certificate - I will see to the rest. You will only have to sign, that is all.' They had eaten a superb meal - although Andrea had had little appetite. And then, when it was nearly ten o'clock, he had called for the hire car to take them home. He was coming for her that afternoon. Andrea had not wanted him to see where she lived, but he was adamant. He would be there at two o'clock. She knew there was no use arguing about it. And remembering this now, she swallowed the last of her tea. At least the place would be clean and sparkling when he arrived. She had eight hours ahead of her. After a piece of toast for breakfast she would get to work. Putting down her empty beaker on the floor, she lay back for five minutes, just to think about it all. When she awoke again, it was half past ten. Horrified, she jumped out of bed, and went to wash at the sink in her kitchen. An hour or so later she was beginning to realize that she should have left her ablutions until she had finished the cleaning. Dressed in her oldest jeans and sweater, her hair tied back with an elastic band, and with a huge smut on her nose that she could see if she squinted, she felt in sore need of a bath. But at least the room was as sparkling as it ever could be. It was Mrs. Burrows' habit to come for the rent before noon, and when the peremptory rap came on the door Andrea stifled a momentary twinge of apprehension and picked up her purse. The job had to be done. She wasn't so sure now if she would find it so satisfying after all...

'Good morning, Mrs. Burrows, will you come in, I've got—' and then her voice faded in shock as she saw who stood there. Not her landlady, nor even her husband. But Dominic Faro. 'Good morning, Miss Brown. May I come in, please? I have something to say to you.' She had never been concerned with her looks, but now she wished that she had at least been clean. 'I thought you were my landlady,' she said numbly. Then: 'How did you find me?' 'I asked our hire car driver. Marco does not know I am here. May I come in or not? There is a suspicious- looking woman waiting at the foot of the stairs. She was very reluctant to tell me your room.' She almost pulled him in then. 'Oh! Mrs. Burrows. Yes - sorry. She doesn't like us to have men visitors.' 'No?' Was he amused? She couldn't tell. He crossed to the window, looked out at the view of rows of identical chimneys, and then turned back to her. Then perhaps I had better be brief, or who knows what she might think? I will come straight to the point, Miss Brown. Marco has told me about this scheme of his, and I want you to reconsider it. In fact, I will put it more strongly than that. I would prefer it if you told him you were not going to go to Corfu.' 'I think you'd better sit down,' said Andrea quietly. She was not mistaken - this man carried with him an air of hostility. She didn't like it. It was not that she wasn't used to it. Mrs. Burrows was permanently resentful of her - and probably of everyone else too; and in the children's home, at which she had stayed on after sixteen to work with the younger orphans, there had been a spiteful cook who had done her best to make Andrea's life a misery. But this man was different. He had only met her the previous day - and even then, without having the faintest idea who she was or why she was there,

he had acted in a distinctly unfriendly way. And now this blunt statement - he would prefer it if she did not go to Corfu. Just like that. She looked at him sitting on her easy chair. Looked hard at him, then said: 'Why?' 'Because it is a cruel deception on a very sick man.' Andrea didn't know what had come over her. Not only was she not frightened of this man, but now she was quite prepared to argue with him. 'No, it's not,' she said. 'Your cousin Marco explained the situation to me. He persuaded me to go - and now I've decided to do just that. You say that he doesn't even know you've come here. Why not? Are you scared he would have stopped you?' She was amazed at her own temerity - yet at the same time she was filled with an inner strength. Because she knew now there was a tightness in what she contemplated. She stood tall and straight, no longer caring about her appearance. He stood up and crossed the room to her. 'Scared? I am frightened of no one, Miss Brown. Not Marco, not anyone—' a small smile quirked his mouth. 'Not even you.' 'I didn't expect you to be,' she retorted. 'Why should you be? This time yesterday I wasn't even aware of you or your cousin's existence. It wasn't me who sought him out, it was the other way round. Anything you have to say on this matter should be said to your cousin, not me. But I think you know that it would be a waste of time, don't you? Which is why you've come here. Well, I'm writing out my resignation to work this morning, and when my landlady comes for the rent I'm going to tell her that I'll be leaving in two weeks. In fact, Mr. Faro, I'll be perfectly frank with you.

Even if I hadn't been decided in my mind before, I would be now, after meeting you. You were aggressive that first moment you came into the hotel room last evening - you made me feel as if I had no right to be there - and now you're continuing the same way. I've done nothing to you, have I?' She stopped, her breast heaving as if she had been running. An inner trembling threatened to overwhelm her, but she strove to contain it, not to let him see. 'He said you were quiet and shy,' said Dominic Faro in his hard voice. 'He was quite mistaken, was he not? You are very determined.' His dark eyes were shadowed, nearly black. He could have been very intimidating and it was an effort for her to keep her nerve in face of his hard antagonism, but she managed it - just. 'I think you had better leave,' she managed to say, keeping her voice very steady with a determined effort. 'There's nothing more to say.' 'Yes, there is. One thing. There will be no money for you. Does that change the balance?' Wide-eyed, Andrea stared at him. 'What do you mean?' The wide cruel mouth twisted cynically. 'Oh, come now, Miss Brown. Do you not think that a long-lost "granddaughter" could cause Stavros to change his will? Are you trying to say that you had not thought about that?' She put her hand to her mouth to stop the gasp of horror escaping. So that was his reason for coming! He thought she was a golddigger! 'Go away—' she began. 'J-just get out!' 'Marvellous!' he said softly. 'You are even better than I imagined. No wonder Marco was taken in by-

She lashed out with all her strength and caught his face so that the room echoed with the resounding slap - and then the door was pushed violently open and Mrs. Burrows marched in, her large body quivering with indignation. 'All right!' she said. 'That's quite enough! I will not have disgusting behaviour in my house. I've heard quite enough! You can just get out of here,' and Andrea thought for a minute that she would attempt to throw Dominic Faro out bodily. She was big enough, certainly, a huge mountain of a woman, her three chins wobbling with the effort to speak. Andrea, filled with sick horror, realized that she had been listening outside. And then Dominic Faro spoke. The mark of Andrea's hand had barely faded from his cheek, and he looked powerfully formidable as he turned on Mrs. Burrows and said: 'Are you speaking to me, madam?' Mrs. Burrows was, unfortunately for her, not sensitive to atmosphere, or she would have realized that the man she confronted was filled with an icy, towering rage. 'There's no one else here, is there? - 'cept her,' this with a contemptuous jerk of her head towards Andrea. 'And I'll deal with 'er after. Now just move yourself before I call my husband to sort you out.' 'I'll go when Miss Brown and I have finished what we have to say,' responded Dominic Faro with a glacial calm. 'And not before.' And he turned his back on her. That did it. Mrs. Burrows was not used to being ignored. She went to the door. 'Albert!' she shouted. 'Al-bert - come here at once!' Thundering footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of Mr. Burrows, clearly from a waiting position at the foot of them judging by his immediate response. Andrea closed her eyes. This was a nightmare. She was trembling now.

'Please go,' she begged. 'He's a violent man - he—' but too late. Mr. Burrows, breathing heavily, crashed into the room. 'All right,' he said. 'All right, Mabel, what's going on?' He stuck out his chest and looked Dominic Faro up and down as if measuring him for size. 'These two. Him,' retorted his wife. 'Quarrelling in my house. - I won't 'ave it. I've told him to go and he just ignored me.' Clearly that was what rankled. Dominic Faro turned slowly and looked Albert Burrows straight in the eye. Then he smiled, and seeing it, Andrea froze. 'Madam,' he said softly, not taking his eyes from her husband, 'if your husband attempts to touch me I promise you I will break both his arms.' Then he looked at Mrs. Burrows. 'And what exactly do you mean by saying you would deal with Miss Brown after?' The atmosphere in the room had changed subtly. The man in the centre of it was so patently unafraid of either the landlord or his wife - more, was so obviously powerful and formidable - that both Mr. and Mrs. Burrows seemed to shrink slightly. It would have been a joy to see at any other time, but Andrea was so confused and upset by her own disturbance with him that her mind was in a turmoil. She wanted desperately to sit down, for her legs threatened to give way beneath her. Mrs. Burrows rallied. 'This is my house,' she said, but not quite as belligerently. 'If I want a word with my tenants I can have one.' 'Possibly,' conceded Dominic Faro. 'But you made it sound like a threat.' He turned to Andrea. 'Why don't you tell them that you are leaving?'

'But I—' Andrea began, now completely confused. 'We'll sort that other problem out later. It's obvious you can't stay on here now in this filthy hovel—' 'Now just a minute,' began Mr. Burrows, advancing threateningly. 'What do you mean by—' 'What I said.' His eyes flashed fire at the smaller man. 'I suggest you look round it some time. Miss Brown intended giving in her notice today—' 'Then she can leave right now,' shrieked Mrs. Burrows. 'Ungrateful baggage, after all I've done - you can pay a month's rent, before you go, too—' 'Oh, but I—' began Andrea, feeling almost ill by now. 'A month's rent, you say?' cut in Dominic Faro smoothly. 'What are the tenancy agreements, would you mind telling me?' He turned to Andrea. 'Where is your rent book, Miss Brown?' 'I don't have one—' she began, to be interrupted by Mrs. Burrows' shrill: 'She doesn't need one—' 'Doesn't need one?' Dominic Faro cut in again. 'Doesn't need one? Are you aware that you are breaking the law?' Mr. Burrows decided that it was time he asserted himself again, perhaps because he hadn't been very successful before. 'Listen here,' he blustered. 'Who are you, coming here telling us about the law?' 'My name is Dominic Faro,' he said. 'Not that it's any of your business. And for your information, Miss Brown doesn't have to pay you a penny if she doesn't choose to. You have just told her to leave

in front of a witness - me - and if that doesn't suit you I suggest you send your bill to my solicitors, whose name I will give you in a moment. Perhaps you will find it easier to explain in court why you felt a rent book was not required.' He smiled gently. 'I suggest you get your things packed up, Miss Brown. I have a car waiting outside. How long will it take you to get ready?' There seemed no point in arguing with him. It would be like attempting to stop a rampaging bulldozer with a sandcastle. 'Fifteen minutes,' she said. 'Good.' He went and held the door wide open. 'Will you please leave this room? For the next fifteen minutes Miss Brown is the legal tenant. After that it's all yours again.' 'You threatened my Albert,' muttered Mrs. Burrows. 'I'm going to call the police.' 'You may do so. I shall be pleased to explain the situation to them. Now will you please go? I intend to help Miss Brown pack.' There were the sounds of doors closing in another part of the house. No doubt the scene had been heard by the other girls. Andrea, bemused, sat on the bed as Mr. and Mrs. Burrows marched out, both red-faced and muttering. Dominic Faro shut the door firmly. 'Get packed,' he said briskly. 'But I've nowhere to go,' said Andrea miserably. She had the feeling that everything was being taken out of her hands. 'And you said—' 'Never mind what I said. We'll sort that out later. I wouldn't let my worst enemy stay here. And that woman would make your life hell if you didn't go now.'

'She's going to call the police,' said Andrea, her eyes widening as she remembered. 'Please go.' 'Why? And leave you to face the music alone? Do you think I am a man who could do that? There is no fear, anyway. Did you not see their faces when I told them about the rent book?' 'I hit you,' said Andrea, in a complete non sequitur. 'I was aware of that. We'll discuss that later too.' 'It was because you implied that I—' 'I said we'll discuss it later. Now, please get ready to leave. Do you wish me to help you?' 'You never let me finish a sentence!' she said, in a last gesture of defiance. 'No. Because there is not much time. There will be - later.' 'But where?' 'At our hotel. Where else? You cannot stay here. Surely even you can see that? Had that stupid man attacked me he would have regretted it. He is a bully of the worst kind - so is his wife.' Andrea turned away and began to empty the dressing table drawers of the clothes they held - a pitifully small collection, and her large battered suitcase would suffice for nearly everything, she knew. There seemed nothing more to say. She was exhausted, drained of energy. She fastened the case and looked round, mentally surveying what else there might be. Her small box of personal treasures was already on the bed.

'May I take this down to the car?' he said gently - for him, pointing to the case. 'Yes. Oh!' she had suddenly remembered. 'I should change from these—' she gestured at her jeans and sweater. 'No, that is not necessary. But if I may make a suggestion - the smut on your nose—' 'I'll wash.' He picked up the suitcase and went out of the door, and Andrea splashed cold water on her face and rubbed it vigorously with her towel. She put this on her little box and then sighed. That was it. A year's occupation finished. And oh, the sense of relief! It was almost overwhelming. About the fact that she really had nowhere else to go, and that if Dominic Faro had his way she would not be travelling to Corfu, she thought not at all. There was only so much that her mind could take in at once, and the unpleasant scene had tired her immeasurably. For the first time in ages, Mr. and Mrs. Burrows had met their match - perhaps for the first time ever. She didn't imagine that it would in any way improve their dispositions, but miracles could happen. Dominic tapped on the door and she told him to come in. He laid a card on her table. 'My solicitor's card,' he said. 'If they wish to pursue matters, they may do so, but I doubt it.' She stuffed the small towel in her handbag and picked up her little box of personal possessions. 'I'm ready now,' she said. 'Then come,' he answered. Without a backward glance, Andrea went out of the dingy house and into warm sunlight, to where the Daimler waited, engine purring at the kerb. It was as though an episode in her life had ended, and with it came the beginning of another one. Nothing would ever be quite the same again.

CHAPTER FOUR ANDREA had expected Marco Leoni to be at the Ritz when they arrived, but the suite was empty. Fresh flowers provided a mocking welcome - they were beautiful, but she was no wanted visitor. She was here solely because Dominic Faro had made it impossible to stay on at her little bedsitter. He put her case down by the window. It had been carried up by a carefully expressionless-faced porter - but she could imagine what he might be thinking. When the door closed behind him, she burst out: 'I can't stay here. You know I can't.' Dominic Faro raised an inquiring eyebrow. 'Why not?' 'It should be obvious,' she retorted. 'For one thing I haven't the clothes, for another I can guess what the staff here are thinking about me, and I have my pride - even though you may not think so.' He gave her a hard look. 'What do you mean by that?' She was getting fed up with the whole situation - she was fast becoming angry with him, now that she was away from the Burrows and their shrill arguments. She went nearer to him and looked up at him. 'I don't think I need to spell it out for you, do I?' she answered. 'You consider me some little gold-digger, which I'm not; you've effectively left me without another place to sleep, you don't want me to do as your cousin Marco suggests, and yet you bring me here. So what am I supposed to do? Be grateful? I wish I'd never been to that wretched exhibition yesterday—' and then her eye was caught by the picture, which still reposed on the chair, and she faltered. It wasn't true! She closed her eyes, and felt herself sway, almost as if she

were about to faint. She felt his hands gripping her arms, and in a comparatively gentle voice, he said: 'Sit down. I'll send for something to drink. Coffee?' 'No.' She shook her head violently and tears filled her eyes as she looked up at him. 'Why don't you leave me alone?' 'Have you eaten today?' 'Why - why do you care?' 'Because you look as if you don't eat enough. I'll send for some lunch. You'll feel better when you've eaten.' 'I don't want any favours from you,' she gritted. 'Let go of my arms!' He did a surprising thing. As he released her he put his hand up and touched her cheek. 'Real tears,' he said softly. 'Have I made you cry?' 'Would it please you if I said yes?' she said. 'No. I'm not a sadist. I wouldn't do that to any woman.' 'Then why do you say the things you do to me?' He looked at her for a few moments. 'Because it is necessary. You cannot do as Marco wishes.' 'Then why did you bring me here?' He shrugged. 'There was nowhere else. Don't worry, I will find you somewhere this weekend - somewhere respectable. You will not be left without a place to live. Marco and I will talk over the weekend.'

Then he turned abruptly as if he had said enough, and it was as though shutters had closed. His face was hard, implacable. He means it, she thought. He is really determined for me not to go. And the words he had said in these moments of their first, electric, meeting came back to her. 'I thought you were someone else,' he had said. It was the way he had said them that stayed with her. In a bleak harsh tone, the words had conveyed more than their actual meaning. Whoever it was he mistook me for, she thought, in a blinding flash of realization, was someone who had made him very unhappy.

He had changed again. Just for a short time, on their first arrival at the Ritz, Dominic had, been almost pleasant - but that was gone now. She knew that as soon as Marco Leoni returned, and Dominic had told him briefly of the events of the morning. Whether Marco was angry at Dominic's intervention it was difficult to tell. He was certainly surprised, there was no doubt about that. And although the two cousins appeared to have a fairly good relationship, there were undercurrents that struck Andrea forcefully. Maybe even they were not aware of them. Different personalities that they were, perhaps it was unavoidable. In that case, wondered Andrea, why did they come to England together? Dominic went out after lunch and Marco and Andrea were left alone in the suite. 'Do not disturb yourself too much over Dominic,' he said. 'Does he frighten you?' 'I suppose so - in a way. He is so determined that I shouldn't go to Corfu - he thinks this idea of yours is terrible,' Andrea said, 'I'm afraid we had a bad argument about it this morning. That's why I'm here. My landlady heard and told us to get out—'

'I know,' said Marco. 'Dominic told me. I am very sorry - but no, to be quite truthful, in a way I am pleased. For it means you are here, and not in any danger of vanishing.' It was so startling that Andrea laughed. 'What do you mean?' she managed at last. He shrugged. 'A little joke - but there was always the fear that you might change your mind and just go away. - I am completely devoted to my uncle, Miss Brown. My own father died when I was a boy and Uncle Stavros reared me. I was reluctant to leave him to come to England for this exhibition, but he insisted - and as he does not realize how ill he is, it is essential for some appearance of normality to be maintained. However,' he regarded her thoughtfully, 'I think we will return to Corfu as soon as we have your passport and as I have friends in certain Government offices—' he grinned briefly - 'it may only be a few days, especially when I tell them it is an errand of mercy.' He looked at his watch. 'Now, would you like to come out with me and buy some clothes? I have an account at several London stores—' 'But I haven't any—' Andrea began. 'Please. You are officially my employee. And in a way you are like my cousin now - yes? So—' he shrugged. 'No arguments, please.' 'Then if we're cousins, hadn't you better stop calling me Miss Brown?' He laughed. 'Of course - Andrea. Come.' He held out his hand and pulled her up from the chair. Then, just for a moment, his face went serious. 'Thank you,' he said quietly. 'Thank you for agreeing to go to Corfu. I want to tell you something now, something to reassure you. I am aware that the circumstances are unusual - but I promise

you that I will treat you as if you were my sister. You are very safe with me. You do know what I mean, do you not?' 'Yes,' she nodded. 'But I trusted you from the first time I met you - I don't know why. Perhaps it's woman's intuition, and I'm glad I've left the Burrows' house too - but for different reasons.' 'Yes. Dominic said your landlords were not a very pleasant couple. Did the man actually threaten him?' he spoke in tones of wonder. 'Yes.' She shuddered. 'It was awful. I was frightened - Mr. Burrows is a natural bully—' 'There would have been no trouble, I promise you. Dominic can incapacitate a man in seconds without any violence. He would not even have been aware of what happened to him - until he realized he had a shocking headache afterwards.' 'I hit him,' she said tonelessly. 'Your landlord?' he began to laugh. 'No. Dominic.' Marco's expression changed. He frowned. 'What did he do?' 'I thought he might have told you,' she faltered. Clearly he had not. 'It doesn't matter—' 'But yes. Did he insult you?' Andrea sighed. 'He implied that I was perhaps - hoping to gain something—' she stopped. 'No, it doesn't matter. Perhaps he had reasons, who knows? He's only trying to protect your Uncle Stavros, I'm sure. And - and I seem to remind him of someone—' she stopped

as she saw light dawning on Marco's face - a sudden realization, an awareness. 'What is it?' she whispered. 'How blind I've been!' he half turned away, his glance coming to rest briefly on the picture before he looked out of the window. 'Of course, how stupid!' He struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. 'Please tell me,' said Andrea. 'Please.' Marco looked at her. 'I can't,' he answered. 'Even though you have possibly the right. But it explains why Dominic doesn't want you in Corfu. Just accept that you are going, and leave it to me. Leave Dominic to me as well.' He gave a dry laugh. 'You mustn't let him frighten you, you know.' 'Frighten me?' She said the words slowly. 'Yes, perhaps he does in a way.' She shivered, just for a moment. 'He's not an ordinary man. He gives an impression of great - power, somehow.' Her eyes met Marco's, and his were shadowed, giving nothing away. Just for an instant - then he smiled, and his face was transformed. 'Come,' he said, 'let us go shopping. We will also have your photograph taken. First of all, though, I will show you to your room. I have arranged for you to have one on this floor, and they have already taken your case there.' 'Yes, I know. Are you sure—' she stopped. 'Am I sure of what?' he asked gently. She shrugged. 'All this - this trouble you're going to. Are you sure it will be - all right?'

'Of course it will be. Please - just trust me. Now—' this more briskly. 'Are you ready?' 'Yes.' She had changed into her best trouser suit. Pale grey-blue, with a bush-type jacket, it was casual and - so the girls at the office had assured her - elegant. With it she wore a plain white silk blouse. The whole outfit had only been bought after careful saving, and she had been dubious about the extravagance of it at the time, but now she was glad. She had no idea where they were going, but she had an idea that it could well be somewhere expensive. 'Then let us go. You look very charming, Andrea.' She smiled. 'Thank you.' He held the door open. 'The car is waiting for us downstairs. After you - cousin.'

All that Andrea wanted to do when they returned to the Ritz at teatime was take off her shoes and put her feet up. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically, from the hectic whirl of an afternoon's shopping. Marco, as if sensing something of this, smiled. 'Relax,' he said. 'I will ring down for tea, or would you prefer coffee?' 'Oh, tea, please,' she sat down on the luxurious settee and sank back into the accommodating cushions. 'My feet are aching. May I take my shoes off?' Marco threw back his head and laughed. 'But of course! You do not even need to ask, Andrea. Consider this—' he threw his arms expansively open, 'as your home.'

She shook her head, the constant bewilderment in her coming to the fore. 'How can I?' she asked simply. 'When all this has happened in just one day? I'm too stunned by it all, and now these—' she pointed to the boxes and bags that Marco had piled by the door. 'All those clothes. What can I say?' 'Poor Andrea!' Marco sat on the edge of the settee and looked at her. 'Of course, I think I understand. Is it all too much for you?' His glance held concern. He was, she thought, a remarkably gentle man. Not like his cousin Dominic. And at memory of him, an inward tremor filled her. What would he say about all this? Practically a wardrobe bought in one afternoon. 'Not really, I suppose I'm getting used to it - but give me time. Nothing like this has ever happened before to me. It's like a dream.' She managed to smile. 'Then a cup of tea will help.' He went and picked up the telephone. While he spoke to the receptionist, he fumbled in his jacket pocket for the thin cheroots he smoked. Andrea watched him. And when he put the telephone down, she asked the question that had been in the background of her mind ever since Michael had showed her a certain newspaper cutting. 'You mustn't stay in on my account,' she said. 'I saw your photograph in a paper - and it implied—' she bit her lip, but his expression was too intrigued for her to stop there. A mixture of fascination and amusement in his eyes, he prompted gently: 'Yes?' 'That you - er - both liked night clubs.' 'Ah!' He grinned boyishly. 'Those gossip columns - they have nothing better to do.' He gave an expressive shrug. 'Of course, we both enjoy a flutter on the tables, but that is all—' Then as if

something had just struck him: 'But wait - would you like to visit one?' 'Oh no? Andrea's eyes widened in dismay and alarm. Had she sounded as if she were hinting? She hastened to correct any mistaken impression, 'I didn't mean that, truly. Heavens, I couldn't ever go in one of those places—' 'Why not?' he asked simply. 'Because—' she struggled for words. Honesty was clearly the best policy with this charming man. 'Because I'd be frightened of doing something silly.' 'Would you? I doubt it. You have a naturally graceful manner, Andrea. Believe me. I think it is a good idea - to celebrate.' 'To celebrate what?' 'Leaving your apartment? Making a big decision - to help me? Do you need a reason to celebrate?' He shook his head. 'No, of course you don't. It will be my pleasure to take you out. That .should be reason enough. See, we will drink our tea in a civilized English manner, and then we will make our plans for the evening.' 'But I—' she began weakly, and he held up his hand. 'No buts. No arguments. It is decided. We shall go.'

It wasn't easy, reflected Andrea several hours later, to adjust to a complete new way of life - but she was trying. The large room was crowded with people milling round the roulette tables, the noise was terrific - but she had lost her first unreasoning fear and was actually beginning to enjoy herself. Marco sat at the table before her and she

held on tightly to the back of his chair as if she might be swept away if she released her grip. 'Rien ne va plus, mesdames et messieurs,' droned the expressionless voice of the croupier as the wheel began to spin, and the ball clickclicked round in a hypnotic anti-spiral. She was hemmed in, unable to move, and expensive scents assailed her nostrils, heady, exotic. The atmosphere vibrated with the excitement of money changing hands. 'You are all right?' Marco turned his head slightly, briefly, before looking back to the green baize table. 'Yes, I'm fine.' But it was hot, too hot. The shimmery white dress she wore clung to her and she wondered suddenly what would happen if she fainted. Hard brittle voices eddied round her. The air was blue with smoke - and she was suddenly compelled to look up and across the room. Dominic Faro stood in the archway from the entrance watching her. Andrea's breath caught in her throat and she felt her heart began to pound. His eyes were dark and intent, and there was no smile of recognition on his face, merely that hardness she had glimpsed more than once before. 'Dominic's here,' she said to Marco, who was seeing his chips being rapidly scooped away. 'Is he? Wave to him, get him over here.' She looked across, and Dominic had turned away to speak to someone, so that he was in profile. Dark, hawklike, there was that deep strength in his face that she had seen before. But there was more. For an instant of time, as she watched him, Andrea was aware of a dizziness within her, a rushing of blood to her head - a picture in her mind's eye from the dim and distant past coming to blot out her immediate surroundings. It was as if she had always known him.

Then the moment passed. She blinked her eyes and the disturbing image was gone. He had turned again, to face her, and she beckoned with her hand. He was one of those people who never had to wait - or push. A subtle moving aside of those surrounding her, an imperceptible shifting of positions, and he was beside them. Yet he didn't seem conscious of this; it was as if, thought Andrea, that was the way he always moved through life - knowing that others would give way to him. Was that why he had come to see her? Because no one dared refuse him? And what might have happened had Mrs. Burrows not intervened? Andrea could not answer that. For in quiet waves of utter horror, she was reliving the dreadful scene of that morning, in her flat, and remembering the things she had actually dared to say to Dominic Faro, the man who now stood so quietly by her side, bending over to speak to his cousin in an undertone. She had actually argued with him - and then struck him. She had managed to put it right out of her mind - until now - but seeing him again so unexpectedly, seeing the quiet, powerful way that he moved, she was even more amazed at her own temerity. She knew she must not show it on her face. He was too shrewd, almost as if he could read her mind. And yet - the sudden thought came - had it not been for him, she would not be staying at the Ritz now. What a strange, complex man he was! And at that moment he straightened up, his brief discussion with Marco finished, and looked at Andrea. 'Do you not fancy a flutter, Miss Brown?' he asked her. His eyes were so dark, and if the hostility was there it was well veiled. 'No,' she answered. 'And my name is Andrea.' She met those black flashing eyes with her own. He could hardly start another argument here, and if there were going to be more clashes of personalities they might as well be before she set off for Corfu. I don't know what's come over me,, she thought. A man like Dominic

can be absolutely terrifying, but just at the moment I'm not a bit scared of him - just at the moment. The situation might well change, but here, now, I don't really care. She forgot that two glasses of champagne might have something to do with her confident state. Never having drunk it before, she had treated it with less respect than she should. It had, after all, just tasted like a rather fizzy, mild wine. In fact she looked round and added: 'But I'd like another drink of ( champagne.' An eyebrow was raised in mild query. 'Yes?' he said. 'Of course,' and he raised one finger to a passing waiter. The next moment a glass was in her hand, bubbles popping merrily. That's how he does it, she thought. Just as simply as that. She sipped at the champagne. Two women at the opposite side of the table were watching them both. Their faces were hard, well made up, their expressions faintly amused - and yet not. There was something else there too in their eyes - and Andrea felt herself going pink. They are his type, she thought. They're as hard as him and they're wondering what I'm doing here - and they think they know. She lifted her glass and swallowed all the champagne. Then she wished she had not. The lights above danced and blurred and she took a deep breath. And suddenly she felt very unhappy. 'I want to go home,' she said. Dominic frowned. 'You do not like it here?' he said, and it seemed to Andrea that there was cool amusement, knowing, in his tone. 'Not really. I thought I might - but—' she faltered. 'But - what?' he prompted. He's enjoying this, she thought. He's seen the women looking and he knows. She looked at Marco, but he was engrossed in the game, and the pile of chips was growing steadily.

'Nothing. I can't explain. I don't - don't - feel very well,' she added desperately. It was beginning to be true. Her head was spinning, not unpleasantly yet, but it was a strange sensation and she didn't like it. She had some money in her bag, and tried desperately to remember how much. Would it be enough for a taxi? How humiliating if she had not enough. 'Do you wish me to escort you back to the hotel?' he asked. 'You?' she looked at him and blinked. "You've only just come.' 'Does that matter? Marco, as you can see, has hit a winning streak. I do not think that he would wish to leave yet - and he would certainly not hear of you going alone.' Warning bells rang in her head. He was not a man to admit defeat, she felt sure. Marco was her friend, the one who wanted her in Corfu. Dominic did not - but did that make him her enemy? Would he begin the attack again if he had her on her own? She felt confused. 'Perhaps I'd better wait for Marco,' she said, but her head had started to throb and she put her hand to her temple, as if to ease it. Dominic bent down and whispered something to his cousin, and then took Andrea's arm. 'Come,' he said. 'I have told Marco you have a headache. We have lost him now anyway. See how he concentrates.' Marco had scarcely looked up. The spinning wheel clicked, voices became muted in sudden hush, and bodies stilled in anticipation. Marco was engrossed. Andrea felt herself being led out of the crush. Skilfully, swiftly Dominic threaded his way through the throng, and it parted and

melted away for them, and then reformed so that she could not have returned to the table if she had wanted to. Minutes later they were in a taxi, speeding through busy London streets.

She knew she must go to her own room as soon as they returned to the hotel. She had it all planned in her mind, and as they walked down the wide corridor she said: 'May I have my key, please?' Dominic rattled it, together with his own. 'But no, I cannot allow that,' he answered, and added softly: 'Andrea, I insist that you come in for one drink before you retire.' He stopped at his door and opened it, and touched her arm. 'Come,' he said. 'It would not be polite to refuse. Just one.' 'I'd rather not,' she began, and saw the expression on his face. 'Do I frighten you?' he asked, deep amusement in those dark eyes. 'No. I have a headache,' she began, and he cut in: 'Then I have just the thing for it. I think you lie to me.' 'What do you mean?' She stared hard at him. 'My head is aching.' 'No, I mean that I think you are frightened of me.' Taking a deep breath, she walked ahead of him into the suite, and he closed the door after them. Then she turned round to face him. 'All right, so now you know that I'm not,' she said. 'Are you satisfied?'

'Sit down,' he said. 'I want to talk to you.' 'Have you locked the door?' He lifted his eyebrows. 'No. Try it and see if you like.' She turned away. 'I won't bother.' The settee was huge and welcoming, but she resisted the temptation to sit down. She felt dreadfully uneasy. Instead she went over to the window and looked down at the brightly lit street below. Cars flashed past, all busily going somewhere, yet the noise of the traffic was muted. It was almost soothing, certainly fascinating to watch. 'What would you like to drink?' He was beside her. The only light in the room was from two standard lamps, and was soft and diffused. She didn't like him being so near. 'Milk,' she answered. It was a ridiculous thing to say. He must have expected her to ask for whisky or something similar. 'Milk? Of course. I'll ring down for some.' 'No, wait - please. I'll just go to my room. I don't think—' he was beginning to look blurred. 'Is champagne strong?' she suddenly asked. Dominic laughed. 'I suppose anything is - if you're not used to it. Are you?' 'No. I never drank it before.' 'Then milk will be the best thing. Plus two aspirin. I will send down now.' Was he being kind? She was confused. Yet what had she expected? Andrea, all of a sudden, didn't know. She went and sat on an upright

chair by the window, and looked out. She was vaguely aware of him picking up the telephone, but paid no attention, concentrating instead on the traffic below. The uneasiness would not go away, yet she could not define it, for his manner was easy and pleasant, not aggressive. And yet - there was an undefinable tension in the air, as yet vague and amorphous but building slowly. I will have the milk and go, she thought. I will not stay and listen to any of his arguments. She lifted a corner of the thick net curtain that covered the window. The waiter brought a tray, then left, and Dominic said: 'Here you are, Andrea, drink this.' The milk was icy cold, very refreshing. He handed her a tape of aspirin and she swallowed two. 'You don't mind if I have a drink, do you?' he asked, going over to the drinks cabinet. 'Of course not. I'm going now anyway—' she began. 'No, you're not,' he cut in. 'Not yet. We are going to have a talk first.'

CHAPTER FIVE ANDREA put her half empty glass of milk down beside her and looked up at Dominic. Tension throbbed in the room, an invisible and constant drumbeat of silent sound. 'I'm not talking to you,' she said. 'You said it all this morning.' 'I hadn't even begun,' he said, and he had changed. Gone the easy manner, his face was hard again, implacable - ruthless. Andrea stood up. 'I'm going to my room,' she said. 'Please give me my key.' 'No.' It was on the table by the door. Without thinking she walked across to pick it up, but he reached it before her and stood blocking her way. 'No,' he repeated. 'Not yet.' 'You can't - you can't stop me,' she was breathless now, a choking sensation in her throat. 'I can and I will. All I ask is that you listen first.' 'I don't need to. You don't want me to go to Corfu. You think the idea is bad. You want me to reconsider it and then refuse Marco. But there's more to it than that, isn't there?' Her eyes sparkled angrily. He was being a bully, using his superior strength to prevent her from going to her own room, and suddenly Andrea was filled with a heady recklessness. She had no weapons to fight him - yet she was not going to give in, as he expected. For there was something - some small thing at the back of her mind. And then she knew what it was. 'And I think I know why you really don't want me to go. It's because I remind you of someone - isn't it?'

She regretted the words instantly. She would have given anything to retract them, but it was too late. He gripped her arms tightly, and on his face was an expression she had never seen before. 'What do you mean?' His voice was deep, harsh - frightening in its anger and intensity. 'I - let me go, you're hurting me!' she gasped. 'Yes, so I am. Tell me!' he grated. The room spun round; Andrea thought she would faint. She had aimed a remark in self-defence - and it had found its target, only too painfully. His hands were like steel on her arms. This man was far more powerful than she had ever imagined. 'You - you said, that first time you saw me, that - please let me go. My arms - you're too strong—' And then he released her. She rubbed her arms. 'What did I say that first time I saw you?' he said, each word emphasized. 'You said - you thought I was someone else.' She looked up at him, wide-eyed. Strength was returning to her gradually. 'You said it in such a way that I thought—' she stopped. 'Yes?' he prompted. 'What did you think?' 'I don't know. Nothing.' She turned half away, seeking escape from him, knowing that the tense taut anger filling the room was caused by her - and she wished that Marco were there. But he wasn't. They were alone. 'You lie.'

She turned back then. 'Do you think I want you using force on me again? I just want to go. I wouldn't have told you that if you hadn't stopped me getting my key. You're hateful, do you hear me? I didn't ask to meet you - either of you - and all I've had from you are insults - and now violence.' 'I would not be violent to a woman, ever.' 'Well, you just were!' she shot back. 'Does it make you feel more of a man when you use your strength against me?' 'I am sorry if I hurt you,' he said, surprisingly. But now, strangely enough, it was Andrea who was angry. 'It's too late for that now,' she retorted. 'I suppose you were getting your own back on me for hitting you this morning. Were you?' 'No!' his eyes blazed. 'Of course not. Your words startled me, that is all. What did they mean?' 'All right, I'll tell you - but I think you already know, judging by your reaction. I decided that someone who - looks like me - must have - hurt you badly once.' She saw him turn away, but the anger was gone now. When he spoke it was more quietly. 'Thank you for telling me. You wish to go to your room. There is your key.' But it was Andrea's turn to hesitate. She picked up her key, and then, very slowly, she said: 'I'm me - not anyone else. You don't know me - you can't do. So how can you judge me by anyone else?' He rounded on her. 'Why do you not go? That is what you wanted, is it not? To get away from my - violence?' He almost spat the last

word out. His eyes were shadowed; there was pain there - and something more that she could not fathom. She did something then that she did not understand herself. She reached out and touched his arm. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I don't like hurting anyone.' He jerked his arm away as if it burned. 'Hurt? You do not hurt me, little girl,' he said. 'And you know nothing - nothing.' She let her arm fall by her side. 'Then there's nothing more to be said, either, is there?' She looked up at him. Most oddly, she trembled inside, as weak as if she had just emerged from a battle. But she met his eyes without flinching. She felt as if she knew now why he was so hostile to her. In a way, just for those few moments, it was as if she were the strong one. She smiled very slowly, the illusion of inward strength giving her a certain calm. She saw his face darken. He made a small sound, almost a groan, and then, suddenly, he had taken her in his arms. The next moment his lips were on hers - and she was powerless to move, or escape. Breathlessly she struggled, panicking, then as the sensation of the kiss came through to her, heady, breathless, exciting, she stopped resisting. And as she went passive, he released her, his eyes dark, his voice husky as he said: 'That is what you wanted, isn't it?' The words were a shock. Was that what he thought? 'No - oh! No!' With an instinctive gesture she wiped her hand across her mouth as if to erase his touch. Then blindly reaching out, she turned and grabbed the door handle. She should have known. No wonder those women had stared at her in the night club. Perhaps they knew him.

The door opened, she ran out and along the corridor, fearful of pursuit - but nothing happened, and she reached her door and opened it. Safely inside her room, she leaned against the door, shaking. What a fool she had been to return with him! She should have listened to her instincts instead of meekly allowing herself to be shepherded out to a taxi. Her mouth still burned from the pressure of his lips. Her first kiss - but it had been more of an insult, a gesture of contempt than anything else. She remembered then his face as she had first seen it in the night club, the dark brooding expression, hard, implacable. That was how he was. She had been mistaken to feel any twinge of sympathy for him. All she had done was smile - the next moment he had assaulted her. She rubbed her arms where he had held her before. There was that too. What kind of a man was he? And what on earth could the woman she so resembled have been like? She shivered. She could not imagine. She looked across at the bathroom which led off from her room. A good hot bath was what she needed now to erase the memories. One would help her sleep more soundly, for although her headache was not as severe, it hadn't gone completely. She walked across, pushed open the door, and began to run the water. The bathroom was pinktiled from floor to ceiling, with pink fluffy bath mat and matching, towels. The whole having an air of luxury that would have been utterly enjoyable at any other time - but not now. She still smarted from her treatment at Dominic's hands. Andrea looked at herself in the mirror over the wash basin. I wonder if I look different? she thought, but the face that stared back at her was just the same. She touched her lips briefly. My first kiss, she mouthed the words, and it was horrible. Or had it been? A tingle touched her spine briefly and she turned away from the glass in disgust - and heard a knock at her bedroom door. 'Who is it?' she called. 'Dominic. You left your handbag.'

She closed her eyes. What to do now? 'I'm just going to have a bath,' she said. 'And I am going out. Do you want it or not?' Clearly he was not used to being kept waiting at doors. She crossed the room and opened it. 'Thank you.' She took it from him. 'Good night' 'Goodnight.' And then he had gone. Well, what did you expect? she asked herself. An apology? From him} She flung the bag on her bed and went back into the bathroom.

The muted buzz of the telephone awoke Andrea from a deep sleep the following morning. She yawned, stretched, and picked it up to hear Marco's voice. 'Good morning, Andrea. I wondered if you would like to join Dominic and me for breakfast in our room?' 'Oh, Marco - good morning. Yes. What time is it?' 'Nearly nine. Forgive me for waking you.' 'How did you know that?' she asked. She was becoming more awake by the second. 'Because you sounded sleepy when you answered. I must apologize by the way for having you leave with Dominic while I was busy gambling. I should have brought you back myself—' 'It's all right.' What - if anything - had Dominic said? There was certainly nothing more than polite concern in Marco's tone. 'Did you win?'

'Alas, no - not in the end. But Dominic was very fortunate.'. So he had returned there, had he, after leaving Andrea? 'But we will tell you all about it when we see you. In half an hour?' 'Half an hour.' So Dominic had told Marco nothing. It's like living a double life, she thought in wonder as she crossed to the bathroom. When Marco's there everything is normal - well, almost; when Dominic and I are alone, the sparks fly. And all this has happened in less than two days. That in itself is unbelievable. And tomorrow, she told herself as she brushed her teeth, I shall be going to the office as usual, only I shan't be going there from my shabby bed-sitter, but from the Ritz Hotel. Nobody there would believe it. But if they found out, they would think the worst - even Rose and Jenny because that's human nature, and I could hardly believe it myself if anyone told me a fantastic story like this. She sighed as she rinsed her toothbrush. And it was all because of a picture, a certain picture in an art exhibition. She now had clothes to wear, beautiful clothes, all bought by Marco with a casual air that bespoke wealth. Three summer dresses, trousers, several blouses, an evening dress - she had not allowed him to buy more, but that had been a struggle. Two pairs of sandals, two swimsuits - on these he had insisted because, he had said, when Andrea saw the sea she would be sorry if she hadn't. She put on a pair of the sandals and chose a white sleeveless dress to wear. Then, after combing her hair, she slipped her key in her bag and went along to Marco's suite. A table was laid for three. Marco ushered her in, dressed in shortsleeved blue shirt and slacks. He smiled at her warmly. 'Ah, you look good, Andrea. Why would you not allow me to buy more dresses for you?'

'Because,' she smiled and shook her head, 'because you bought too much as it was.' There was an important question that had to be asked. 'I know you want me to leave work immediately, but I'm supposed to give two weeks' notice—' He shrugged. 'No problem. I will go with you in the morning to explain.' 'But—' she bit her lip. 'Suppose my boss - Mr. Grim- stead - is awkward? He can be - and he'd have a right to be.' 'So. We will see, eh?' 'But when I return to England I'll have to look for another job.' 'Do you wish to return to the same office?' 'Not particularly, but it's a secure job - and it's not always easy to find them.' 'Please sit down, Andrea.' Marco pulled up a chair from the table, then sat beside her. 'Dominic won't be long, and then we will eat. May I ask you a personal question?' 'Please do.' What could it be? 'Do you have any job qualifications? Typing, you know, things like that?' 'Oh yes, I can type. I learned shorthand at night school - I'm not very good at it, I'm afraid - and that's about all.' 'Then you will have a good job when you return from Corfu, I promise. Does that satisfy you?'

'Yes.' She smiled. 'You're very good, you know. I keep feeling that there must be—' she paused. 'A catch?' he queried. She nodded. 'I suppose so. It's all like a dream. I keep expecting to wake up—' 'There is no catch, I swear it to you. None at all. And you are not dreaming. I can appreciate the suddenness of everything, and the odd circumstances of our meeting, but I believe in Kismet - fate. Some things are destined. And so it was that you should come into my life to help my uncle.' She couldn't help it. 'Dominic doesn't think so,' she said. 'No. Dominic is - Dominic.' He shrugged. 'What more can one say? He is my cousin, and in some ways we are like brothers. In others—' he smiled wryly, 'we agree to differ.' 'Yes,' said Andrea, because that about summed him up. And then Dominic walked in, and she caught her breath. Could he have overheard? He looked across the room at her, dark, unsmiling. 'Good morning, Andrea,' he said. 'Good morning.' 'I was telling Andrea that you were lucky last night,' said Marco. It was as if he knew that it was his task to keep everything smooth. He picked up the telephone as Dominic sat at the table across from Andrea. 'Yes, I was.' His eyes met hers across the table. 'At roulette anyway.' The last three words were sotto voce, so that Marco could not hear, for he was busy ordering breakfast anyway. There was no mistaking

the meaning of his words - or the look in those dark eyes. How I hate you, thought Andrea, and it gave her strength. 'I'm pleased,' she answered softly. 'Although I've never gambled, so I wouldn't know what it feels like to win. You must enjoy it, though - winning, I mean. You used to be a racing driver, didn't you? Did you win a lot in that?' A muscle tightened in his cheek. 'How did you know?' he asked pleasantly enough, belying the look in his eyes. 'It said so in a newspaper,' she answered. 'Well, breakfast won't be long,' Marco looked from his cousin to Andrea and back. 'I'm starving. We'll see about your passport today, Andrea.' 'Today? It's Sunday,' she said in some surprise, although she should have known. 'Marco doesn't let a little thing like that bother him, do you, Marco?' Dominic said dryly. 'What are friends for?' retorted Marco, but with a charm that took any sting out of his words. They are alike in some ways, she thought. Both have an air about them of great confidence, but where Dominic is aggressive, Marco is quieter with it. And then her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the food. The men might be hungry; Andrea was not. Still caught up with the sheer unreality of the whole situation, she found herself unable to eat more than a piece of toast, and drink a cup of coffee. Dominic ate quickly, then rose. He looked at Andrea first. 'I hope you will excuse me,' he said, 'I have to go out.' Then to Marco: 'I will see you this evening, of course?'

'Yes,' Marco nodded. 'We should be back this afternoon.' 'Right. Give my regards to old Pennyfeather.' 'I will.' With Dominic's going, something of the indefinable tension left the room. Marco looked across the table at Andrea. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'His bark is worse than his bite.' 'Is it? Even his bark is pretty frightening, though.' Marco laughed. 'It is just his way. You don't get to the top in racing by being soft. He will get used to the idea, you'll see.' 'Why did he give up? Did he have an accident or something?' Instinct told her she was treading on thin ice. She had seen the quickly controlled anger on Dominic's face before, when she had mentioned the subject. Marco gazed at her, his face pensive, yet it was as if he were not really seeing her, but some scene from the past. At last he spoke. 'It is not for me to talk about, I'm afraid. But you asked me another question yesterday that I did not answer. You asked me if you reminded Dominic of anyone. You remember?' She nodded. 'Yes.' 'Well, the two things are tied up together. He gave up racing because of an accident - not his own - and this woman who looks like you was involved. I don't mean she was hurt, or anything like that. But she was concerned—' He shrugged. 'Ah, it is past now. It is best not to remember unpleasantness - only good things. You agree?' She had to smile. Marco was clearly one of nature's happier people. She liked him, she knew that. 'Of course I agree,' she answered.

He stood up suddenly and went to the window. 'Come here, please, Andrea.' She obeyed, intrigued by something in his eyes. 'Ah yes. Turn your face - so—' he touched her cheek. 'Just so. Yes. Yes.' 'Yes what?' She was puzzled now. 'I would like to paint you. Will you let me?' 'Paint me?' Was she dreaming? 'Me?' 'Yes, you! Why so surprised? I am a painter, you know.' He sounded hurt, and Andrea burst out laughing. 'I know you are. And a very good one - that wasn't why I was so surprised. Did you think it was? But no one's ever wanted to paint me before—' 'Then I shall be the first. Good. It will be done in Corfu, at the villa, of course. There will be time there,, and Uncle Stavros will be able to see our progress. That will do him good.' He nodded. 'Ah yes, I can almost see it now. You sitting on the terrace, with the trees behind you, and in the distance the sea—' he sighed. 'My hands are itching to get hold of a brush now.' He looked at his watch. 'Now, let me see. Nearly ten-thirty. Hmm. First we will call on my friend Pennyfeather about your passport, then have a drive round London would you like that?' 'Of course. Anything.' 'Then lunch, and then later on today. I will do some preliminary sketches of you.' 'Anything you say,' she agreed. 'Good. And tomorrow we'll sort out work. And I think we will be able to fly to Corfu on Friday.'

'Oh.' Suddenly it all came to her. Realization of what she was about to do. 'Oh, Marco. Sometimes, when I think about it, I wonder if - if I'm doing the right thing. It's such a big step for me.' He took hold of her hand gently. 'I promise you, when you arrive at the villa and meet Uncle Stavros - then you will know that what we are doing is right and good. Trust me, Andrea. Just trust me - and accept.'

CHAPTER SIX MARCO'S words came back to Andrea on Friday night. She sat on the bed in her room in the villa and looked round her. I'm here, she thought. I'm really here at last. She was exhausted after the plane flight followed by a boat ride to the island. But more than that, their arrival had been the culmination of a week of progressive activity, and she felt drained of strength. And tomorrow she would meet everyone else at the villa - and Uncle Stavros. She lay down on the bed. In a minute she would have a shower to remove the dust of travel, but just for the moment she needed quiet to assemble her thoughts. The events of the previous few days flashed through her mind in rapid, dizzying succession; the visit to 'someone important' on Sunday about her passport; going to work on Monday morning accompanied by Marco - and seeing old Grimstead smile, actually smile when she was called into his office a short while afterwards. Whatever Marco had said, it had done the trick. If she would just stay for the day, until they could get a temporary girl from an office bureau - she had never seen him like that before. Marco had had a word with Michael too, had met him for lunch, because he had made Michael a promise and was going to keep it. Rose and Jenny had eyes like saucers for the entire day. They kept saying that Andrea must write from Corfu - as if they weren't sure she would ever actually arrive. Jean said nothing, at least not to Andrea. Her looks spoke volumes. Of Dominic they had seen little that week - it was almost, Andrea had thought, as though he were avoiding her - except that Dominic didn't seem the kind of man who would trouble himself to avoid anyone. And he had not returned with them. He had, he told Marco, something important to attend to; he would follow when he was ready. And that had been that. And now she was here, tired, but in a strange way, happy. For the huge sprawling white villa she had glimpsed so briefly on their arrival in the soft dusk had seemed to

welcome her. It was an odd sensation. In a way she had been apprehensive of coming. Yet the minute she and Marco had stepped through the doorway into the wide cool tiled- floored hall, all her fears had vanished. There was a tap at the door. 'Come in,' she said, sitting up, pushing hair out of her eyes. It wasn't Marco, whom she had half expected. It was a girl of about nine or ten. For a moment they looked at one another, and then the girl walked forward. Dressed in blue shorts and a rather tattered T-shirt, and barefoot, she had a remarkably composed manner about her for one so young. 'Hello,' she said. 'You are Andrea,' and there was no smile about her mouth. 'And you are Sapphira,' answered Andrea - and smiled. Marco had described everyone living at the villa during the week, and while there was still a confusion of names to be sorted out, there was only one child at the villa, and she was the ostensible reason for Andrea's being there. 'Yes, I am Sapphira. Marco has told me why you have come. Forgive me, for I do not wish to be rude, but I do not think I have any need of a companion.' It Was unexpected; all the more because of the manner in which it was said. Not rude or insolent, but quite direct. And for a moment Andrea did not know how to reply. For to everyone save the one who most mattered - Uncle Stavros - and one or two intimate relations, she was to be the companion to Marco's young niece, Sapphira. And now she was being told by the child herself that she wasn't wanted.

'I'm sorry about that,' she answered. 'It was not I who made the arrangements, but your Uncle Marco. Perhaps you had better speak to him.' 'I have,' Sapphira answered calmly. 'But he does not know I have come to see you.' No, thought Andrea wryly; that figures. Everyone seems to go about behind Marco's back to tell me I'm not wanted. And that thought gave her strength. She had successfully resisted Dominic, and a child was surely no match for him. 'I see,' Andrea said. 'Why don't you want a companion?' The girl shrugged. 'I do not need one. I do not need anybody.' There was a shade of defiance in the words, and for a moment she looked curiously vulnerable. Andrea sighed. 'You are lucky,' she said. 'I thought everybody needed someone.' And she would never know what made her say her next words. 'I was brought up in an orphanage. I would have been glad of someone - anyone - to belong to, but I didn't.' For a moment she felt pain at certain memories, then they were gone. Something changed. The girl walked forward and sat on the end of the bed. 'Is that true?' she asked. 'You are an orphan?' Her English was excellent, almost accentless, but Andrea knew this was not the time to mention it, for there was something in the girl's dark vital face - could it be concern? Whatever it was, her immediate coolness on entering the room had vanished. 'I wouldn't lie,' said Andrea. 'Especially not about a thing like that.' 'Oh.' Sapphira appeared to be pondering. 'I have my grandmother, and my Great-uncle Stavros, and Uncle Marco.' She gave a little sigh. 'How terrible to have nobody!'

'You get used to it,' said Andrea gently. 'Marco has been telling me about everyone here. Your grandmother is his Aunt Cassandra, isn't she?' The girl nodded. 'Yes. Tomorrow you will meet her. Marco is talking to her now. I think he is telling her about you.' Her dark eyes met Andrea's, and she smiled for the first time. 'Why did you not bring Dominic home with you?' 'He - he was busy,' replied Andrea. 'Is he not your uncle too?' It was more to make conversation than anything else. Marco had explained the relationships of everyone in his family, but she hadn't really taken everything in. Sapphira frowned. 'Well - not really,' she admitted. 'Uncle Marco's father married Dominic's father's sister—' Andrea felt as if her head was spinning— 'so they are cousins, of course, but I'm not sure, I think we are second cousins, you see. I call him my cousin. I do love him very much. He is a splendidly handsome man, is he not?' 'Ah — yes,' agreed Andrea, too confused to do otherwise. 'Splendidly handsome?' Rather an odd way to describe this man she so disliked, but perhaps, in the girl's eyes, he was. 'Tell me what it was like at the orphanage, please. Were they cruel to you?' Her eyes had widened as she asked the question. Clearly she was fascinated at what Andrea had told her. Andrea smiled. 'No. They were all very kind - well, nearly all,' she. amended. 'And there were a lot of other children, of course, the same as me, and we used to sleep in dormitories—' 'What is dormitories, please?' 'A dormitory is a very large bedroom with perhaps twelve beds in.'

'All sleeping in one big room?' Her eyes were like saucers now. 'Truly?' 'Yes, truly. And sometimes - just sometimes - we'd have midnight feasts—' 'Oh!' Sapphira clapped her hands. 'You mean real feasts? With lots of food?' Andrea was beginning to see everything through Sapphira's eyes. Perhaps to her it was very strange - and clearly fascinating. She laughed. 'Well, perhaps not lots of food. We would save things from tea, sandwiches, a piece of cake, things like that, and save milk and put it in bottles, and then, at midnight, when everyone was asleep—' she paused. 'Yes, yes, go on,' Sapphira urged. 'We would share everything out. One of the girls had a torch, and we'd all sit on a couple of the beds and eat our food by the light of the torch. It was great fun.' 'Yes, I can see it all now. We will have one soon, will we? Please say yes.' This was quite a change from just minutes previously. Andrea smiled. 'I can't promise,' she said. 'But we'll see. Will you show me round the gardens some time?' 'Yes. I'm sorry I was rude when I came in. I did not know what to expect, but I think you are nice.' And Sapphira stood up. 'I will go now. You are tired?' 'Yes, a little.' 'Have you eaten? Because if not—' Sapphira stopped as a knock came at the door and looked quickly at Andrea. 'Shall I open the door?' she asked.

'Please.' 'So - you are here!' Marco came in and grinned at his niece. 'Your grandmother is looking for you. I said I thought I knew where you would be. So I have no need to introduce you to Miss Brown, have I?' Sapphira flung her arms round him, and he swung her up in his own. 'No. I came to see her and tell her that I did not want a companion but we have spoken now, and maybe I was mistaken.' Marco pulled a face at Andrea that his niece couldn't see. 'I'm sure we're all very relieved at that, aren't we?' He put her down. 'Off you go, then, and see what Grandmama wants.' 'Very well. Goodnight, Andrea.' 'Goodnight, Sapphira.' He closed the door after the girl. 'I didn't know she would come here, but I guessed it when she disappeared.' 'I like her,' Andrea said. 'And she speaks English better than I do.' 'She has a tutor from Corfu who comes every day to teach her. We do not allow her to go to school. Miss Forster is English - a bit of a dragon, but very competent. You will meet her on Monday.' 'I'm still confused with all these different names,' she admitted. 'You won't be when you've met them all. What I came to tell you was that Aunt Cassandra is dubious about the propriety of the situation. She can be difficult at times - but when she has seen you, I think she will agree with me.' 'When will I meet her?' asked Andrea.

'I have told her you are tired. In the morning, after breakfast. Don't look so worried, Andrea. Everything will be all right. Just wait until tomorrow, and you will see.' He said goodnight, and left, after making sure that Andrea was not hungry. She went into the small shower room connected to her bedroom. Tomorrow, she thought. I wonder what will happen tomorrow?

It lay like a heavy ache inside her, the prospect of meeting Marco's Aunt Cassandra, so much so that Andrea was awake a little after five the next morning. Faintly, the pre-dawn light filtered through the shutters, and outside her window a bird shrilled incessantly. Her room was beautiful. Simply furnished, spacious, the effect was of greens and blues, from the rugs, the thin coverings on her bed, the pictures on the white plaster walls. The white fitted wardrobe with its louvred doors was barely a quarter filled with her small collection of clothes, the dressing table bare of anything save a few items of make-up. In pride of place was a bottle of 'Miss Dior' toilet water that Rose and Jenny had bought for her in their lunch hour on the previous Monday. And that was it. Yet already the room soothed her. It seemed to say: 'Welcome.' Andrea went to the window and opened the shutters. The bird outside flew away and she looked out into the misty morning. The first impression was of trees, trees, and more trees. And then details became apparent. There was a path leading into those trees, a twisty winding path that disappeared into dark greenness. And outside, nearer to her window, were shrubs and small bushes, still indistinguishable in the blurry mistiness that covered the ground like a silver spider's web. Nothing stirred.

Andrea shivered, for it was not yet warm, and the mist was damp. She went and lay down again, but she didn't sleep, merely closed her eyes and tried to rest. And then sunlight filled the room in a golden burst of sudden colour, and Andrea knew she couldn't lie there any longer. She washed and dressed, brushed her hair, checked that there was nothing left in her cases, and went to sit by the window. The mist had cleared. The grass sparkled with dew that seemed to vanish as she watched, and a little voice from outside whispered: 'Boo!' It was Sapphira, clad in a swimsuit. Her eyes alight with mischief, she stood outside the window and smiled at Andrea. 'So, you are awake. Are you coming with me? I am going to swim.' 'Now?' 'Yes.' 'But it's only—' Andrea looked at her watch, 'it's not seven yet. Are you always up this early?' She could hardly hide her astonishment. 'Of course. This is the best time. Come, put on your swimsuit if you wish to swim, and you can climb out of the window. What fun! No one will know.' 'I'll come with you, but I won't come in the water - not yet. Perhaps later.' 'As you wish. Can you climb out?' 'But are you sure—' Andrea began doubtfully. 'Poo! Of course I am sure. Then you will not wake anyone. See, I will help you,' and she held out a thin brown arm for Andrea to take.

Walking away from the sprawling villa, Andrea looked back at it. Closed shutters told that everyone still slept. Nothing moved anywhere, save a bird perched on the low pantiled red roof, watching them with a beady eye. Andrea turned back to Sapphira. 'Don't they mind you swimming alone so early?' she asked. 'No. I swim like a fish. You should see me. Sometimes we go water skiing.' 'Who? You and Uncle Marco?' 'Yes, and Dominic. That is fun. Dominic taught me to swim when I was very young. You shall try it too.' 'Well—' began Andrea doubtfully. 'Oh yes! You must. But first I will show you our beach, and you will see how beautiful it is.' The path led through the trees, and was in shadow, so that when they emerged suddenly, Andrea blinked at the sudden light, and then looked around her in awe. With the trees behind them, they stood on a rocky slope leading down to the water. Steps had been cut into the rock to form a rough path downwards to a pale golden stretch of sand that curved to follow the contours of the island.. And the greeny blue water was as calm and still as a millpond. The distant horizon, a pencil thin line underlining the sky, was sharply defined and yet at one point it seemed as if there were faint hills rising from the sea. They could scarcely be seen. Andrea shaded her eyes. 'I'm sure I can see land,' she said. 'What would it be?' 'Oh, that.' Sapphira stared. 'That's Albania.' She looked at Andrea and grinned. 'We don't swim over there. You must fetch the

binoculars down some time, you'll see the hills better. I'm going in the water. Come on down the steps. Mind you don't slip. I will go first, for I know my way.' Andrea was content to follow the girl. Who is companion to whom? she thought wryly. Sapphira seemed intent on looking after her. The girl kicked off her rope- soled sandals and waved to Andrea. 'Watch me swim,' she commanded. Andrea was content to do so. She sat down and watched Sapphira run into the water, deeper and deeper until she launched herself into the smooth greenness. And then she was just a head bobbing up and down. For a moment she felt a twinge of regret that she hadn't changed into a swimsuit. But she was a poor swimmer. There had never been much chance to be otherwise at the children's home. A once-weekly regulation visit to the baths to learn the rudiments of swimming, and since then there didn't seem to have been time... Perhaps, while she was here, she would be able to learn. Sapphira would be delighted to help her if she confessed her lack of ability. She smiled to herself. And then she remembered why she was really here, and sobered. After breakfast she would meet Aunt Cassandra and then - and then Uncle Stavros. The enormity of the deception washed over her. Suppose it made him more ill? Yet Marco was so sure. It was Dominic who hadn't wanted her, and now, suddenly, Andrea thought that she should have listened to him. She picked up a handful of fine golden sand and let it filter through her fingers. It was cool and dry. Where was Dominic? What was he doing? She saw the image of his face as it had been in the night club, dark, unsmiling - brooding. He dislikes me, she thought. And not just because I was coming here, to the villa, but because someone who looks like me hurt him... She closed her eyes. Suddenly she felt utterly alone, lost. Marco was a true friend - but what if he had made a mistake? Was it too late to back out?

'Andrea!' The shrill cry roused her from her introspection and she looked up and waved in response. Sapphira was returning, brown arms flashing, head bobbing as she swam swiftly towards the beach. Andrea stood and walked towards the water to meet her. 'Ah, that was lovely. Come, we will go back now and have breakfast. I will wake Marco. You will come swimming later with me?' 'I'd better tell you now,' said Andrea, 'I can't swim at all well.' 'You cannot?' Sapphira's eyes widened. 'But everyone can swim, can they not?' 'Not everyone. I can - just. But I'm not very good. Will you help me?' 'Of course!' The girl's eyes sparkled. 'Of course I will. Oh, it will be such fun. Mmm, let me see, we have things to help you - things that you blow up like tyres - do you know what I mean?' 'I think so.' Andrea tried to keep her face straight. She could just see herself! 'And we have a raft that we can get Uncle Marco to tow out. We can swim from there too. It is in the boat house with our boat. They named it after me, did you know?' 'No, I didn't. I have a lot to learn.' 'Yes, you have. Never mind, I will teach you. Follow me.' And she skipped up the steps ahead of Andrea as if she now had a mission in life, Andrea, slightly heavier of heart, followed her.

'So you are Andrea.' The woman nodded, and indicated a chair. 'Sit down. Marco, you may leave us while we talk.' Andrea froze. Don't leave us alone, she prayed, and looked across the room at him. She, Marco, and Sapphira had breakfasted together in a long sunny dining-room, waited on by a young maid whose name was Eugenia. If she was anxious about this new arrival, she managed to hide it, but Andrea felt as if she was being weighed up. And now it was happening again, only not so subtly. They had gone after breakfast into another smaller room that had french windows flung wide open overlooking the gardens - and, in the distance, a disturbingly familiar arched gateway. There, by the window, and with her back to it, was seated a woman. She was dressed - most surprisingly - in a bright yellow trouser suit with an eyecatching flowered blouse. Her white hair framed her face in soft full waves, and she was quite beautiful.. Her eyes were a deep grey, and she looked fully and frankly at Andrea as if assessing her. And just for a moment something like puzzlement flickered across her features. 'I'll stay if you don't mind, Aunt,' said Marco. 'Can't you see Andrea isn't used to people like you?' The grey gaze left Andrea and swept to-Marco. 'My dear boy, you make me sound like a perfect dragon! Very well, stay if you wish. It is, after all, your idea.' She smiled at Andrea. 'Do I terrify you?' There was no point in evading the issue. 'You don't terrify me,' Andrea answered, 'but yes, I am nervous. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.'

The woman's face softened fractionally. 'I can appreciate that, my dear,' she said, 'for it is a strange situation, is it not? But now, the more I look at you, the more I see what Marco meant. You have a certain resemblance to my late niece. He has told you about Stavros - and his obsession?' 'He has told me—' Andrea picked her words carefully, 'that his uncle is convinced that he has a granddaughter - and that he thinks I can help him to - to - die happy.' 'Yes.' The older woman sighed. 'That is about the sum of it. I think I think - if anyone can do it, it is you.' She stood up. She was surprisingly tall, taller than Andrea herself. Then, slowly, she held out her hands. 'Come over here to me, child.' Slowly, Andrea walked towards her, and took the outstretched hands, because she knew that that was what Aunt Cassandra wished. 'You are cold, Andrea. Your hands are cold.' 'I am frightened, madam. I wondered if I was doing the - the wrong thing.' She bit her lower lip, moved by the other's expression. Marco was forgotten. It was as if there were only the two of them in the room. 'No. No, my dear, now, having met you, I do not think so. I will go and prepare Stavros. Are you ready?' Andrea met the other women's eyes. Their hands were still clasped. 'Yes, I am ready.' It was as if strength flowed from one to the other. The room was filled with it. Andrea heard Marco take a deep breath. It came as if from far away, a dark sigh'Then wait here. I will send for you.' She walked away, out of the room.

'Don't be afraid, Andrea.' She turned to him. 'I'm not - not now.' 'Good.' He came over to her. 'Aunt Cassandra - did you see her face when she met you? She feels like I do. She loves her brother dearly. She would do nothing to hurt him - ever. She has gone to tell him. Have patience. I will come with you when you go. If there are any questions you can't answer, don't worry, I will be there. You understand?' 'Yes.' And then they waited. It seemed an age, and then a telephone shrilled in the corner of the room, and he picked it up. 'Yes? All right.' He put it down. 'Are you ready?' 'Yes.' 'Then we will go. Uncle Stavros is waiting.'

'My dear. Oh, my dearest granddaughter, I have waited all these years - all this time. It is a miracle - I have prayed for this. Tell me I am not dreaming.' The old man's voice was frail, but his words had a force to move Andrea deeply. Softly, gently, given a strength and purpose - from she knew not where, she answered him. 'No, you are not dreaming, Grandfather. I am here. Marco found me.' 'Then I must thank Marco.' The frail head turned on the pillow. 'Marco, come here.'

Andrea stood one side of the bed. Stavros Leoni held her hand. With the other he reached out to his nephew. 'Ah, there you are, Marco. Tell me, where did you find her?' • 'In London, Uncle. She came to see my paintings—' 'Of course - the one of Minerva. You knew?' 'I knew.' The old man sighed. Leonine, the hair on his head, strong, white, yet the face sunken with pain, his eyes held a feverish intensity as he turned again to Andrea. 'You are here now. I can die happy - now that I have found you at last. My Minerva spoke the truth. How can I ever forgive myself? You will help me, Andrea. You will not leave me?' The claw-like hand grasped hers with painful intensity so that she almost winced. 'No, Grandfather, I will not leave you - I promise.' 'Good. Good.' He lay back, and closed his eyes. 'I am tired. Oh, how tired I am! But it is good. I will sleep now - and when I wake, you will be here.' 'Yes, I will be here.' She was almost choking with the tears that threatened. But she would not let them fall. Her hand held by his, her face, so near to him, Andrea sat very still, and the old man, a smile of pure joy on his face, fell asleep. 'You must go now. He needs a rest.' The voice was alien, the speaker, starched white, the nurse, moved forward. 'Please. It is best.'

Marco stood up and beckoned Andrea. 'Come. He has had an injection, Andrea. He will sleep for several hours. Helena will tell us when he wakes.' He led her from the room. In the corridor outside, Andrea put her hands to her face. 'You did very well. Did you not see? He believes. Oh, Andrea, I was right!' 'Were you?' she sobbed. 'Were you?' And then, through her tears, she saw Dominic walking towards them. Grim-faced, he looked as he always did - at her. 'So,' he looked at Marco. 'You have carried the masquerade through, have you? Perhaps I should have returned with you.' His face was white - he looked as if he would strike her.

CHAPTER SEVEN MARCO took Andrea's arm. 'We cannot talk here,' he said calmly. 'Come into the dining room.' And he led her away. Dominic followed. When they were in the large airy room, he turned to his cousin. 'I thought you'd wait,' he said, his voice dark with anger. 'My God, at least I thought you'd wait a day.' Andrea looked at them both. She was still shaken by what had happened. And then Aunt Cassandra walked in. 'What do you mean, Dominic?' she said, and the atmosphere in the room was subtly changed in an instant. He turned towards her. 'You know, Aunt,' he said. 'This pretence surely you don't agree to it?' She looked at him. 'If it helps Stavros - yes,' she answered. 'You are against it. So was I - when Marco told me at first. I, too, thought it was wrong, almost obscene. But now, listening to Stavros - seeing his face as he spoke to Andrea - I feel differently. She brought him to life again. He was almost like in the past—' for a moment her fingers touched her cheek, but that was all. She was clearly a woman who did not allow her emotions to get the upper hand. 'I would like to speak to Andrea alone. You may leave us. Sapphira has been telling me that she would like the raft towed out into the bay. Why don't you go and talk to her about it?' Andrea was no longer afraid at the prospect of being left alone with Aunt Cassandra. She sensed an ally. Incredible, in such a brief time, but the feeling was there. Everything had changed in the last half hour, a subtle shifting of atmosphere. And Marco looked at Dominic and shrugged.

'Let's go and find Sapphira,' he said. Dominic remained where he was. 'I want to speak to you later, Aunt,' he said. 'Then you shall do so, of course. But please - now - indulge me.' And Andrea saw them, these two strong characters confronting each other - and a shiver ran through her. They were alike, those two. One a young man, the other an older woman, not related by blood, but by marriage, and both formidable in their own way. 'Very well,' Dominic nodded. Both men left the room. For a moment there was silence, and then Cassandra sighed. 'We love one another dearly, Dominic and I,' she said. 'But we clash frequently. He does not like you coming here, but of course you know that, don't you?' She waved her arm. 'Sit down, Andrea, please. I will ring for coffee.' Andrea obeyed. 'Yes, I know,' she answered. 'He doesn't like me either, I'm afraid.' Aunt Cassandra raised a delicately pencilled eyebrow. 'Does he make it obvious? He is very rude if so.' 'No, not obvious. But it's there - all the time. I can feel it.' 'Then he shall be taught a lesson in manners.' She pressed a button on the wall by the window. 'But for now, we will talk about you. I must thank you for agreeing to come. If Marco had telephoned me and told me what he considered doing, I would probably have blown him off the other end of the phone - but Marco is clever. He brought you and let me see for myself. That is his way.' 'I wonder why Dominic didn't phone you?' asked Andrea.

The older woman smiled dryly. 'You have a point. But I know, of course - it would have been too much like "sneaking" and whatever his faults, this is one thing I cannot see him doing. He prefers to fight in the open.' 'But in that case, why didn't he return with us so that he could stop me meeting Uncle Stavros?' Aunt Cassandra looked up as the maid, Eugenia, came in. Briskly she spoke - presumably in Greek - and the girl went out. 'I don't know,' she answered. 'But I will ask him - when we have our little talk later.' Then she smiled. 'Now, tell me about yourself, Andrea. And by the way, while you are here, you must call me Cassandra or Aunt, whichever you prefer. I have no room for fussy titles. Tell me, how did you and Marco meet?' Andrea began her story with she and Michael entering the Gallery for the exhibition of paintings by this - to her - unknown painter. There was no effort in the telling of it, and she was taken back to the fateful Friday - just eight days ago - with no difficulty at all. So engrossed was she that she was unaware of the maid returning with coffee - nor was she aware of Aunt Cassandra's eyes on her, bright and intent, completely fascinated. When she had finished, the older woman shook her head. 'It is, as Marco says, as though Fate herself takes a hand. The more I hear, the more I see, and especially after witnessing Stavros' face this morning, and that Dominic should have been there too! But there is time - there is ample time - now that you are here. And you must not think that you must spend all your time with Stavros. As far as everyone here is concerned, you are here as companion for a while to Sapphira. Stavros' nurse, Helena, has had to be told, naturally, and we have sworn her to secrecy. But that is all. Stavros is drugged, and sleeps a lot. Twice a day you will visit him, perhaps for a half hour or so.'

'Yes, of course,' Andrea answered. 'But I feel as if I should be working - do you know what I mean?' 'Because you have always done so? That is natural enough. Do have more coffee, my dear - but why not treat this as a holiday? Sapphira will not be tiresome, she is a good child, a little lonely perhaps. You will get on well with her, I know.' 'I already do,' Andrea smiled. 'She came to see me last night - to tell me she didn't need a companion, in the politest possible way, but when I told her I was an orphan - and about life in the children's home - she seemed to change.' 'Yes, I was going to ask you about that. Your parents are both dead?' Aunt Cassandra's voice held concern. 'I suppose so,' said Andrea, 'but I don't really know.' Aunt Cassandra frowned. 'How is that? Or am I prying? Forgive me - if you prefer not to tell me, I will not ask any more.' 'It's no secret,' Andrea spoke softly. 'And it doesn't hurt me to talk about it. I was a foundling - literally.' 'Oh, my dear!' A shocked, indrawn breath. 'I was found in a telephone box when I was a few months old, that's all I know.' 'But how long ago was this?' Aunt Cassandra's face was a picture of concern - and perhaps something else, too fleeting for Andrea to recognize before it was gone. 'Twenty years ago.' 'And they never traced your parents?'

'No. Whoever left me in the box telephoned the police. It was winter. I wasn't there long. I was well wrapped up in blankets, with a note pinned to them: "She is Andrea." That was all.' 'The note - and the clothes - what happened to them?' 'The police kept the note, so they told me when I was old enough to understand. The clothes were good quality, and no doubt passed on to others in the home when I'd outgrown them. But one thing I kept 1 used to take it to bed with me instead of a teddy - that was a patchwork knitted blanket I'd been wrapped in. It was all I had, you see - of my own, I mean.' 'And you still have it?' the older woman's voice was very gentle. Andrea nodded. 'I couldn't throw it away.' 'Of course not. May I see it some time?' The question took Andrea by surprise. 'It's not here. I left all my old things - my other things - in London when I packed to come here. I haven't much, but Marco was Very kind and bought me some clothes.' She looked down at the simple blue dress she wore. 'Including this.' 'Marco is an incredibly good man. But your other property - you left it somewhere safe?' 'Oh yes, in storage at the Ritz. I'm to collect it when I return to London.' 'Ah yes, of course. Well—' this more briskly, 'you don't want to stay talking to an old woman all day. You have your "charge" to look after.' She smiled. 'Sapphira has no lessons today. I will send for her. Would you like her to show you around the gardens? She would enjoy it.'

'Yes, of course. Thank you.' Aunt Cassandra stood up. She went to press the bell - and then, before doing so, she hesitated. For a moment she looked at Andrea. Then she spoke. 'I do not know how long you will be here, child,' she said. 'But I want you to feel as if this is your home while you stay. I can appreciate that this is a completely different way of life for you — but you must stay if there is anything you need, or want. I would like your visit to be a happy one.' Andrea was moved. 'Thank you,' she said. 'I will have the housekeeper brought in. I leave the running of this villa to her. I will instruct her that you are to be treated as an honoured guest.' She pressed the bell, then crossed over to the window. 'Come here, Andrea.' Pointing out of the window, she said: 'All this, the gardens, the villa, belongs to Stavros. When Stavros dies, the villa will belong to Marco and Dominic equally. That could be why Dominic resents your presence - he may fear a change of heart in Stavros, but I will assure him that it cannot be so. Everything is tightly tied up legally.' But Andrea sensed, quite suddenly, and with a deep insight, that the older woman was mistaken. Whatever Dominic's reasons, they were more complex than that. Yet how could she say so? It was nothing to do with her. He might have considered her a gold-digger - but for different reasons. 'I see,' she said quietly. The maid, Eugenia, entered, and the two had a brief conversation, then Eugenia left the room.

'She will send Sapphira here - but Agatha has gone into Corfu with Tomas - our gardener's son - and will not be back for an hour or so—' and then a small torpedo burst into the room, then, seeing Cassandra, stopped. 'Sapphira!' the older woman's voice held amused exasperation. 'Have I not told you to try and move more elegantly, like the woman you will one day be?' 'Yes, Grandmama,' Sapphira answered meekly, but her sparkling eyes belied her. 'Hmm,' Cassandra smiled at Andrea. 'Then try and remember it. Andrea would like to be shown around. You have seen Uncle Marco?' 'Yes, Grandmama, he has gone down to the beach with Dominic.' 'Then off you go, children. And return in good time to wash before lunch. You have an hour, no more.' 'Come, Andrea, follow me,' said Sapphira. And Andrea, bemused, obeyed.

Perhaps she was saving the best until the last. It certainly seemed so, judging by the veiled hints to 'an interesting story' that Sapphira kept throwing out as she took Andrea round the vast sprawling gardens. Sprinklers moved constantly to keep the grass pristine fresh. There was a vineyard, and here she was introduced to Mario, the gardener, whose son, Tomas, had taken the housekeeper into the town of Corfu. A gnarled Italian, as brown as a berry and heavily moustached, he wiped his hand on his apron before greeting Andrea

in broken English. Then he handed them a bunch of purple grapes with a wink. 'Efcharisto, Tomas,' Sapphira skipped away. 'Come, Andrea.' There were orange trees in a sheltered grove that caught all the sun, and here were tall pines, and there were apple trees, and spruce, and tangled corners where roses grew in wild profusion, and in dazzling colours and varieties. Andrea could scarcely take it all in. Yet there was a plan to it all, she could see that too. Nearer the house the lawns were immaculate with the trees and shrubs forming a gracious background. The further away they walked, the more beautiful and lush it became. They sat down in a quiet spot to eat the grapes, and she looked around her. The roof of the villa could be seen, and to their right a tennis court, surrounded by more furry pines, gently moving in the slightest of breezes, and in front of them was a huge rockery full of brightly coloured flowers and rock plants. 'It's simply gorgeous,' she said. 'But we haven't seen the gate yet the one I've glimpsed from the window.' 'Soon,' Sapphira smiled mysteriously - and Andrea guessed why. 'We're going down to the beach in a minute, to see what the men are doing. Are you ready?' 'Of course.' It was intensely hot, and the sky had a clarity that was like nothing Andrea had ever seen before in her life. There was a quality of brilliance about it that was almost dazzling. As pure and clear as crystal - and as beautiful. The grapes were finished. Andrea wiped her hands on a handkerchief, the taste memory lingering in her mouth, and they set off down towards the beach. Before they reached the steps they saw the men - or rather they saw a white boat a distance from shore. Behind the boat, a large flat raft bobbed gently in the wake, and even as they watched, someone dived over the side of the boat and swam to the raft. He heaved himself up,

dripping wet, clad only in trunks. It was Dominic. She recognized him from the darkness of his hair, which glistened in the sun, black as a raven's wing, and as glossy. 'See, he is dropping the weights,' said Sapphira knowledgeably, 'or the raft would just float away.' Andrea, already fascinated, watched, as Dominic heaved what looked like large blocks of metal over the sides, four in all, one at each corner. The raft steadied itself - and then, presumably, was ready. Dominic bent and a rope snaked into the water. Then he dived over the side and swam to the boat. 'Come, we will meet them,' said Sapphira. 'Down the steps and along the beach to the jetty.' She ran down, fleet of foot, and Andrea followed as quickly as she could. 'You want to look over the boat?' Sapphira's voice floated back. 'Er— there may not be time,' Andrea answered, thinking: I don't want to bump into him. But with Sapphira, she already knew, there was not much choice. She followed the girl along the sand, walking more slowly. The boat, was returning. They had been seen. Marco waved and Sapphira waved back. Andrea saw, ahead of them, a wooden jetty stretching out several yards into the water. The boathouse behind it was large and empty. Rocks were all around them, forming a rugged backdrop to the setting in which she found herself. They effectively screened any breezes, so that here the heat was intense, the sun's rays beating down undisturbed. The water looked cool and inviting, and Andrea ran her tongue along her lips. Dominic jumped on to the jetty as Marco manoeuvred the boat in, and then he was tying it up. He turned and walked towards them. Andrea tried to look away, to look anywhere but at him, but it was impossible. He was greeting Sapphira, being followed by Marco - and then his eyes met Andrea's and it was like an electric shock, powerful, disturbing.

'May Andrea look over the boat?' Sapphira asked him, but she might not have been there at all. The intensity of his gaze was overwhelming. Then, suddenly, he looked away from her and to Sapphira. 'Of course, if she wishes,' he answered. 'Come,' and he held out his hand and Sapphira jumped up on to the jetty. Andrea walked forward slowly. There was a step up, and she followed them along. For Dominic had gone ahead with Sapphira as if she were not with them. 'Hello there,' called Marco, breaking the tautness in that sultry air. 'Welcome aboard!' And it was then that Dominic turned to help Andrea on to the boat. He turned, and Sapphira was ahead of him, and it was as though it was all happening in slow motion, impressed on the mind like a sequence from a film. Turning - slowly - his eyes meeting Andrea's, his hand reaching out, and he was big, and lithe, and muscular, and deeply tanned, and there might have been nobody else in the world. She took his hand; his arms were thickly covered with hair, and were so powerful that he could probably kill a man with one blow if he chose, but his grip didn't crush; it was firm and strong. She saw round the boat, but it didn't register. She was too conscious of this man, who dominated everything around him. She remembered afterwards that she had admired the furnishings in the cabin, exclaimed over the superbly fitted galley, made all the right remarks at the right time - but it was as though someone else acted for her, putting the words in her mouth, for inwardly she was drained of strength simply because Dominic was there, hostile, brooding - but not obviously so; so that only she could see, only she was aware of it. And then the ordeal was over, and they left. This time Marco helped Andrea off the boat. Dominic walked ahead with Sapphira, along the jetty, down the beach - but up different steps - and at the top,

Andrea knew why. For there ahead 'Of them, set in a wall spread with tangled flowers and ivy, was the gate. It could be no other. Mistily vague in the picture, seen only briefly from the villa, yet Andrea knew, and a strange stirring of excitement began within her. She stopped and stared, and Marco laughed and took her arm. Ahead of them, Sapphira turned round, her eyes alight. 'Here it is,' she cried. 'I have been saving this to the last. Our Whispering Gate!' Marco said quietly, 'Let her tell the story.' 'This is the background in the picture, isn't it?' asked Andrea. 'Ah, of course, you remember. Yes, it is. But how acute of you. It was merely a faint background.' 'Come on,' Sapphira called laughingly. And Dominic said: 'I will return home.' And he went. Just like that, he simply walked away, opened the gate, and left them. Marco turned to Andrea, his face serious. 'There are times,' he said, 'when I would like to punch Dominic on the nose.' Yes, thought Andrea, I know exactly what you mean; but she said nothing. 'See,' Sapphira was clearly unconcerned about Dominic's departure, and came forward to take Andrea's hand. 'This gate is magic!' 'And if you are going to spin out your tale, I think I too will return and inform your grandmama that you are on your way for lunch.' Marco patted Sapphira's slim behind. 'So don't be too long, hey?' 'No, we won't.' His departure was different - friendly. Perhaps he was going to have a word with his cousin. Andrea told herself that

Dominic's rudeness didn't matter, but it did. It had the power to hurt. She smiled warmly at the girl, dismissing him from her mind. 'Please tell me,' she said. 'I'm fascinated. In what way is it magic?' 'Well, once upon a time, long ago, before this villa was built, there was an old castle here.' Sapphira and Andrea walked slowly towards the gate. The wall was of moderate height, the stones very old and crumbling in parts, and the arch of the gateway itself was a high half moon in stone, with the gate not quite reaching to the top. It was of thick wood with a massive bolt and latch of iron - yet it was apparently easy enough to open, for both men had done so without effort. Marco had left it ajar. Sapphira closed it, and the latch caught and clicked. Gently the girl stroked the wood. It looked as though it had not been painted for years and years, and was nearly black with age. Yet there was nothing incongruous about it when contrasted with the sparkling paintwork of the villa not far away. For it looked right. It was, in a strange way, very beautiful. 'This wall surrounded the castle with this gate being their exit to the sea. There was a girl living at the castle with her parents, who were very wealthy. Her name was Penelope.' She said the last word slowly, as if savouring it. 'And she was loved by a very handsome boy, a poor fisherman, whose name was Athoni.' She paused, and Andrea, thoroughly intrigued, whispered: 'Yes. Go on.' 'And when her parents found out they were very, very angry,' her eyes widened, 'and they forbade Penelope ever to see Athoni again, but of course, they met secretly. Until, one night—' she paused, and Andrea hid her smile. Clearly Sapphira was intent on achieving the fullest dramatic effect. And who am I to spoil it? thought Andrea. 'Yes? What happened?' she asked breathlessly.

'A servant had followed them and found them walking along the sands, and he ran back to the castle and told her parents. And the next night, when Penelope went to meet her lover at the gate - he wasn't there. Nor the next night, nor the night after. And nobody knew where he had gone. There was a lot of talk - that the parents had had him killed, that they had given him a large sum of money to vanish and never return - oh, all sorts of rumours flew around, but no one actually knew anything. And Penelope grew pale and thin, and nothing would make her happy.' She paused, not so much for effect as to draw breath, and Andrea, genuinely intrigued, said: 'Go on, Sapphira.' 'Well, that was it - or it seemed to be. Until a few months later, when her parents told Penelope that they were arranging for her to be married to a wealthy landowner from Greece. In those days it was the custom, and Penelope had to accept what they said. He was a horrible fat man, more than twice her age.' She shuddered. 'Ugh! Imagine that! What cruel parents she had! Now, although she didn't know it, since the arrangements for the wedding were going ahead, her parents didn't want her to try and run away or do anything silly, so they had this servant follow her when she went on her nightly walks in the gardens. And it was he who told everyone what happened on that fateful night of the full moon, when she reached the gate for the last time—' Despite herself, Andrea's spine tingled. It was as if there were more to the story than just the child's words. And even though the strong sunlight beat down on them, she could feel the ghostly atmosphere, and hear the sea as it must have sounded on one certain night... 'Yes, go on,' she said, very quietly, lest she break the spell. 'The servant kept out of sight, as was his way. And Penelope reached the gate, which had been left open - which was very

unusual, and as she did so, the servant heard someone whispering her name over and over again, "Penelope, Penelope, over here—" but he could see no one. He was frightened, and came out of the shadows of the trees where he stood - to see Penelope vanish out of the gate. Quickly he followed, but he couldn't catch her. She was scrambling down to the beach and by the time he reached the steps she was running along the sand, her hair streaming behind her. She went as swift as the wind, there was no stopping her, and even as the servant reached the beach himself he saw her in the distance being swung into a man's arms - and there was a boat, a fishing boat, bobbing in the water, and the man carried her out to it, and when the servant, running as fast as he could, shouted them to stop, the man turned his head, and gave a mocking smile, and he saw that it was Athoni.' Sapphira stopped. She looked, just for a moment, exhausted. Then she smiled a beautiful, gentle smile. 'And then the boat put out to sea, and sailed away. And no one ever saw them again.' Andrea's breath caught in her throat. 'What a story! Oh, Sapphira, thank you for telling me.' And then she looked away, down towards the beach, seeing it all quite clearly, the slim figure running along to meet her lover, the moonlight casting its ghostly sheen over everything - and the whispering voice that had called her name. 'But,' she said, 'if Athoni was so far away, on the beach, how could she - and the servant - have heard him from the garden?' And Sapphira turned a rapt face to Andrea. 'Why,' she said simply, 'because it's a magic gate. Didn't I tell you? It's magic - and one day you might find out why.' And she skipped away towards the house before Andrea could ask her what she meant.

CHAPTER EIGHT As if the day had not already produced enough surprises, there was one more to greet Andrea after her return to the villa. She had been left by Sapphira outside the door of her room, and gone inside to wash before lunch. A plump woman stood with her back to Andrea, arranging some flowers in a vase on her dressing table. She was dressed in black, and her grey hair was tightly scraped back in a bun. And as Andrea closed the door, the woman turned and said: 'Excuse me, madam - ah! Theos!' And she crossed herself, her face, seen in half shadow, wide-eyed and startled. And then - as she walked forward: 'Oh, forgive me. It is Miss Brown?' 'Yes. Are you the - the housekeeper?' Andrea had not yet got over the shock of the other's astonishing behaviour. 'Yes, miss, I am Agatha. For a moment, when I saw you standing there, I seemed to see someone else.' And then she came even nearer. 'I was preparing some flowers for you. The mistress has told me why you are here.' Her face was unlined, although she was clearly well past middle age, but the plump, rosy-cheeked serenity of it was reassuring to Andrea, who for a moment had wondered why she should have given the other such a shock. And yet - did she really wonder? Was it not all part of a continuing pattern that had begun on the day she met Marco in London? Perhaps there was one question that needed to be asked. 'Who did you think I was, Agatha?' Andrea asked, marvelling at her own daring. And she waited for the answer. 'Miss Minerva.' Tears welled up in her brown eyes. 'It was maybe a trick of the light, but for a moment it seemed as if she were standing there before me, and I was startled. You will forgive me?'

'There's nothing to forgive,' Andrea said quietly. She was moved to touch the housekeeper's plump hand. 'For that is why I am here.' 'Yes, I know. You will do him good. It is kinder to let him die in peace.' She turned away to look out of the window, across the gardens. Then she turned back, and the traces of tears were gone. 'I will go now to supervise the lunch. You want anything - you ring for it.' Her face creased in a warm smile. 'Anything at all. You understand, miss?' 'Yes, thank you. And I'll be down in a few minutes for lunch.' She closed the door after the woman. So that was Agatha, who virtually ran the villa. I have another ally, Andrea thought. I wonder what Dominic will make of that? But he was not at lunch. She and Aunt Cassandra, Marco and Sapphira, ate in the cool dining room attended by Eugenia. There was a place set for him, but he did not arrive, and half way through the meal, Cassandra looked at Marco. 'Where is Dominic?' she asked. 'I thought he would have told you,' he answered, looking surprised. 'I saw him going out soon after we returned from the beach. In his car.' 'I see.' Aunt Cassandra smiled warmly at Andrea. 'Is the food to your liking, my dear?' 'Yes, thank you. These pieces of fish are delicious. What are they?' She sensed the other's attempts to cover up Dominic's defection. And it was nothing to do with her, of course. Or was it? Somehow, it appeared that Dominic was now acting in a way that annoyed his aunt, so maybe he was not usually so brusque.

'It is squid. You have had it before?' 'Oh!' She hid her dismay. It would have been better not to ask. 'No, I haven't.' She had thought she was eating prawns. The succulent pieces were coated in a thin crisp golden batter, but now, somehow, they didn't taste quite so good. And Aunt Cassandra smiled knowingly. 'Leave them if you wish. How foolish of me not to realize. And Agatha, I'm sure, thought you would enjoy it.' 'Oh, but I do!' Andrea hastened to reassure her. 'Truly.' It was an effort, but she finished the squid. And afterwards, when they were sitting drinking coffee, just the two of them, for Cassandra had given some sort of signal to Marco, and he had gone out with Sapphira, the older woman spoke to Andrea. 'You have a kind nature. You would not willingly hurt anyone's feelings, would you?' 'No, of course not.' 'Then you must try not to be hurt by other people's actions. Sometimes they are driven to behave in a way that can injure.' There was something in her tone that made Andrea look up from her coffee cup. 'Do you mean Dominic?' 'Yes. When he returns, he and I will have our talk, and I will try to make him see that his behaviour is helping no one.' 'Do you think it will make any difference?'

'I don't know. Knowing Dominic as I do - no. But at least I can let him see that we are all aware of what he is doing. That might bring him to his senses.' Andrea smiled wryly. 'Don't do it on my account. I can take it. I found out long ago that we can't be liked by everybody in the world.' She looked at Aunt Cassandra, her eyes clear and direct. 'That's one thing about being brought up in a children's home - you don't get hurt so easily in the grown up world after. Some of the rough edges have been smoothed off already.' 'Oh, my dear! How humble you make me feel at times. If only Dominic could understand that you are here not for yourself, but for others - if only he weren't so-' 'Weren't so what, Aunt?' He was standing in the doorway. How silently he must have come in! And how long had he been there? Andrea turned to look at him, to take in his appearance. Dressed in a simple white shirt and grey slacks and sandals, he looked devastatingly handsome, deeply tanned, black-haired - unsmiling. The tension was instantly there, electric, filling the room. And they all knew it. And the two strong ones looked at each other while Andrea watched. 'Why don't you sit down, Dominic?' Aunt Cassandra said, her voice as smooth as silk. 'One can strain one's neck looking up at you, you're so big.' A point to you, thought Andrea, as he moved forward and perched on an upright wooden chair, straddling it with his legs so that he faced the back. 'Does that suit you, Aunt?' he inquired.

'It will suffice for now, though why you men do not prefer to sit more comfortably I'll never know. I was trying to excuse your rudeness in leaving before lunch to Andrea.' 'But I intended to return in good time, Aunt. I had a puncture after leaving Corfu.' He held out one large tanned hand. 'See. However much I scrub, there is still a patch of oil that refuses to move.' 'Hmm.' Their eyes met and clashed. 'You could have telephoned. Tomas would have come out and changed the wheel for you.' 'I would not have dreamed of troubling him even had I been near a telephone, which I was not. So, I have missed lunch, and been duly scolded, and I dare say will have to suffer hunger pangs until dinner as a punishment. But I don't think that that is all you were talking to Andrea about.' And he looked straight at Andrea, to where she sat in her chair. She put her coffee cup down. If she didn't, she would feel the temptation to throw it at him too strongly for comfort. And before Aunt Cassandra could reply, Andrea found the courage within her for the words she wanted to say. 'No,' she answered him, 'it wasn't. I was just telling your aunt that living in a children's home helps you to get the rough edges knocked off before you go out into the big world and meet people who make it quite clear that they don't like you.' And then she smiled, 'As you have been doing, in fact. I just want to tell you that I don't care how rude you are to me - it won't make the slightest difference.' And she stood up, her eyes bright. 'Please excuse me, Aunt Cassandra, I'm just going to my room.' And she walked out, head held high. She never looked back. The scene might never have been. Sapphira was waiting outside her window, and as Andrea went into her room, said: 'Here I am! Are you coming with me to the raft? I have another surprise for you maybe.'

'Another?' answered Andrea faintly. She wasn't sure if she could take much more in one day. 'What is it?' 'Oh, I can't tell you yet. You'll see. Get your swim- suit on and I'll tell Marco where we're going.' 'But your grandfather - I promised I would see him-' 'Not yet. After dinner. I heard Grandmama speaking to Helena about it before.' 'Very well.' Cassandra must have forgotten to mention it to Andrea, but that was hardly surprising in the face of her annoyance with Dominic. She turned away from the window. She had hoped for a brief escape from people, after the scene in the room with Dominic just now, but it was not to be. 'I'll find my suit and change. But you won't expect me to swim out to the raft, will you?' Sapphira gave her a beautiful smile. 'We'll see,' she said calmly. 'I will wait for you on the beach. You wish to change in private, of course. Good-bye for now, Andrea.' 'Good-bye. I'll not be a minute.' She hurriedly changed, and then realized she had nothing to wear over her swimsuit. She looked down at it, the one she had bought the previous week. It was perfectly simple, all black, with a minute pleated skirt that set off her trim figure to perfection. But I'm not walking through the villa in this, she thought, for fear of bumping into Dominic. She looked through her wardrobe and picked a yellow button-through dress, and slipping that on over the suit, went out. She saw no one on her way through the gardens and down to the beach. Sapphira was watching for her and waved enthusiastically from the raft.

'I am here! See, I will come out for you, Andrea,' and she slid off and into the water. Her words had a slightly ominous ring. 'I will come out for you' - as if she intended taking Andrea back with her. 'Oh dear!' She couldn't help the words escaping. She began to compose little sentences of excuse in her mind - but it was too late. Sapphira emerged, dripping, from the waves and ran to where Andrea waited. 'Oh, it is beautiful! Come, I will help you!' 'But I can't—' Andrea began. The raft seemed a million miles away at that moment, a mere speck in a vast, infinite mass of solid water. 'I told you, I can only swim a little—' 'Yes, but I am strong, I will help you along! Come, come, let us try. You will see how easy it is. You can float - yes? Then I can push you!' Perhaps she would make it after all. Against Sapphira's determination and sheer, overwhelming enthusiasm, Andrea's resistance weakened. Of course it wasn't far out. It only seemed so. And she could always float, as the girl said— 'All right,' she agreed. 'But stay with me. Don't leave me. Promise!' 'I promise.' She waded into the water, after first taking off her dress and laying it on a flat rock. The salty tingly warmth of it soothed her as she walked deeper and deeper, until the moment of truth came. Taking a good deep breath, Andrea plunged forward and began the laborious schoolgirl breast-stroke she had learned not so many years previously.

It was easier than she had expected it to be. There was no sensation of a tide pulling, and the water was buoyant, and Sapphira stayed beside her, urging her on with words of encouragement, and she tried to ignore the fact that they didn't actually seem to be getting any nearer to the raft. It was, of course, an illusion. They were nearing it all the time. It just appeared to be receding. She began to tire, feeling the weight in her arms and legs, wondering if she would make it. I must, she thought, I really must. It was, in a way, as if it were a test. 'Not far now, Andrea. We're nearly there.' She didn't reply, but she knew she would never have done it on her own. And then, most surprisingly, they were at the raft, and Sapphira scrambled out of the water, and held out her hand. Andrea flopped exhausted on the deck. Oh, bliss. Oh, utter bliss! The sun beat down on her as she lay, feeling strength seep back into her limbs, her eyes closed, but knowing within a small sense of achievement. About going back she would think later, not now. 'That was good, Sapphira,' she said, after a few minutes. 'But I'd never have made it without your help.' 'Oh, of course you would!' If Sapphira could scold, she was doing it now. 'You just imagined you weren't a good swimmer, that's all. I knew you would be.' The girl sprawled beside her, leaning on one elbow. She seemed to be scanning the sea around them, as if searching for something. 'I could drink a nice long cool drink,' admitted Andrea. 'You could? Then I shall go and—'

'No! I was only joking!' She sat up, worried, for it had seemed for a moment as if Sapphira was about to dive from the raft and set off for shore. 'But I was not!' Sapphira looked puzzled. 'It will only take a minute. I should have remembered to bring something, of course.' 'No, really, you mustn't.' 'But I will only be a few minutes. Please, I will go. You can count to a hundred slowly and you will see me returning.' And before Andrea could protest she had slipped over the side. 'No - wait - Sapphira—' The girl waved. 'To a hundred, remember.' She turned her head, her eyes dancing with laughter. 'And if you see anything, don't be frightened.' Too late, she was swimming away, arms flashing through the still, jewel green sea, and Andrea sat up and watched her. What had that last cryptic remark meant? If you see anything—? Sudden visions of a Loch Ness Monster type creature looming out of the sea filled Andrea's mind so that she began to smile to herself. Sapphira was a girl of constant surprises. Perhaps even the ghostly boat of the lovers, Penelope and Athoni, although hardly in daytime. And what exactly had Sapphira meant about the gate being magic? 'One day you might find out why,' she had said, before skipping away. Despite the heat, a faint tingle of ice rippled Andrea's spine. She didn't believe in ghosts, or magic - but at the same time, if ever a place had a shimmering, unreal quality to it, it had been the gate. The Whispering Gate. She said the words to herself as she lay back, and then she began to count. One - two - three ...

She would not open her eyes until a hundred. Eighty- four, eightyfive - and something bumped against the raft, jolting her so that she sat up abruptly. 'Sapphira?' She blinked, focusing her eyes which still danced with orange light from the sun. And there came a faint squeak, and a huge grey wet head and a pair of tiny bright eyes appeared over the side. Her first, completely panic-stricken thought: My God[ A monster shark! Followed by - no, it's not! And she looked hard, and then began to laugh, softly at first then louder, in sheer relief. The creature was a dolphin, bobbing beside the raft in the waves, watching her, almost, it seemed, smiling. And Andrea knew, with a sudden flash of insight, what the surprise was that Sapphira had kept hinting at, and why her parting words had been what they had. 'Why, hello,' she said, wondering if Greek dolphins understood English. They were supposed to be highly intelligent creatures anyway, and she began to think she wouldn't be surprised if it answered her. She reached out a hand and stroked the wet rubbery surface of the dolphin's head. 'If you're looking for Sapphira, she'll be back in a minute,' she assured him, thinking as she did so: I wonder what Michael and Rose and Jenny would say if they could see me now, stuck on a raft at sea, holding a conversation with a dolphin? She looked towards the beach, and saw a head bobbing in the water, half-way between raft and shore. So Sapphira was returning, and she hadn't even reached one hundred. But it wasn't Sapphira, she saw that a few moments later. It wasn't Marco either. It was Dominic.

He pushed a plastic bottle on the raft, and then hauled himself dripping up on to the deck. Andrea wished that she had the strength - and courage - to do what she would have liked to do - push him back over the side. But as she couldn't, she said: 'What are you doing here?' and she didn't care how rudely it came out. 'I'm here to take you back,' he said. 'When you're ready to go.' He sat down and handed her the bottle. 'This is for you.' 'I don't want it. I don't want you,' she retorted. The dolphin blew a plume of water up in the air and dived down to vanish. 'Because you've only come here to bully me, or be rude again, so why don't you go? I'll wait until Sapphira returns.' And she turned away from him. He began to laugh. 'You'll have a long wait. I've just given her a good scolding.' She whipped round at that, eyes flashing, angry. 'Why?' He raised a thick eyebrow. 'Calm down, little wildcat. Why? Because she had no right to bring you out here when you're such a poor swimmer, that's why. Just as you had no right to try it—' 'Mind your own business!' Andrea snapped, incensed. 'And who told you I was a poor swimmer?' 'She did. She was so proud of the fact that she'd "helped" you make it. She's a child. She doesn't see the dangers. To her it was fun. She can swim like a fish - you can't. So when you're ready, I'll accompany you back to the beach.' 'I'll go on my own.' Andrea lifted her chin. 'Thank you. I'll go without your help.'

'Do you really think I have nothing better to do than sit with you on a raft? I can think of a dozen things I'd rather be doing.' His voice was as forceful and aggressive as ever. He didn't mince his words, he didn't like her, he was tough and powerful and all male, and suddenly, and not for the first time, Andrea experienced a sensation of fear. What chance did she stand, either mentally or physically, in conflict with this hard man? Why, none at all, she thought. Which was why some force stronger than she knew gave her the strength to answer him. She had felt as if she were undergoing a test when she had swum to the boat. Perhaps this was, in a way, another one. And she had passed the first. That gave her a measure of confidence. The knowledge that she could do something difficult. 'Then why don't you go and do them?' she answered. 'And I'll come back, on my own, when I'm ready.' 'You're very stubborn and determined, aren't you?' he remarked. 'When someone like you is trying to bully me - yes,' she said. 'And short of throwing me in the water and pulling me along, there's not much you can do with me, is there?' She smiled at him sweetly. 'I might even do that,' he responded swiftly. 'I'll scream blue murder if you do.' 'No one will hear. And if they did it would be too late. You'd be on your way.' 'And you'd be feeling pleased with yourself, no doubt, at your cleverness - and strength.' She emphasized the last word.

He ignored that as if she had not spoken. 'So why don't you have a drink, and then we'll go?' he suggested. 'You can leave the bottle here.' 'I'd like to throw it all over you!' He gave a crooked little smile. 'I think you would. But it wouldn't have as much effect as if I'd been dressed, now would it? So why don't you calm down, relax - and then we'll leave. You're not going on your own and you're not waiting for Sapphira, because you'd have a long wait in this blazing sun and your fair English skin would burn - and sunstroke can be fatal.' 'That would solve all your problems, wouldn't it?' she retorted. 'Problems?' He savoured the word. She didn't like the smile that followed. 'You're no problem.' 'Aren't I? You could have fooled me.' He stood up, and the raft swayed, but only slightly. 'I have had enough of words. If you are not drinking, we will go. Now.' She stood up too, more slowly. 'I'll swim on my own. I don't need your help.' He was very muscular, a veritable Adonis standing there before her. His dark snapping eyes met hers with fire in them. And he shrugged. 'So - you don't need my help. Very well, let us see how good you are.' And with that he dived over the side. Andrea took a deep breath, and followed him. Only she didn't dive, because she couldn't. She jumped in. The water felt cold, but only in contrast to the shimmering heat on the raft. And maybe he was right about

sunstroke. Her skin was far paler than anyone's at the villa, because they soaked up the sun daily and she was new - or comparatively so - to it. He was waiting, treading water nearby. She wished that she had had a drink now. Her mouth was parched. Feeling very self-conscious and vulnerable, she began to swim. The beach, now that she was actually in the water, seemed a fantastic way away. She half expected him to forge ahead and leave her behind, but he didn't. He stayed level with her, just feet away, beside her, doing a lazy crawl to her laboured breast-stroke. And then, almost with an inevitability, Andrea felt frightened, her arms were tired from swimming to the raft, her legs equally so, and because, for one second, she lost her concentration, she swallowed some water, and panicked. 'I - I -' she gasped, and for a horrible second could not see him. The green water rushed up to cover her face - and then he was holding her, supporting her, saying: 'All right, Andrea. Relax.' His hand under her chin was firm and strong. 'Turn over on your back and float.' 'I can't-' 'Yes, you can.' The voice had an inexorable quality to it. 'I won't let you go under, I promise.' Was this the bully, the brute, speaking? He was almost gentle. And because she didn't have any choice, not really, because she felt as if she couldn't fight any longer, she turned over on her back. The sun dazzled her eyes, and she closed them. And his hands were under her arms, and suddenly she was being swiftly towed along - and equally suddenly, she was no longer frightened. It was all as simple as that.

His head was just behind hers, and strangely enough, she didn't mind him being so near. The roaring, rushing sound had gone from her ears, all was quiet, with just the whisper and shushing of the water around them, like soothing music. She had thought him to be strong before, now she experienced the surge of power as he moved both of them through the water, and it was as though strength passed from Dominic to her, in vibrating waves, as he held her. He was, she knew it now, incredibly powerful. 'Just one minute more and we are there,' his voice was an intrusion into her mind, a whisper in her ear. And then: 'Turn over - you will be able to stand.' She obeyed, and her feet touched sand. The water was up to her shoulders - but she couldn't walk, and stumbled, so that he took her hand, and held it, and like that they came out of the sea. He had been angry before, on the raft, but he wasn't any longer. He was almost laughing. A second later she found out why. As she trod with care up the burning golden sand, he said softly: 'And you would have swum alone? You really believe you would have managed it? To the bottom, maybe - to provide a meal for the fishes - but not to the beach.' Andrea looked at him. Not one of her colleagues would have recognized their 'Miss Mouse' now. She was filled with an inner strength she could not explain, and in it, found the courage to answer him. 'You don't hurt me by your scorn,' she said. 'Not any more. You did at first - when you made it so clear that you didn't want me. But not now. Because I think I am beginning to realize why you behave as you do.' And she smiled slowly at him, and then turned and walked away from him towards the steps. She did not know why she had said what she did. It had been a shot in the dark, one she didn't fully

understand herself. But it had hit the target. She had seen his face change in just those few seconds. And now, as she walked away from him, she knew that she was going to ask Marco certain questions. And nothing would stop her. Because there was something fearfully significant in everything Dominic said or did. And when I know exactly why, she thought, I shall have the weapons with which to defend myself against his enmity.

CHAPTER NINE THE opportunity to talk to Marco didn't arise until, much later that evening. They had eaten dinner, Sapphira had persuaded Dominic to go with her and listen to her new records and Andrea had visited the man she was learning to think of as grandfather. It made it easier if she did that, for then there was no sense of deception within her; and Aunt Cassandra had retired to her own room to gather together notes she was making - although she seemed remarkably secretive about what kind of notes they were, and Marco said to Andrea: 'May I make some sketches of you? I have a studio.' 'Yes, of course.' Here was her chance. He was at his most relaxed when drawing or painting. Although an easy person to talk to most of the time, he would be even more so with a pencil in his hand. His studio was a light airy room with whitewashed walls covered with colourful paintings, and dozens of charcoal and pencil drawings. After Andrea had duly admired it, he invited her to sit down on a jazzily blanket-draped couch and then pulled up a stool, sketch block in hand. A powerful overhead light was angled so that it shone on her, for it was night outside. 'A drink?' he asked her. 'No, thanks.' He poured himself wine from a carafe and sat comfortably, frowning first at the paper, then at Andrea. It was the abstract frown of an artist pondering the best angle to begin, and she didn't speak, knowing that the moment would come, after he had made the first lines, when they could both talk. And then he was away, and she said, before she had too much time to think about her motives - or she might have faltered, 'Please tell me something, Marco - about Dominic.'

'Hmm? Yes. What do you want to know?' He spoke absently, being concerned with the paper before him, and then her face. 'You've hinted things about his reaction to me - you remember when he first came into the suite at the Ritz, and I know that I must remind him of someone who—' she faltered for a moment, but it was only to find the correct words, and he looked up from the pad on his knee, and prompted: 'Yes, I remember. Go on.' 'Of someone who hurt him. But who was it exactly? X need to know if I'm going to stay here, for he—' and here she stopped. 'He is still being unreasonable? Yes, I know. And so I will tell you the full story, Andrea, if it will help. Perhaps it will, for you are understanding and gentle, and if you know the truth you may be able to see things clearly. In fact, I should have told you before this, I can see that now, only some things are not easily said - but now that you have asked, you will hear.' The sketch pad was forgotten. He swallowed some wine, then lit a cigar. 'It all began with Minerva - the one whose daughter you are pretending to be—' Whatever Andrea had expected, it was not that. She looked at him, shocked, and he, seeing her reaction, said swiftly: 'No, not as you think. Minerva was over ten years older than him, and had been in poor health since her early twenties - but I will tell you more of that later, for it does not concern our immediate story. He loved Minerva in a way which I can only describe as worship from afar. To him, a young man of eighteen or so, she was a goddess. There was nothing anyone could do about it. He would do anything for her, and she knew it, and was kind to him - which perhaps was not the right thing to be. It might have been better had

she been cruel - but that was not her way. She was a gentle, golden person - that is the only way to describe her, and as time passed, and he grew older, the love did not lessen in any way, but became different. It was as though he accepted that nothing could ever come of it. Even apart from the age difference, she had made it quite clear to him that she didn't love him in any romantic sense, but more as a younger brother.' He paused to refill his glass, and to offer some to Andrea, which she now accepted, for she felt as if she needed something. 'He had always been mad about cars, and had done some racing, but now he concentrated on it more and more and became very good. And it was at a race meeting in Italy that he met Diana.' He paused, and the unspoken question throbbed in the air: Who is Diana? 'She was so like Minerva in looks that it was almost uncanny.' And then he looked straight and hard at Andrea. 'She was also like you.' She took a deep breath. There was something inevitable about his words. Not precisely as if she had heard them before - but in a certain way as if, ever since that morning, she knew what she would hear. 'I see,' she said quietly. 'No, you don't. Not yet. But you will soon, when I have finished. Drink up, Andrea, and I will ring for some more wine.' 'No, please don't,' she answered. 'Not for me. Please - just go on.' 'I think you might have already guessed,' he said gently. 'Perhaps - but I want you to tell me.' 'He saw in her all the love he had been seeking in Minerva. The inevitable happened. He fell in love with Diana and apparently she with him. He was a wealthy, successful racing driver - and he had

many women chasing him. What girl would not be flattered by his attention? But Diana was not Minerva. She was shallow and selfish. They are the two most charitable words I can use to describe her. And all the while that she basked in Dominic's love, she was deceiving him with one of Dominic's greatest rivals, another racing driver called Luke. Maybe he was the only one who didn't know about it - until he found them together just before a big race in France. I was there, and I saw what happened.' When he paused this time, to light another cigar, the silence in the room was a tangible force, pressing in on Andrea, almost suffocating her with its intensity. 'I tried to dissuade him from entering the race - I feared he would kill himself. He was like a man possessed. There was no stopping him - all I could do was pray that he would neither kill himself nor anyone else - and then wait. And watch.' He looked away across the room and out of the window. Andrea too waited. She could almost see the race track, almost hear the roar of the crowds, feel the tension building up— 'It became clear almost immediately that as far as Dominic was concerned, there were only two men in the race - himself and Luke. They both went into the lead, and the dozen or so other cars might not have been there. I was in the pits - and so was Diana. I turned to look at her at one point. Her eyes were lit with an almost unholy excitement, her lips parted in a smile of pure joy. For her, as I saw in that one instant of time, this was a race of a lifetime. Her two men were racing for her. I think, if she had been a man, I could have killed her. She was all bad, and poor Dominic loved her - or had, until just an hour or so previously. 'Who knows? Perhaps he still did. Love doesn't die in an instant. And then it happened - very suddenly. We heard the screams, the screeching of tortured tyres as cars desperately tried to brake to avoid something - we knew not what. Everyone dashed to see - I

thought it was Dominic had crashed, but it wasn't - it was Luke.' He looked at Andrea again, with pain in his eyes. 'What followed next was awful. 'Apparently both men had been rounding a bend in the track when, according to eyewitnesses, they were so close that their cars had touched. Luke had spun instantly out of control while Dominic, in his car, fought desperately to keep on the track. Dominic was clear the following cars were the ones that had to avoid Luke's blazing car. He managed to crawl out, not badly hurt, but before he was taken to hospital he accused Dominic of deliberately driving into him. Diana physically attacked Dominic, screaming and shouting "murderer!" It took three men to pull her away—' he covered his eyes with his hands. 'God, it was terrible. I have never felt sorry for Dominic before, but I did then. He never tried to defend himself, he just stood there, and there was the most awful look of agony in his eyes - as if, at last - he knew.' 'But he hadn't - he couldn't have done it deliberately, could he?' Andrea said. 'Didn't anyone do anything?' 'Oh yes. When Luke's car was checked, he had a burst tyre, which would have caused him to swerve, not Dominic. In fact, when they really went over it carefully, examining both cars, it was proved without doubt that Luke's car had gone into Dominic's - and not the other way round. So Dominic was cleared, as I had always known he would be. But it was too late. He swore he would never race again, and he hasn't. Only I know that it wasn't just the crash - it was what happened before the race - and after. In a way it was symbolic. He was ridding himself of Diana as well.' 'What happened to her?' asked Andrea gently. Marco shrugged. 'Who knows? She didn't marry Luke, we do know that. Perhaps she's still looking for a millionaire - who cares?' His

face went serious. 'And it was not long after that that Minerva was killed. In some strange way I believe Dominic blames himself, because he loved her, but it was nothing to do with him, of course.' He looked across at her, his eyes clear and gentle. 'And so - it helps to explain a little of why my dear cousin behaves as he does, does it not?' 'A little,' she admitted. 'But am I really like her?' 'Who, Minerva or Diana?' 'I meant Diana.' He gave a crooked smile. 'Certain people can see the likenesses that others cannot. There may be a superficial resemblance, but that is all. Where she was hard, you are not - when you smile, you mean it - when Diana smiled it was a careful pose to ensure that everyone caught a glimpse of her beautiful teeth. Everything was a pose with her. The only man who didn't see it was Dominic - he saw what he wanted to - which was the face of his goddess, Minerva.' 'And how much am I like her?' she asked softly. 'Ah!' He carefully poured more wine into her glass. 'Let me tell you that the first glimpse I had of you, when you entered the gallery, my heart missed a beat. There was this indefinable air - I am a painter, yet I still cannot explain it, or put it into words - as though Minerva's spirit was there. And when I saw you and your companion studying the picture so closely—' he shrugged - 'the idea was born, just like that.' He snapped his fingers. 'And you don't regret inviting me here?' she asked very tentatively. 'No. Regardless of what Dominic thinks and says, you can only do Uncle Stavros good. And that is all that counts.'

'Thank you for telling me all this,' she said. 'It had to be told, if only to make you feel less unhappy about Dominic's behaviour. And now I think I had better justify my existence and do some of the sketching we came here to do.' He smiled. 'Don't look worried. I shan't mention to Dominic that we have spoken.' 'No, of course.' She moved slightly at the indication of his hand, and sat very still. And because Marco was busily sketching she had the time to think. And the first thought that came into her mind was of Dominic towing her safely back to shore. Just for a few minutes then, he had pot been himself - at least not the person she knew. The aggression had gone, and she had been given an overwhelming sense of security that she could still recall so vividly. He hates me and resents me because of the memories that no one save himself can erase, and yet, when I needed help, he gave it. She felt suddenly very sad. 'I feel intensely sorry for Dominic,' she said. 'I've never felt like that before - but after what you've told me, I do.' 'Then whatever happens, don't let him see it.' Marco grinned crookedly at her. 'If there's one thing that man can't stand, it's pity.' 'Yes, I can imagine that. But I shall try to be nicer to him all the same.' She heard a faint noise from outside - it could have been from door or window - but it didn't really register. Not then. Later, it would.

Tortured dreams, a breathless, painful night - Andrea opened her eyes the following morning, and for one brief flash of time, thought she was in a prison cell, so vivid had the nightmares been. The illusion vanished instantly, and she saw her room, warm and sunny,

the sun slanting across the floor in measured beams, the white furniture in place, the pictures on the wall... Yet what had she dreamt? Of torture, of being locked away from view for years and years. She tried to move, and knew the reason for one aspect of the dream anyway. Her skin burnt and throbbed with painful intensity, especially on her upper arms and shoulders. She winced and very carefully sat up. Dominic had warned her - she had been on the raft for such a short time, but it had been enough. Her throat ached, her mouth was dry, and a dull throb began in her temples. Where was Sapphira? She should be outside the window, begging Andrea to go for . a swim - but everywhere was silent. Nothing, not even a distant lawnmower, moved. And then, very faintly, carried on the air, Andrea heard church bells, and knew why everything was so quiet. It was Sunday. She lay back, too exhausted to try and get out of bed. In a minute she would do so, because unless she put something on her skin it would become even more painful, and she had moisturing cream at least. There was little air in the room, everything seemed so still and unmoving, it was almost eerie. Like a continuation of the dreams ... She felt as if she were waiting for something to happen. In a minute she really would try and get up. The knock was peremptory. 'Come in.' Her heart lifted. Sapphira! She would pass Andrea the cream, she always enjoyed helping - but it wasn't Sapphira, it was Dominic. A large, angry Dominic. He never had minced his words. But now he didn't even bother with the preliminary courtesy of a good morning. 'I have stayed behind officially to let you know that everyone has gone to church, so that you would not wonder what had happened when you awoke. But unofficially I am here to tell you now that I will not be discussed by you or anyone else, that I am not in need of

any sympathy or pity from you, and that I shall inform Marco to that effect when he returns.' He didn't even give her a chance to open her mouth. 'You are nothing but trouble - whether you know it or not - with your quiet little ways, your eagerness to please everyone. Don't think you fool me, because you don't-' She had heard enough. The pain of her shoulders and arms forgotten in the face of the sheer ferocity of his attack, Andrea found the strength to grab her dressing gown and put it on. Then she jumped out of bed. 'So you were listening!' her eyes blazed, all her feelings of sympathy completely swept away with the force of his words. 'Serves you right! And I'm eager to please everyone, am I? Well, not you, that's for sure. I thought I heard a noise when I was in Marco's studio last night. What were you doing, crouching down at the keyhole? I shall talk about who I want, when I want - and you can't stop me!' 'I was not listening. I was about to come in when I heard your words -1 could hardly help overhearing, the way you were both talking—' 'Get out of my bedroom!' 'When I choose to. I haven't finished yet.' 'Well, I have. I'm not going to listen to you.' 'Oh yes, you are. Why don't you leave here? You'll do Uncle Stavros no good. Go back to your own world in London where you belong.' 'Belong?' She looked directly into his eyes. 'I don't belong anywhere, didn't you know? I have no family, only memories of a children's home. Don't talk to me of belonging. I should know more about that than you, thank you. You have a home and relatives to

come back to when you're fed up with the bright lights. And I didn't ask to come here, Marco asked me. And just because I remind you of Diana don't think—' but she got no further. She was filled with excruciating pain as he gripped her shoulders, his voice harsh as he said: 'I should have known. Marco told you about that too, did he?' 'Only because I asked him. I wanted to know what made you so horrible to me - my arms - ah!' she gasped in agony. 'Please let go - my skin is all burned with the sun—' Tears of pain came to her eyes. He released her and then, before she could protest, pulled back the top of her dressing gown slightly so that the sore skin was revealed. He let out his breath slowly. 'So. I tried to warn you, but you didn't listen. And you would have stayed on the raft much longer if I had let you.' 'Why don't you say it?' she looked up at him, contempt filling her eyes. 'Why don't you say how glad you are? And "I told you so"? And then you can go.' 'I never rejoice in others' misfortune,' he snapped back instantly. 'If you can think that, you have a strange mind indeed.' 'There's nothing strange about my mind. It's just that I've had my eyes opened to the way people can behave since I've met you. I know that people dislike each other - but it's usually with a good reason, not just because they happen to resemble someone—' 'It can be enough!' His eyes were as hard as flint.

'Can it? Well, you remind me of some French ski instructor I once had a photo of. I liked him - but it doesn't make me like you. In fact I think you're hateful!' She found to her dismay that she was trembling, and tried to hide the fact. If only he didn't make her feel so weak, so helpless. It made her fight all the harder, which in turn took a far greater effort so that she felt drained of strength. It was no good. She sat down on the bed, lest she fall. 'Go away,' she said. 'Just go away.' And something changed. Just fractionally, but it was there. He didn't move, and when he spoke again, some of the hardness had left his voice. 'You must put something on your skin,' he said. 'To take the pain away.' 'I'll manage,' she answered dully. 'When you've gone.' 'No. There is some lotion that we have. It cools the skin and dulls the burning. I will go and fetch it.' Andrea scarcely heard. She turned her head away, uncaring now whether he stayed or left. How could she tell him that the sunburn was as nothing compared to that pain she felt at his words before? Because she was beginning to realize something that she had only half suspected before, and suppressed. She was beginning to know why Dominic could leave her so very weak and vulnerable - and why she had the urge to resist him all the time. Her spine tingled with the knowledge, the awareness that something was happening to her now that she had never known before. He had gone. She was left alone with this intense sweeping emotion that no one had ever roused within her before. She wondered how on earth she would manage to cope.

It was later, and Sapphira had returned from church and was perched on Andrea's dressing stool, watching Andrea brush her hair.

'Oh dear,' she said. 'I never realized that the sun might hurt you so. Do please forgive me, Andrea.' Andrea smiled. 'There's nothing to forgive. I'm the one who should have thought.' She had dressed herself in grey slacks and a white blouse with short sleeves, which would shade her shoulders from the sun. Dominic, after his abrupt departure, hadn't returned. Instead Eugenia had come with a large jar of transparent jelly which she had given to Andrea. She' had also brought her some breakfast. That had been an hour previously, and Andrea had remained in her room, because she didn't want to face Dominic. Eventually she would have to, she knew, but not yet, not until she had time to hide what she didn't want him - or anyone else - to see in her eyes. Sapphira would help. It was easier, in her refreshing presence, to chatter about anything and everything - including the dolphin, so briefly seen the day before. 'Are there more than one of the dolphins?' Andrea asked Sapphira now, as they prepared to leave her bedroom. 'Oh yes, three or four, but one in particular is my favourite. I wonder if it was him you saw yesterday?' Sapphira frowned. 'Can you describe him? Then I'll know if it was Sam.' 'Sam?' Andrea laughed. 'Where did you get that name from?' 'Dominic made up names for them all. He is very funny at times.' Oh, is he? thought Andrea wryly. Funny is not the word I would use to describe him. But she managed a smile. 'Well, quite frankly, one dolphin looks very like another to me. I mean, I've never really studied them before.' Andrea thought for a

moment, trying to remember touching die warm creature. 'He did have a faint scar—' 'That is Sam! On his head? Yes.' Sapphira clapped her hands. 'Good. We shall go down and look for him today. You needn't come in the water,' she added quickly. 'But you can watch. I have a huge ball, and he plays with it, like a seal. Come, let us go and see Grandmama and tell her.' 'Very well.' The girl's enthusiasm and sheer zest for life was a powerful antidote to any introspection on the subject of a certain man. And if she tried very hard, and kept out of his way as much as possible - why, it might not be too painful after all. And so thinking, Andrea picked up her handbag and walked blithely to the surprise that Fate had in store for her. She wasn't to know what it was as Sapphira burst into the lounge in her usual enthusiastic way. She only knew, as she followed the girl in, that Marco and Aunt Cassandra had been deep in conversation, that they were startled, and that they both looked up as if jerked back from somewhere far away. Then, almost instantly, the impression - whatever it had been - was gone. Cassandra gave Andrea her warm smile. 'I do wish,' she said gently, 'that someone would teach Sapphira how to enter a room gracefully.' She sighed. 'I must have a word with Miss Forster tomorrow.' 'Andrea has seen Sam.' Sapphira's eyes sparkled. Clearly her grandmother's concern about ladylike behaviour didn't bother her. 'And we're going to find him today, and play. Will you come too, Uncle Marco?'

He shrugged. 'Perhaps. I will take my sketch pad too. Yes, that's a good idea, and we can have a picnic on the beach. What about you, Aunt?' The two of them looked at each other, and Andrea sensed an unspoken signal. It was as if he had given her a cue. Cassandra sighed. 'Ah, I would love to, but my back is troubling me, Marco, as I told you.' 'You should do something about it.' Marco frowned and looked at Andrea. 'Aunt Cassandra had a slipped disc several years ago, and occasionally it troubles her.' 'I'm so sorry.' Andrea was filled with concern. 'Can't your doctor do anything?' 'That's just what Marco and I were discussing when you came in. I have my own pet specialist - but he lives in Harley Street.' And she gave them all a gentle smile. 'I am seriously considering going on a visit to him—' And Marco interrupted with: 'But I can't let you go alone, Aunt. I will go with you.' He stood and went over to her as the lunch gong sounded faintly from the hall of the villa. 'Come, let me help you up. Be careful.' Andrea went to her other side, and over Aunt Cassandra's head, her eyes met Marco's. His were filled with gentle concern, but was there something else there as well?

Lunch was a strange meal. Not because of the food, which was, as always, excellent, but because of the atmosphere. Dominic's presence didn't help. He seemed in a questioning mood. 'But this must have come on suddenly, Aunt Cassandra,' he remarked, as he

passed a bowl of succulent grapes to her. 'You haven't been complaining of pain recently, have you?' 'No. It was very sudden, last night in fact, when I went to bed. I spent a very restless night, as I was telling Marco. Even my tablets didn't help. There's nothing else for it, I'm afraid. I must go and see Mr. Simpson as soon as possible. I'll phone him in the morning. Marco has kindly offered to go with me. We'll only be away for a few days, of course, but I shall naturally do a little shopping while I'm in London—' 'I was planning to leave here myself,' Dominic cut in. 'In a day or so—' the words were like a hammer blow to Andrea's heart, although why that should be so, she didn't understand. Things would be much simpler if he were not around to complicate them. 'Then perhaps you can postpone it?' Aunt Cassandra had a very sweetly determined look about her when she chose. She was giving it out in full measure now. 'We can hardly leave Andrea in charge I'm relying on you to look after her and Sapphira.' And then the full impact of her words finally sank in. She and Sapphira would be virtually alone with Dominic! Oh, there would be the staff to look after them, and Uncle Stavros and his nurse - but those others were rarely seen. Andrea felt as if she were going white, and hoped it was only her imagination. Dear God, she thought, how will I be able to stand that? She saw the subtle change in Dominic's face. Saw the hardness that was never far from the surface - sensed what was going on in his mind as well. The situation was not to his liking either. But would he defy his aunt? 'Of course,' he answered. 'I have no choice - as you are in pain.'

Andrea speared herself a segment of creamy white cheese. She was surprised at how steady her hand was, after the shock. It would be selfish to wish that Mr. Simpson might be away on holiday - so she fought the temptation hard. But Aunt Cassandra certainly didn't look as if she were in agony - yet who could tell? She was a woman of iron control, and some people are better able to fight pain than others. And then, remembering her own reaction to a touch of sunburn, Andrea felt ashamed. 'I hope you can see your specialist,' she said. 'I'm sure I'll be able to fix something,' Cassandra answered. 'We are old friends. However busy he is, he'll arrange an appointment.' And she smiled. And that, thought Andrea, is that. The smile was to haunt her for the rest of the day, but she didn't know why.

CHAPTER TEN IT seems to run through the entire family, thought Andrea early the following afternoon as she watched the boat recede from shore; this ability to make everything happen for them immediately they wish it. Aunt Cassandra and Marco were on their way to the airport. The telephone wires had been constantly humming since the previous day. And smoothly and swiftly, everything had been arranged; accommodation at the Ritz, an appointment with Aunt Cassandra's specialist, all accomplished with the minimum of fuss and bother. As she walked back to the villa, Sapphira darting ahead searching for butterflies, Andrea was left to ponder over several things that puzzled her slightly. She didn't doubt that Aunt Cassandra was in pain. She had walked around for the rest of the previous day with a walking stick, but had been her usual charming self, discussing with Andrea the subject of Stavros - telling her also that Agatha would be in charge of all domestic arrangements, and that Andrea was not to worry about anything but to ask if she needed things doing. And finally, as they spoke in the early evening, she had assured Andrea that she would only be away for a few days. And then somehow, Andrea couldn't clearly remember now, the subject had drifted on to her own life in the children's home, and how it had been, and how fascinated Sapphira was by it all. It was easy to talk to Cassandra. In her, Andrea sensed a great well of sympathy and concern. She had gone to bed feeling very relaxed, and - considering all the circumstances - almost happy. Talking about her childhood had done her good. But the thing that had puzzled Andrea had happened only a few hours previously, in the midst of all the hustle and bustle of preparations for departure. Wondering if Aunt Cassandra needed any help, Andrea had gone to her room to ask her - and stopped

outside the door as sounds of a furious row came out. And before she could tiptoe away she had heard Dominic's voice: —the idea is ridiculous! Surely you cannot think—' 'Yes! I do!' His aunt's voice had cut in abruptly, like a whiplash. 'I do think it is possible - and we intend to find out—' 'You have become obsessed as he is—' 'And you have let your bitterness colour your life—' Quickly, fearing to hear more, knowing she must not stay, Andrea fled. But the memory of the scene haunted her now. It might never have happened, afterwards. For at lunch there was no indication of anything amiss. Yet she knew there was, and her heart was heavy, because in a strange way, she sensed that it concerned herself. She looked up as the villa came into sight. Sapphira had vanished indoors, and Andrea was alone in the garden. She stood still for a moment, drinking in the beauty of it all. Soon it would be time to visit Uncle Stavros and read to him. It had happened quite by chance; on one of their talks on the Saturday, books had been mentioned, and she had seen his eyes light up as she told him how fond she was of reading. He had dismissed Helena, the nurse something which it was clear the woman resented, but she had gone nevertheless - and then had said: 'Would you read to me?' 'Of course,' Andrea had answered. 'But what do you want me to read to you?' 'I have a favourite in the library. I read it many years ago, and it has stayed with me. Everyone is too busy - but you -1 know you will.' 'Tell me the book, and I will find it.'

And he had told her. And when she had asked Aunt Cassandra where she might find Wuthering Heights the older woman had looked at Andrea strangely, and said: 'How odd. Stavros used to read it to Minerva when she was a young girl. Are you sure it will not tire you too much?' 'I shall enjoy it.' And now the pattern of her days was becoming established. Even Helena was starting to accept her twice daily visits, for it gave her time to go to the kitchen for a break, a cup of coffee. Although there was a second nurse who apparently was to come on Helena's day off, it was she who was in charge, and Andrea was beginning to notice an imperceptible thaw in the atmosphere each time she went. And now, Monday, Andrea was looking forward to starting the second chapter of the book. She had been frightened of reading too quickly, for fear of tiring the old man, but he had urged her on, and her visit the previous day had been a long one, but there was more life in him than she had seen before - and Cassandra had remarked on it. 'Truly, you are doing him good,' she had said. It was enough. 'Andrea! Andrea! I am here!' Sapphira called, and broke the spell as she dashed out into the garden and took Andrea's hand. Andrea smiled. 'Yes, I'm coming. I was just thinking.' 'Well, please don't look so sad. You looked quite sad. You are not unhappy, are you?' 'No,' she laughed. 'Of course not. I always look like that when I'm thinking.'

'Andrea—' Sapphira looked up, all wide-eyed innocence. 'You remember how you told me about - oh, no, it doesn't matter,' and she gave a huge sigh which didn't fool Andrea for one moment. 'Yes, it does matter. What did I tell you about?' 'Well - about when you were at the children's home and you had midnight feasts—' 'Ah! Andrea looked down warily. 'What about them?' 'Well - now that Grandmama's away, and you're looking after me—' 'Dominic is in charge,' Andrea reminded her. 'Yes, well, I know, but so are you, and I wondered—' 'You wondered if we could have one. Hmm!' Andrea frowned. 'But your tutor comes tomorrow, doesn't she? You can hardly greet her with yawns after having today off because your grandmother was going away - what will she think of me then?' 'No, no, I promise I will be wide awake. Honestly. Please, please, Andrea! Just a little one.' 'Well—' it was Andrea's turn to say the word with some hesitation. 'I'll think about it. And where would we get the food from anyway?' 'Oh, no trouble,' Sapphira bragged. 'Eugenia's sister works in the kitchen and she's my friend.' Andrea began to laugh. 'All right, you win. But on one condition.' 'What is that?'

'That we have an eleven o'clock feast, not a midnight one. Then I won't feel so guilty.' 'Yes. Oh, lovely!' The girl clapped her hands. 'Lovely!' 'But listen, Sapphira - don't tell anyone, remember? It's a secret.' 'Of course. It would be no fun if anyone knew. Just Eugenia's sister, and she won't tell a soul, I know.' 'Then I will creep to your room at eleven. And if you're asleep well, I'll have to have the feast on my own, won't I?' 'I won't be,' Sapphira promised, laughing. 'I won't be.'

In the cool of the evening, before their meal, Andrea went to visit Uncle Stavros, carrying the book. Helena rose from her chair as she entered the shaded room, putting her knitting down. 'He is ready for you,' she said, and Andrea smiled at the frail man lying in the huge bed. 'Ah, there you are. I have been waiting,' he said, not in reproachful tones, but with a calm acceptance in his voice. 'Hello.' Andrea sat on the edge of the bed beside him, and Helena went out, pulling the door softly to after her. 'You are well, my dear?' he said. 'Yes, thank you - Grandfather.' It was getting easier to say each time. 'And you? You're looking very wide awake.'

His laughter was a mere whisper of sound, but she caught it. 'Because you have given me something to keep awake for.' He reached out and laid his thin bony hand on hers. 'Soon I will be out of this bed. And then we will go for walks around the garden and on the beach.' 'Of course.' They had told her that this was how he would talk. They had warned her to humour him, but it didn't stop the ache in her throat each time she heard the words. It didn't stop her wanting to cry. 'Yes, of course we will. I'm looking forward to that. We can sit on the terrace in the sun and then you can watch Sapphira and me play tennis.' 'And drink wine and eat grapes. Yes, I can see it all clearly. It will be like old times. You won't ever leave me, Andrea? Promise.' She felt the pressure of his hand on hers. 'I promise,' she said quietly. It would not be for long, they had said ... 'Good. Now, will you read to me?' He settled back with a contented sigh, and Andrea opened the book, laying the leather marker carefully to one side, and began to read. ' "Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through heath and mud to Wuthering Heights ..." ' She was soon lost in the words, hardly aware of where she really was, so captivating was the atmosphere of the bleak Yorkshire moors as she read on, pausing occasionally to see if he wanted her to stop, yet knowing he would say when he began to tire. And then - something made her look up, she knew not what, for there had been no sound, and Stavros listened with closed eyes, as

was his way, only murmuring occasionally in appreciation to let her know she had his full attention, but she sensed the presence of someone else. And Dominic was standing just inside the door. Her breath caught in her throat, and Stavros opened his eyes and focused them - and his face lit up with a smile. 'Why, Dominic! Come in, come in. No need to stand there.' Dominic came forward, and instantly Andrea felt the skin tingle on the back of her neck. She couldn't help it, it was an instinctive, primitive reaction to his presence. 'Forgive me, Uncle,' Dominic sat on Helena's chair. He didn't look at Andrea. 'I didn't want to interrupt your reading, but Sapphira said that Andrea had been gone a while, so I came to see—' 'Ah yes, I think we have lost count of time, eh, Andrea? It's this book, and the way you read it to me.' Andrea glanced at her watch. She had been in the room over half an hour, yet the time had gone as if in a flash. 'I didn't realize,' she said. Somehow she could not call him Grandfather when anyone else but especially Dominic - was in the room. 'I mustn't tire you. I'll go and fetch Helena while you talk to Dominic—' 'No, I will ring for her.' Stavros pressed the bell on the bedside table, within a hand's reach. 'I have enjoyed it today, my dear. She is so good for me, Dominic—' Andrea froze - 'I am feeling better every day since my granddaughter returned.' Please don't let him say any more, Andrea prayed silently. But the prayer wasn't necessary. Whatever Dominic's private thoughts, whatever he might say outside the room, here he had become different.

'I know, Uncle, I can see that. It is good. But until you are stronger, we must not let you get tired. It must be done gradually. And then, soon, we will be having to send out for more books.' He grinned boyishly and Andrea thought, quite suddenly: when he does that, he's almost human— 'Ah yes. All my favourites too. Poor Andrea, you will need glasses.' She joined in the laughter at that, and Helena walked in, faintly flushed as though she had had a glass of wine, and maybe forgotten the time... Dominic rose. 'We are just leaving, Helena. Is there anything you need?' 'No, thank you, sir. I can manage now.' The professional manner was in place again. This was her little kingdom, and they all knew it. 'I'll say goodnight.' Andrea bent to kiss the old man's cheek, and added softly: 'Until tomorrow, Grandfather.' And then she walked towards the door. Dominic caught her up outside. 'The book,' he said, handing it to her. 'You forgot it.' 'Thank you.' She looked at him coolly. He could say what he liked now, it didn't matter. 'I'm visiting friends this evening after dinner,' he said. 'If I'm needed for anything, Agatha has the phone number.' 'I won't need you for anything,' she answered. 'Excuse me, I'm going to wash before dinner.' And she walked away from him, down the corridor, turned left towards her room, and didn't look back. He might have been left nominally in charge, but he was clearly going to keep away from the villa as much as possible.

And that suits me, thought Andrea as she filled her washbasin a few minutes later. That suits me fine.

It was eleven o'clock. Officially, Sapphira had been in bed for an hour, and the house was quiet. Andrea had been reading in the library, and Agatha had looked in to see if there was anything she needed, and then left. The sprawling villa, always softly lit, even throughout the night, was fairly quiet. From the region of the kitchen came laughter and the chink of crockery as the staff ate. But the many branching corridors were silent. It would be easy to get lost, for a stranger, but Andrea was at home now, and her feet were sure as she made her way past Dominic's room to Sapphira's. A quiet tap, and she waited. If the girl was asleep, there was always another night... 'Andrea? Come in, please.' The door was pulled open, and Sapphira, grinning, pulled her in. A pink bedside lamp glowed, the various teddy bears and dolls sat and watched them. And Sapphira bounced back on to her bed, pyjama-clad, eyes shining. 'See!' she said. Andrea closed her eyes for a moment. There was a table laid with sandwiches and glasses, and a jug, and a huge pie, and cake ... She opened her eyes, and they were still there. 'My goodness!' she exclaimed. 'We're not supposed to get through everything, are we?' 'Well - if we leave anything, we can throw it out for the birds. Come, sit down.' Sapphira patted the bed and Andrea obediently sat. 'Oh, this is fun! And while we eat, you will tell me about your other midnight feasts.' 'Mmm, all right. Oh, not a lot to drink. Er - what is it?'

'Just grape juice - with a little wine added. When I told Bertine, she thought it was a lovely idea.' Sapphira passed Andrea a glass, and handed her a plate. 'Please help yourself.' One thing was certain. No midnight feast at the home had ever been like this. But it wasn't important. To Sapphira it was fun, and Andrea caught up in the spirit of it, the secrecy and the sheer uninhibited pleasure of her protegee, began to tell the girl of those other nights by torchlight, with stolen sausages and pieces of cheese, and mugs of milk ... The pie was delicious, a crumbly pastry surrounding fat cherries, and there was a tiny jug of cream. Two huge teddy bears sat and watched them with beady brown eyes, carefully placed by a giggling Sapphira, and Andrea put a spoonful of the absolutely delightful pie in her mouth, and a stern voice from the doorway said: 'What the hell is going on?' Andrea gulped, jerked her head up and began coughing as Sapphira jumped up, shaking the bed. 'Dominic! Oh, you have come to our midnight feast! Lovely. Come in.' She tugged his arm, and Andrea watched as, bemused, he came into the room, to have the door firmly shut behind him. 'You can have my glass. Sit down, please. Yes, that is fine.' The bed creaked as Dominic sat beside Andrea. He took a glass from Sapphira and raised it to his lips, sniffing. 'Wine? Sapphira, what is this?' 'I told you - it is our midnight feast.' And she launched into explanations and Andrea sat back and thought: I'm enjoying this. For he had been caught off balance. For once, just for once, he was not completely in command of the situation.

'We didn't expect you, Dominic,' Andrea said, savouring the moment. 'So I see,' he answered dryly. 'No, but he's very welcome, isn't he Andrea?' said Sapphira. 'Oh yes, very welcome,' she answered in tones as dry as his. She lifted her glass. 'Cheers.' 'Cheers. No, Sapphira, really - I—' this as the girl handed him a plate of sandwiches. 'Yes, you must eat something. Mustn't he, Andrea?' 'Oh yes, of course he must.' She thought: this is almost funny. Here he is, sitting down in Sapphira's room after a visit to friends, having drink and food pressed on him - and he doesn't know how to get out of it, and I hope he gets indigestion! The pie is really lovely, Dominic. You must have a piece of that, mustn't he, Sapphira?'1 she said sweetly, kindly. No sooner said than done. Sapphira would undoubtedly make an excellent hostess when she grew up. She cut a huge wedge of it and poured cream liberally on top. This is such fun!' she exclaimed. 'A midnight feast with two of my favourite people.'' And what have you got to say to that?' thought Andrea. 'Which reminds me,' he said. 'It is almost midnight, and you should be asleep, young woman.' 'Yes, yes, please don't scold me. It is so perfect, and we are having a lovely time, aren't we, Andrea?'

'Indeed we are,' she answered, and finished her grape juice, which seemed to be liberally laced with wine, judging by the effect it was having on her legs. 'Still,' she added, 'we must finish soon remember Miss Forster is coming in the morning.' 'Yes, just five minutes more - please.' Dominic, to do him justice, was making short work of sandwiches and pie. 'These really are delicious, Sapphira,' he said, and Andrea could have sworn he meant it. He really had a human side to him after all. It's just, thought Andrea, that he saves it for other people, never for me - but then she remembered him bringing her back to shore from the raft - well, just once, she added mentally. She wondered if she was slightly tipsy. His arm was touching hers as they sat side by side on Sapphira's bed, and the sensation was incredibly pleasant, and she didn't want to move away. But he did. He stood up abruptly. 'I think we'd better be going,' he said, and looked at Andrea. 'Of course.' Sapphira pulled a face. 'Can we have another feast soon?' she said, looking at them both. 'We'll see,' Dominic answered. 'Perhaps. And now, off to bed or you'll never be up in the morning.' He bent to kiss his niece. 'Goodnight, Sapphira. Thank you for the party.' She flung her arms round his neck. 'Goodnight, Dominic. Thank you for coming. It was a lovely surprise.' 'Goodnight, Sapphira,' said Andrea, and moved towards the door. Dominic, having disengaged himself from Sapphira, reached it first and opened it for her.

'I'll see you safely to your room,' he said. Andrea, astonished, looked at him. 'I don't need help,' she said. 'The wine wasn't that strong, and I do know my way around.' 'Nevertheless—' and he took her arm very firmly, 'I have my duty as your host.' Was there a faint irony in his words? She could not tell. And they walked in silence towards Andrea's room, down the softly lit corridors, past Uncle Stavros' and Helena's rooms. When she saw her door, Andrea said: 'Goodnight,' and went to open it. 'Wait. One moment, please.' 'What is it?' 'Just something I have to say to you - one thing only. May I come in?' 'No, you may not.' She didn't care if she sounded rude. 'Then I'll say it here. When I watched you reading to Uncle Stavros, I realized something.' 'Oh?' She lifted her chin. More insults? She could take them. 'And what was that?' 'I realized I might have been mistaken. I saw his face -1 was at the door for a few minutes before either of you saw me - and it is true. I think you may be doing him good after all. That's all I wanted to say. Goodnight, Andrea.' He turned and walked away. Shaken, Andrea went in and closed the door after her. She had been prepared for all sorts of things, but not that. Certainly not that. For

she had never imagined Dominic would be the man to admit being in the wrong. She felt totally confused, especially after overhearing part of the bitter argument between Dominic and Cassandra. What on earth was she to make of him? And then the dreadful suspicion came: suppose it was a deliberate attempt on his part to make her feel he had accepted her? Andrea quickly tried to dismiss the thought, but it lingered. And there was also the other pain - the pain of unrequited love. For despite everything, despite her own dismay at the realization of it, it would not go away. She would have thought it was impossible to fall for a man you didn't actually like but it wasn't. For it had happened to her. And there didn't seem to be any cure for that condition. Sighing, Andrea flung her handbag on the bed, and went to wash. She wondered what Miss Forster would be like.

Dominic was not at breakfast. He had gone out swimming, Sapphira explained. She was, Andrea was relieved to see, bright-eyed and wide awake. Which is more than I am, Andrea thought wryly. I must be getting too old for midnight feasts. She had slept badly - but she knew why. Images of Dominic had persisted long after she had gone to bed. His face, mocking, hard, and finally, almost gentle as it could be on occasions. Disturbing pictures, always vivid, always with the power to make her heart ache. She had even contemplated getting up and going for a walk in the gardens - and then she must have fallen asleep. 'Miss Forster will be here soon,' Sapphira announced, finishing a glass of milk. 'I will introduce you.' 'And then you'll be working. For how long?' Andrea asked. 'Until one. Then we have lunch, and then we do some reading outside, and sometimes, before she goes, we have a game of tennis.'

'Oh.' She felt faint surprise. 'But I thought—' she had pictured an elderly schoolmarm. But there was no real age limit to tennis, she supposed. 'Er - how old is Miss Forster?' 'Oh, quite old, about thirty-five, I would think.' Quite old! 'I see,' said Andrea, hiding a smile. And the second surprise came when she met Sapphira's tutor. They heard voices from the garden - Dominic's and a woman's, and then laughter. And then through the open french windows she saw them. Dominic, still dressed in swimming trunks, a towel slung over his shoulders, was talking to a slim blonde. He turned, and waved, then took the woman's arm. And she too turned, and Andrea had the impression of coolness, of remoteness as Dominic said: 'Meet Andrea, Miss Forster. She is staying here for a while. Andrea, Miss Forster.' She was being surveyed, taken to pieces and put together again - and then dismissed. 'How do you do, Andrea.' The handshake was as cool and composed as the little smile. Pale blue eyes regarded her watchfully, and Andrea thought with a sense of shock: Here's another one who doesn't want me here, followed by: this is the 'dragon'? And then Miss Forster turned to look at Dominic, and Andrea knew why. She's in love with him, she thought. I wonder if that's who he goes to visit in Corfu? I wonder if he's in love with her"? That was the more important question. 'Come, Sapphira. Are you ready for work?' 'Yes, Miss Forster.' She was more subdued now, the exuberance gone.

'Good. If you'll excuse us?' She came in from the window, where they had all been standing, and walked towards the door, followed by Sapphira. And Dominic flung his towel to one side and sat down at the table. 'I'm starving,' he said. 'Any coffee left?' 'Yes. And toast.' Andrea took a cup and saucer and poured a cup from the coffee pot, and saw his amusement as she handed it to him. 'Did I say something funny?' she said. She must be very calm. If he saw anything to give her away in her eyes— 'No. But I didn't want you to wait on me. I was only askingThink nothing of it. Shall I butter you some toast?' She even managed to smile at him, resisting a wild, primitive urge to tip the butter all over his head. 'How kind of you.' But he wasn't being sarcastic. They were completely alone, and he didn't need to put on an act. Perhaps seeing Miss Forster did him good. 'She's younger than I imagined,' Andrea said. 'Really?' he didn't seem very interested. 'Did you expect to see a little old lady?' 'Not quite.' She could even laugh. He swallowed the coffee. 'Ah, that was good. What are you doing this morning, Andrea?' The question took her by surprise. Why should he care? 'I don't know. After reading to—' she paused - 'Uncle Stavros, I'll probably go for a walk round the gardens, or read.'

'Then how about a game of tennis with me?' And then she knew why he was being nice. She knew instantly. She had seen the way Miss Forster had looked at her. So too had Dominic. He was trying to make the tutor jealous. And Andrea's first instinctive reaction was to say no. She paused for one important second - and then decided. Why not? She had nothing to lose. If it suited him to use her like that, why should she care? She must learn how to be immune to hurt from him. Perhaps this would be as good a starting point as any. 'Thank you, that would be nice. But I must warn you, I'm not an expert.' He grinned. 'I'll be gentle. You might be better than you think.' 'And I've no tennis shoes.' 'No problem. What shoe size are you?' 'Six.' 'Leave it to me.' He rose. 'I'll see you outside in, say - an hour?' She watched him leave the room, a magnificently built animal, moving with unconscious grace. She closed her eyes for a moment. Why, oh, why, she asked herself, did I have to pick him? But she knew the answer even as she thought it. There had been no conscious choice in the matter. It had happened, and that was all there was to it. Heavy of heart, Andrea picked up the copy of Wuthering Heights and went to read to Uncle Stavros.

CHAPTER ELEVEN SHE saw Dominic waiting for her as she rounded the corner of the villa. The scene impressed itself on her mind with its very clarity and vividness. He stood inspecting his racquet, dressed in white shorts and a tee- shirt that only emphasized his powerful tanned legs and arms. He looked up as she neared him. 'Good,' he said. 'Your timing is impeccable. One hour exactly. I have some shoes to fit you. How was Uncle Stavros this morning?' Andrea sat on the wrought iron bench and slipped off her sandals. The pair of tennis shoes he had handed her looked brand new. Perhaps they kept a box full for visitors. 'A little tired, but very cheerful. We talked a little, as well as reading.' But even if he asked her, she didn't intend to tell him what they had spoken about. Stavros's words were something to be thought over when she was alone, for they had been faintly puzzling and disturbing - and she could not ask, for he had assumed she already knew, and she didn't want to upset him. But why should he be so unsettled at the 'wrong' that had been committed? By whom - to whom? She didn't know, she could only soothe, and speak gentle words to calm and reassure him - but if Aunt Cassandra were there, she would have asked her. But not Dominic, never Dominic. Despite his new air of mannerly charm, he was still the enemy, the one who resented her most of all. She tied the shoelaces and stood up. 'I'm ready,' she said. And I hope I can play better than I remember I can, she added silently. She took the racquet from him. 'Thank you.' She thought that he would play a tough game - but he didn't. No doubt about his skill, the way he moved, the easy way he returned the ball, but he was true to his word, and played gently. It was as though he kept his power leashed under tight control, like a champion playing against a child. And suddenly, when they were on their third game, Andrea began to enjoy it. Whatever his motives in asking her to play, he was not out

to humiliate her, or show the world how good he was. She found herself relaxing - but in the right way, enabling her to run and return more confidently so that she surprised herself by sending a long low sweeping return to his serve that left him standing. 'Hey!' he shouted. 'I thought you "weren't an expert? I didn't even see that. I shall have to watch my step, I can see!' 'A fluke,' she answered. 'Nothing to worry about.' But subtly she felt the game, and their speed, build up, and by the time the first set had ended in a six-three win for Dominic, she was exhausted but happy and invigorated. Her face glowed; her legs instead of aching, felt full of strength, as though she could go on for ever. He grinned down at her as they took a breather at the side of the net. 'You could become a very good player, you know,' he said quite seriously. 'You have a tremendously stylish serve.' 'I have?' she glanced sharply at him in case he was being sarcastic. 'Yes. You're a natural. Practice, that's all you need. I could feel you building up confidence after the first few games.' 'So could I.' 'Then shall we begin the second set? Or is it too. hot for you?' 'No, of course not.' Perhaps, she thought to her own surprise, I'm getting used to the heat. 'Then let's go.' She was sure he wasn't letting her win. He didn't appear to be - and yet she won that second set. And now she was tired, but she couldn't admit it, and as she sat on the wrought iron seat she wondered if her arms looked as jelly-like as they felt.

'I'm enjoying this,' he said - and she would have sworn he meant it. What a puzzling character he was! 'Not too tired?' 'No - oh no.' 'You realize the honour of the Faros is at stake? This last set - I warn you, I shall be going all out to win.' It was a challenge. How could she refuse? The sunlight danced in her eyes as she stood and walked to her side. She took a few deep breaths, and waited for his serve. 'Ready?' 'Yes.' It came sizzling across, and she managed to return it, and then they were away. She even managed to forget her tiredness in the total concentration needed for the game, and gave as good as she got. And then, in the fourth game, it happened, quite suddenly. He had sent a devastating return from the net and Andrea, stepping back, lashed out in panic, not really expecting to manage, but it was a crucial point and she had to try, and the ball was deflected from her racquet, upwards. That was all she knew. Everything exploded in a whirl of stars and sunlight, and then went black. 'Oh, my God, I'm sorry, Andrea—' The words seemed to come from a great distance, and she opened her eyes, puzzled. 'What - happened?' she tried to say, not sure how the words were coming out. Her forehead felt as if someone had struck it with a hammer. She tried to put her hand up, and Dominic stopped her. 'No, don't. The ball bounced up and hit you, and knocked you out. Look, I'm going to take you into the house, and we'll get Helena to look at you. Will you let me carry you?'

She wondered, rather confusedly, if she had any choice, and then realized that she was lying on the ground. 'But—' she began, not even sure what she intended to say. 'No buts. We can't stay here.' And the next moment she felt herself being lifted up. Instinctively she put her arms round his neck. Such intimacy - with the man to whom she had such incredibly mixed feelings - should have shocked her, but strangely it didn't. She felt warm, comfortable, and, apart from the pain in her head, utterly right. Oh, but he was so strong! And she didn't care if Miss Cool-asice Forster could see them. Let her see! He carried her into her bedroom and pulled the curtains together to shut out the dazzling sun. And then something strange happened. Instead of going out immediately, as she had expected, to bring Helena, he came back to the bed where Andrea lay, and crouched beside it. 'Please believe me, it was an accident,' he said, and all that hard aggression she knew so well had gone from his face. 'I know it was,' she said. 'In fact, if anyone was to blame, it was me. I should never have tried to return that ball.' She wanted to hold his hand - to reassure him, which was absurd, because he was the last one to need reassurance. 'It's a silly question, I know, but does your head hurt a lot?' She managed to smile. 'Only when I laugh!' She saw his face change, and didn't understand why. For a second, he closed his eyes. 'I'll go and fetch Helena,' he said softly. 'She'll know whether you need the doctor. He's coming later anyway, to see Uncle Stavros.' And then he rose lithely to his feet and walked from the room.

Andrea too closed her eyes, and waited for him to return.

Mid-afternoon, and she had slept for a while, and was feeling much better. The headache had gone. Pain was there, but only if she moved her head too quickly. The curtains were still drawn and Andrea sat up carefully, wondering if she dared get out of bed to pull them back. Helena had given her two tablets, put some sweetsmelling ointment on the bruise at her temple, and told Andrea that she would return later. There was a tap at the door, and Andrea called: 'Come in.' It wasn't Helena, it was Dominic. 'Andrea, you must be starving,' he said. 'And do you feel better?' 'Yes to both. Can I have the curtains open?' He drew them back slightly, enough to let in warm sunlight. 'That's enough for now. I've had to prevent hordes of visitors from coming in to see you.' 'Who?' she was puzzled. 'Agatha - Sapphira - even Eugenia. I've appointed myself your guardian. You don't mind? I thought it was better you should be quiet.' 'My guardian?' How funny the words seemed as she repeated them. 'No, I don't mind. But what about Miss Forster?' the words were out before she knew she'd said them. He frowned and came over to the bed. 'May I sit down? Thank you. Miss Forster? What about her? I don't understand.'

'Well, I - thought—' she stopped, and put her hand to her head. It was the best excuse of all. 'Never mind. I'll go and get you some food. Will you leave it to me? Agatha is waiting with skillet poised, ready for your slightest command.' The awkward moment had passed. Andrea smiled at the picture conjured up. 'Really? Yes, I'll leave it to you. Does Helena think I need the doctor?' 'No, but I'm asking him to see you anyway, when he arrives. For my own peace of mind.' And with that, he went. She puzzled over his words in the silence of the room. Peace of mind? What an odd thing to say. As if he cared. Distantly the gulls cried, and she wondered if Sam was waiting in the sea for Sapphira to go to the raft. Perhaps she and Miss Forster were playing tennis. What did it matter? What did anything matter? A great grey weight of depression seemed to settle on Andrea as she lay there on the bed waiting for the man she loved to bring her some food. No doubt it would all serve to make Miss Forster green with envy. A tear escaped, and trickled down her cheek, followed by another, and another, arid she turned her head sideways on the pillow and let them come. There was a certain release in weeping, and Andrea put her hand up to her face. She didn't care, she just didn't care any more. She didn't hear the tap on the door, because she was too engrossed in her own mood of overwhelming sadness. 'Oh, Andrea, you are crying!' For a moment she didn't recognize his voice, because somehow she had never expected him to speak like that. And even as she opened her eyes, she felt a hand on her arm,

warm and comforting, and she looked up to see Dominic. She closed them again, and tried to turn her head away. 'It's all right. It's - nothing,' she managed, fighting for control. 'But yes, it is. Does your head hurt so much?' How could she tell him what it really was? 'No, it's much better. Truly.' But his eyes were too shrewd, too far-seeing. He sat down beside the bed, and she saw the tray that he had placed on the floor. 'Then you will eat. ,No doubt it is hunger that bothers you. See, Agatha prepared an omelette for you, and at those she is superb—' he was talking to her as though she were a sick child to be humoured, something that at one time, from him, would have made her hackles rise - but now, strangely, didn't. 'So, will you please sit up before I am tempted to steal it?' She did so, and he passed her the tray. On it was a white lace tray cloth, and a covered plate, and cutlery. He whipped the top plate off to reveal a fluffy golden concoction that made her mouth water. 'Mmm,' she said, and the tears were nearly forgotten. 'Coffee? Or a cold drink?' 'I - you mustn't wait on me like this,' she said weakly. 'No? Why not? It is only for today, I assure you. Until my sense of guilt wears off.' He laughed. 'So make the most of it. Now, is it to be coffee or fruit juice?' 'Coffee, please,' she answered. And he left her to ponder over his words. The omelette was as delicious as he had promised, mouthmelting, flavoured delicately with herbs, and with the effect of making her feel much better. In fact she decided that she had had

enough of bed for one afternoon. The mood of depression had been replaced by one of restlessness. And when he returned a few minutes later, she told him that she was back to normal, didn't need to see the doctor, and was getting up as soon as she had drunk her coffee. She looked at him as she told him, seeing all the details of his face, the strength, hardness - temporarily vanished - the deep tan, dark eyes, so nearly black, and the mouth that could be both cruel and tender. 'No,' he said. 'No, you are not. Doctor Zeppi is here now and is coming in to see you soon - with Helena. And you will stay here until he has examined you.' 'You're a bully,' she remarked. The coffee was hot and strong and good. 'Yes?' A crooked smile lit his dark features. 'Perhaps.' He sat on a chair and looked at his watch. 'Not long to wait now.' She couldn't help herself. 'Why have you changed?' she said. 'Is it because Miss Forster is here?' She could have bitten her tongue off. He frowned. 'That's the second time you've mentioned her. I still do not understand why.' 'Don't you?' she answered softly. She sipped her coffee. 'No, I don't.' 'Then it doesn't matter, does it?' She tried to sound terribly casual, almost dismissive - without much effect. 'It won't have to if you're not going to tell me why the cryptic remarks - unless—' enlightenment dawned in his dark eyes. 'Unless you have certain ideas in your mind about Miss Forster and me. Is that it?'

'My head aches. Please leave me alone.' 'It did before when you mentioned her. How strange. And I suppose that means I mustn't ask questions. But I can speak, can I not? Tell me, is it your impression that I am in love with Sapphira's teacher?' 'I saw the way she looked at you - and then at me,' 'So?' Was there the beginnings of a cynical smile on his face? 'And then I thought, when you asked me to play tennis, that—' 'That?' he prompted. 'That what?' 'Nothing. Please go away. You're asking questions and you're making my head ache.' 'No, I'm not. You are. Because you're getting in deeper than you intended. So I'll finish it for you. You assumed that by asking you to play tennis I was going to try and make Miss Forster jealous. You couldn't be more wrong. I asked you to play because it seemed to me that I had a duty as a host - and also because you were being left alone—' 'And since when have you been bothered about me?' Her eyes sparkled. All thoughts of a headache had gone. 'When you were trying so desperately to keep me away from here—' 'We're starting an argument again, have you noticed? It can't be good for you in your state—' 'Rubbish! There's nothing wrong with 'me, just a bump on my head. I'll be fine, I've told you. And just to prove it—' she put the cup and saucer on her bedside table, and then stood up, 'I'm getting up and going outside and you needn't try to stop me—'

'No, you're not!' 'Yes, I can!' They stood facing each other, she glaring, Dominic amused. Amused! She had just about had enough of him. She tried to brush past him, and found herself stopped. 'You do not listen,' he said coolly, softly. 'What a stubborn little girl you are!' His hands were warm on her arms. Warm and very strong. And then - there came a knock at the door. And Helena's voice: 'Miss Brown? May we come in?' The doctor was an extremely tall, thin man, and nearly bald. He had a gentle face and eyes, and he nodded to Dominic. 'Good. Good. You have been looking after the young lady. Now, miss, if you will please to lie down and let me see this unpleasant bump—' 'Just shout me if you need me,' Dominic said to Helena, and went out. Firm fingers probed Andrea's skull, the back of her neck. Doctor Zeppi examined her eyes, made her look into his pencil torch, then up, then down. 'There is nothing seriously wrong, but you may have a headache for a few hours. I will leave some pills for you with Helena, and a sleeping draught for tonight.' He snapped his bag shut and nodded his head vigorously. 'Yes, that is all.' 'Am I to stay here - or can I get up now?' Andrea asked him. 'As you please, as you please. But no more tennis for a day or so hey?' and he smiled at his little joke. 'No, I promise.' 'Come, nurse. A word with you, please. Good-bye for now, Miss Brown. I will see you when I come again on Thursday.'

'Yes. Thank you, doctor,' said Andrea meekly. She waited until they had gone, talking rapidly in Italian or Greek, she could not be sure which, then went to the window. When was it Dominic had said: You couldn't be more wrong. And then, when she had wanted to leave her room, he had held her very firmly. Andrea's heart beat faster. He had been going to say something - but Helena and the doctor had arrived. And now she would never know what it was. But at least she was free to do as she wished, and not be held prisoner in her own room - by him. The restlessness was still there. It had gone cooler, and maybe Sapphira and Miss Forster were playing tennis, or maybe she had left for the day; whatever it was, Andrea didn't care. She was going to go for a walk. A long, long walk, she told herself, because I've had a rest, and I feel much better - and - but even to herself, she could not frame her true feelings. And restlessness combined with confusion was an explosive combination. She picked up her handbag and walked out of her room, closing the door firmly behind her. There was a sense as if of something building up. Andrea did not know what it was, but it was in the air all about her as she walked quietly along the beach that afternoon. A kind of tension, intangible, untouchable, yet there, all the time. Thinking as she went along the golden sands, she tried to go over everything in her mind - from the day she had entered the villa for the very first time. And what had she found then? Not hostility, as might have been expected, but warmth, welcome - a kind of empathy, almost. Only from Dominic had there been the sense of a barrier - but she now knew why. She walked along, and lifted her head to the sky, and breathed in deeply of the warm scented air. She knew, with a calm certainty that filled her very being, that it was right for her to be there. She knew it

if only from her visits to Stavros. There was a bond between them already, steadily growing; it must end in sorrow, she knew that, but to see the happiness on his face each time she entered his room made it all worth while. So very worth while. On and on she went, and when she returned to the villa, at last, the restlessness had gone. In its place, a calm acceptance. Even of Dominic.

Two days passed, and it was Wednesday evening when the telephone call came from London. Andrea had visited Uncle Stavros. More and more she found herself thinking of him as 'grandfather.' She had to stop herself from doing so, for he wasn't, was he? She was simply masquerading as his granddaughter. Sitting in the library after dinner, with Sapphira, she looked up as Dominic entered the room. 'Aunt Cassandra is on the phone,' he said. 'She would like to talk to you.' 'Yes, of course.' She put the book down that Sapphira had handed to her, but he held up his hand as she made to go out of the room. 'No - there in the corner. Take it there. Come, Sapphira.' He gestured to the girl. It was a mere lifting of the hand, but it carried such authority that the girl rose without question, and, with a smile - a puzzled smile - at Andrea, followed him out. 'Hello?' she spoke into the mouthpiece, concerned - had something gone wrong? 'Andrea? How lovely to hear you.' Cassandra's voice, warmth-filled, came across the miles, and she might have been in the next room.

'How is your back now? You've seen the specialist?' 'Ah yes. No trouble. I am feeling better already. Marco sends his best regards, by the way. He is away visiting some friends this evening—' there was something there. Andrea could not put her finger on it, but it was there all right. 'And your head, Andrea. How are you? Dominic told me - he was most concerned.' Andrea felt the tender bump that remained from her accident. 'There's just a bruise now, but I'm quite fine, honestly.' 'Ah, good, good. I think we may be returning home at weekend. Andrea, I may have some news for you when we come backShe knew. She had sensed something at the beginning of the call, and her heart beat faster. What could it be? 'Good news - or - or—' 'Yes, good news. Very good news. But it can wait until we see you. It has waited long enough. You are visiting Stavros every day? And reading to him?' 'Yes, of course.' 'And take care of yourself, Andrea. No more bumps on your head, eh?' 'Of course not. Cassandra, is—' 'Yes, child?' 'Nothing. It can wait, as you say.' Because she didn't want to ask, quite suddenly. Because it was impossible, quite impossible, for it to be anything to do with—

'Andrea? Believe me, my dear, you have nothing to worry about. But some things are best spoken about in person, and not over something so soulless as a telephone—' The line was fading. For a minute or two it had been crackling, and now it was becoming increasingly difficult for Andrea to hear what the other was saying. '—must go, this is terrible. Goodnight, my dear - love to Sapphira—' The line clicked and went dead. Thoughtfully, Andrea replaced the receiver. Her heart thudded so loudly that it almost hurt. She didn't want to talk to anyone, and looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. It was nearly ten. Picking up her bag, she left the room and walked quietly along the cool corridors to her bedroom.

But she hardly slept at all that night. The restlessness ' had returned, and with it a hidden excitement that refused to go away in spite of logic. It was almost a relief to see the dawn - at least the night was over. Her head ached and Andrea felt utterly wretched as she went to the bathroom and splashed her face with cool water. She would go for a walk, the never-failing cure for whatever ailed her. And there, uninterrupted, she would be able to think clearly about the half waking dreams that had filled her night. Quickly, quietly, she dressed and then looked at the window. Why not? It was a short cut anyway. Sitting on the windowsill, feeling slightly guilty, she slipped down to the garden. Lacy cobwebs of dew shimmered on the grass as Andrea walked away from the sleeping villa and towards the beach. And irresistibly her thoughts went back to the time it had all begun. Scarcely two weeks ago, on a Friday lunchtime, thirteen days to be precise, she had walked into an exhibition of paintings, and her life had changed irrevocably. She knew that now. Whatever happened to her in the future, wherever she went, her life had been touched with something

wonderful, and nothing could take that away from her. Even Dominic, with his moods of varying hostility, could not spoil it completely. And yet - how long would the pain of love take to go away? Never having fallen in love before, Andrea did not know. It was not what she had been led to believe from books and plays. It actually hurt. How strange, she thought. Why him? Why not Marco, who is good and kind? But the feelings she had for Marco were different, so very different. With him she felt relaxed, at ease - with Dominic it was all fire and sparks and brittle tension. The sea beckoned her, soft and gentle - and treacherous. Her sandals made little whispering sounds in the 'sand, and she walked on and on, and then saw a little rocky bay, and somewhere to sit and puzzle over Cassandra's words of the previous night. Little pieces of a jigsaw fell into place. Words half overhead, arguments between Dominic and his aunt, looks exchanged - and now the conversation on a telephone, the promise of news. How could it be what she thought? Andrea looked over across the silent water, and memories of childhood came flooding back to haunt her and disturb with their power. She had lived with a hope all her life the hope that one day, somehow, she would find her parents. But Minerva had never been to England - Marco had told her so. Yet the picture - the first moment she had seen it, she had had the most incredible sensation, not easily explained, not even now, when she was familiar with it, for Marco had hung it on the wall of the dining room, and Andrea saw it every day. She closed her eyes, seeing it in memory, and when she opened them, because a shadow had darkened the light, she saw Dominic standing before her. It took her a moment to adjust, to focus again. He had just come out of the sea, dripping wet, wearing blue trunks, carrying goggles. And he looked tired, as if he hadn't slept. Her heart lurched at the sight of

him. She prayed that he might never know the power he had over her, for what would he think of that? The idea of it made her voice cold as she said: 'I thought I was alone.' 'So did I.' His tone was equally cool. The man who had looked after her when she had hurt her head had gone for good. No doubt he despised his own temporary weakness as much as he despised her. His next words confirmed it. 'I shall be going away when Cassandra and Marco return,' he said. There was a deep ache in her heart at his words. 'Will you?' she answered. Fight to be casual. 'Why wait until then? I can look after Sapphira, you know.' And suddenly she felt the primitive urge to hurt him, as he had hurt her. 'In fact I'm sure she won't mind how soon you go. I certainly won't.' 'Because I promised I would stay, that is why,' he answered. 'But you won't have long to wait,' she answered, smiling. Funny, she thought, it's easier to stop my mouth trembling when I smile. 'They'll be back at the weekend, and it's nearly that now.' 'So it is.' He was looking at her, dark and brooding, his face more serious than she could remember ever seeing it before. I don't know why I love you, she cried inwardly, but I do. And I wish you'd stop looking at me like that. I can't help it if I look like Diana. And she would never know why she said what she did then. 'It's just as well,' she answered him. 'Because we could never learn to get on, could we? Every time you look at me you are reminded of someone you hate, and short of plastic surgery, there's not much I can do about that, is there?' And she stood up and walked away from him, back towards the villa. She did not look behind her.

CHAPTER TWELVE THEY returned late Saturday evening. She had seen little of Dominic since their encounter on the beach. Sapphira was a joy to be with, never failing to be cheerful and happy, and Andrea made the effort, not only for the girl but for Uncle Stavros. But inwardly she was sad, unutterably so. He was going away, and it was because of her. Perhaps he knew, or guessed at what Cassandra and Marco had gone to London to find - and perhaps he could not bear ever to be wrong or was it more than that? In any event, he left the villa early Saturday morning in his car, and Andrea did not see him again that day. After dinner, she and Sapphira visited Uncle Stavros, and talked with the old man while Helena took a break in the kitchen with the staff. There was an undercurrent of tension in the villa. It was almost as if everyone was waiting for something to happen - but did not know what. Only the girl and the old man seemed oblivious to this, and in his room, Andrea felt soothed and relaxed as they spoke about swimming, and tennis, and Sam the dolphin, and Stavros' face creased into a smile at Sapphira's enthusiasm. And when they saw that he was tired, they rang for Helena and crept out to go for a walk. They went through the Whispering Gate, and heard the murmurs from the sea as they did so, and Andrea's imagination supplied the rest. It was almost as though a faint voice was calling, from a distance: 'Andrea, Andrea—' She shivered, and Sapphira took her hand. 'Listen,' she said, entranced. 'Does it not make your spine tingle at the sound?' 'It's just the sea,' replied Andrea firmly. No use the child having vivid dreams all night.

'Mmm, of course - but it's a bit ghostly as well, isn't it?' Andrea laughed. They were well past the gate now, and the absurd fancies had gone. It was a clear moonlit night and the sea shimmered, and the distant hills of Albania were a mere shadow, a smudge on the horizon. 'I suppose so,' she agreed. 'If you have a good imagination - as I think you have. But we're going for a walk, not frightening ourselves with legends. Come on, I'll race you down the beach.' And they set off running along the sands, laughing and stumbling in the soft dry sand. They returned to the villa with flushed faces, pleasantly tired, and saw the cases in the hall, and heard Cassandra's voice floating from the lounge: 'Sapphira, Andrea? You are back - come in, dears.' This was it. Whatever it was she was going to hear, whatever the news, she would learn it soon. She felt almost light-headed, as, accompanied by the eager girl, Andrea went in to greet Cassandra again.

'I can't believe it,' she whispered. 'I can't take it all in. I hoped - oh, I hoped so very much - but now you're telling me. I just can't—' Andrea stopped, and shook her head. Cassandra and she were alone. Marco had swung Sapphira up into his arms and swept her off a short while previously to take her to bed. The older woman looked well, and she had poured Andrea a glass of brandy after he had gone, with the words: 'Take this, my dear, I think you'll need a drink.' And then she had begun to talk, quietly and quickly, as if she had a lot to say. And Andrea had listened to the most incredible tale that

unfolded. She had listened without interruption to the end of it, and had then looked up, a dawning wonder on her face. 'Then Minerva was my mother - and Uncle Stavros - he is really my grandfather?' 'Yes, my child. And this is your home now. You see, I have known all along about Minerva running off, and her secret marriage to James Scott - but only I. So ashamed and hurt was Stavros that he pretended she was in a sanatorium in Switzerland. That is why Marco told you - quite truthfully, as he thought - that she had never been to England.' 'And it was you who traced her after she and her husband were in the accident?' 'Yes, and brought her back home here. She had completely lost her memory in that terrible crash. She knew nothing of where she had been living, or who with - and she had forgotten her baby - you.' 'But then - how—' Andrea began, bewildered even though she had heard the tale. 'Only gradually, months and months later, did the struggle for memory begin. But she had been so hurt that we - Stavros and I thought it was delayed shock, that she was really talking about the husband she had lost. But she and Stavros were so much closer perhaps he began to believe her. And then, soon afterwards, it was too late. She was killed in a plane crash, and from then on Stavros changed, gradually became more ill, until you see him as he is now. 'It was only in the last year that his obsession about his missing granddaughter began to manifest itself. And then you came, and we thought we could let him die happy in a harmless deception.

'Until something you said triggered off a distant memory in my mind, and I knew I would not rest until the truth had been discovered.' 'The blanket? You mean the blanket?' Andrea asked. 'Yes. I knew I had to see it. That was why Marco and I went to London. But it would have been cruel to tell you, to raise false hopes, and it seemed an impossible task after all, to actually prove anything after all this time. We had already set the wheels in motion before we left. All the details of your life that you had given Marco and me had been carefully noted down, especially the dates, and place of your being found - and we had put a top London detective agency to work. But I had to go myself, of course, which is why I suddenly developed my bad back again. You will forgive me for that little lie?' 'Of course.' Andrea had to sip some of the brandy. 'Please tell me again, just once more. I'm so happy.' Cassandra smiled gently. 'I know. I can see. Obviously not every detail can be known with complete certainty after all this time - we were very fortunate in finding that poor woman's son—' 'The babysitter, you mean?' 'Yes. But to start from the beginning, the story as I have it from the detective agency - and they were painstaking in their search, believe me - was as I told you. Minerva - your mother - and her husband lived in two rooms with a widow and her young son. I am sure they were happy. We can only hope so, for I loved Minerva dearly. She had left home, run away - to marry someone ' her father considered quite unsuitable. He had in mind for her a wealthy young man of good family. How could he know she had already fallen in love with

the good- looking young holidaymaker whom she had met on the beach? 'Stavros was so bitter when she ran away that he tried to pretend she didn't exist. And so ashamed that he told everyone she was ill, and had gone away to the Swiss mountains. Only I knew the truth, and my heart was sad - but I digress.' Cassandra poured more brandy for herself, and smiled at Andrea. 'And all that is past anyway, for after the accident he took her back and forgave her, and all was well. In losing her memory, she had become like a child again, it was as if she had never been away.' She sipped her drink thoughtfully. 'But this is the story as we know it and the more I hear it, the more I know in my heart that it is the truth. One winter's evening your mother and father left you, a very young baby, in the care of Mrs. Ryan, the widow with whom they lodged. She was a simple soul, but kindly, loving children. Her own son - the one we contacted - was eight or nine at the time. They left you with her, as I say, a young baby. They were living under the name of Brown, by the way. Hardly original, but not so easy to trace if Stavros was after them. 'They went out, to a party, and never returned. What Mrs. Ryan did not know was that they had been involved in a car crash. Your father was killed, and Minerva rushed to hospital, badly hurt - and with no memory of who she was, no memory of anything at all. And Mrs. Ryan waited, and waited, and must have thought, after a day or so, that they had abandoned you. She was poor. It was difficult enough for her to feed and clothe her son and herself, but worse, she was living in Council property, and Minerva and James were there unofficially. She was frightened to go to the police and tell them about you because then it would all have come out about her having lodgers, and if she were evicted, she would have had nowhere to go.

'But she was frightened for you too. So one night, she wrapped you up warmly in your clothes - and the blanket - took you to a telephone box and phoned the police, and then hid in an alleyway nearby with her son to make sure that they would arrive. That is something he remembered vividly, and also that his mother swore him to secrecy. He told us of seeing the police car stop by the box, of seeing a policeman step out and take you, a small wrapped bundle, and get back into the car, and drive away with two policemen. And then he and his mother returned home.' Cassandra put her hand over her eyes. 'Please - don't say any more now,' Andrea begged. 'You're tired.' 'There's not much more to tell.' And Cassandra smiled. 'You were brought up in the home, Mrs. Ryan eventually remarried, and now lives up in Northumberland somewhere. But she retained a small box of personal possessions which her son, who is himself married, always kept. It was he who answered the newspaper plea for information, on condition that his mother, who is now nearly sixty, and not in good health, would not be bothered or told in any way, a promise we have honoured.' 'And the blanket? You have it with you?' Andrea asked softly. 'Yes, my dear. That was my proof. It is in my case, and I shall return it to you tonight. It was I who taught Minerva as a child to knot small squares, I who taught her to crochet them together - she had been painstaking in making this for her beloved child.' Her eyes glistened with tears. 'Ah, the memories it brought back—' And Andrea went over to her and, kneeling in front of the older woman, put her arms round her. 'Please don't cry,' she said. 'I have a home now, and relatives - I can't tell you how wonderful it all is.'

'You don't need to, for I see it in your face. My dear little Andrea, you are home at last. No more need to pretend with Stavros. You are his true granddaughter, and already you have helped him so much. There is nothing more we can ask of you. Nothing.' And Andrea remembered that Dominic was going away, and a chill went across her heart, just for a moment, in spite of her great happiness. For she sensed he would not return, and there was nothing she could do about it.

He went the following day, on his boat Sapphira. All the pain of his leaving could not take away Andrea's newfound contentment. And before dinner that evening, as Marco, Cassandra, and Andrea sat in the lounge, Marco said, with a thoughtful look at Andrea: 'You must not let Dominic hurt you so. He will never be any different.' Cassandra looked up sharply. 'He is a fool,' she said. 'But I have told him that many times before, and he is best working out his own life in his own time.' 'He left because of me,' said Andrea. 'I know that. He left because I remind him of Diana—' 'And of Minerva,' added Cassandra softly. 'He loved her too, remember. And perhaps he cannot bear the reminder. We are better off without him, if that is the way he thinks.' She sipped an aperitif. 'You will be happy here, Andrea, just remember that. We have so much to talk about, so many things to see, so many places to go—' she smiled. 'Oh, I am so glad you have come home at last!' Marco raised his glass. 'I second that,' he said. 'And I'm so glad I saw you in the art gallery that Friday.'

Andrea managed to smile. 'So am I,' she agreed simply. She would forget about Dominic in time. In time. But how long would it take?

The days passed, hot and sunny, and it seemed that summer would never end. Only the evenings grew cooler as if to gently usher in autumn. Every evening Andrea walked alone in the gardens, and inevitably, whether she wished it or not, her feet would guide her to the Whispering Gate, because there was a fascination about it that she did not fully understand herself. She was both happy and sad, a strange mixture, and the evening walks helped her to sort herself out at the end of the day before she went to bed. The love for her new home was growing steadily, nearly as much as for the people within it. Her family, her own family - and her very own grandfather, whose health was improving, much to Doctor Zeppi's and everyone else's surprise. But not to hers. She gave him strength and the will to live, something he had lost. And in that she was content. Now, one late evening, as she stood alone by the gate, listening to the soft murmur of the sea, she thought about it all, and about the change in her life, and knew that there was nothing she would want to alter. Except, perhaps, one thing. Then, even as she thought it, she heard her name being softly called, and turned round in surprise. But the garden was dark, and nothing moved, only a breeze that ruffled the leaves of a tree nearby. There was no one there. She was alone - and yet not alone. For the voice came again. 'Andrea,' it said, a mere whisper of sound. A shiver touched her spine. Her heart beat faster. 'Who is it?' she called, unable to bear the suspense for a moment more. She looked out towards the sea, but that too was still. The trees hid the beach from view, the dark, shadowy trees ... She must

return to the house, for the ghosts of the past were rushing back, and although she wasn't frightened, she might be if she stayed ... 'Andrea, look round. It is me - Dominic.' She turned from the sea, turned ever so slowly - and he was standing there in the garden, a tall black shadow of a man. 'Ah!' she caught her breath in an involuntary exclamation and he came forward to her, hands outstretched, and caught her as she swayed. 'Forgive me for frightening you,' he said, and his voice was trembling. 'Forgive me for everything. For I ran away from you and then I found I couldn't stay away any longer.' And he took her in his arms and held her tightly. 'I love you, Andrea,' he said. 'I've loved you all my life, since before we met, I was waiting for you to enter my life - but I didn't know it. I was searching for you all this time, and I was too foolish to know it.' She was shaking still, and he touched her hair, and stroked it gently. 'Can you not speak?' he asked. 'Do you hate me, then?' 'No - oh no, I love you - but I thought - I thought—' 'I know.' And he picked her up in his arms and walked out through the gateway. 'Where - where are we going?' she whispered. 'To the boat. I must be alone with you, to talk, to tell you, to ask your forgiveness.' 'But - the others - they'll wonder—'

'No. I've told Cassandra. She knows. She has known all along; she is a wise woman. She gave me her blessing.' Surefooted, he took the steps down to the beach to where his boat, hidden from the gate, waited. 'We are going away now - but we will return soon. And then we will be married, and be together for always.' Then she seemed to see another boat, fainter, ghostly, drifting past in the moonlight, and she knew that the magic was there, and had always been, and would always be. The magic of the Whispering Gate.