Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

The Night of the Bulls
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IN early April the mistral blows down the valley of the Rhone, gathering its chilling blast from the ice-clad slopes of Haute Provence, to howl its stormy way across the untrammelled marches of the Camargue with a shrieking vengeance. Then, neither man nor beast attempts to challenge its dominance, and only the brave heads of irises and daffodils, growing wild among the reeds, dare to suggest that spring is coming to the estuary.

But when the spiteful wind departs, with a suddenness which is in itself unnerving, the warmth of the sun is more than enough to banish the remembrance of ice-covered wastes where seabirds have striven desperately to find food, following in the tracks of the wild white horses whose hooves break up the packed ice. The whole delta comes to life, colourful as it is never colourful in high summer when the heat of the sun parches the marshes to cracked stretches of mud-flats, and there is life and activity everywhere. Placid lagoons and blue marshes teem with wildlife, the cheeky reed-warbler, clinging to the tall grasses, the brightly coloured plumage of the bee-eater, darting down to catch some insect skimming the surface of the water, and the almost exotic grace of the flamingo, walking the lagoons with regal elegance.

This was the time of year Dionne knew so well. This was the time when she had come to Provence, to this especial corner of France which had come to mean so much in her young life. And now she was coming back, and there was the same twisted tugging of her emotions troubling her as there had been when she had left here so precipitately three years ago. But how could there not be … in the circumstances?

The Caravelle tilted suddenly and she sank back in her seat, gripping the arms tightly, feeling nausea welling up inside her. She had to remind herself that she was still aboard the aircraft coming in to land at Marignane, and despite her vivid recollections of the Camargue, she knew there was no welcome waiting for her there.

A young man seated across the aisle from her leaned towards her anxiously. She had been aware of his speculative stare from time to time during the flight, but she had discouraged any attempt he might have made to be sociable. She wanted no involvement with any man.

But now he sensed her rising panic, the near hysteria that enveloped her when she seriously considered what she was doing.

Touching her arm lightly, he said: ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but are you ill?’

His accent was unmistakably French, and she wondered how he had known that she was English. Unless he had heard her talking to the stewardess, perhaps.

Struggling up in her seat, inside the securing strap of her safety belt, she managed a faint smile: ‘Thank you, monsieur, but I’m all right. The – the landing always unnerves me.’

‘Ah!’ The young man nodded understandingly, and she was struck by the clearcut lines of his profile. He really was a most attractive young man, and Clarry would say that she was a fool for repulsing every young man who showed an interest in her. But Clarry was not here, she was alone, and she had more than enough to cope with at the moment. So discouraging any further conversation she transferred her gaze to the window, seeing the tarmac of the runway seemingly rushing up to meet them. She closed her eyes, and there was a slight jolt. The plane’s undercarriage took the weight; they had landed.

Dionne unfastened her belt, ran a questing hand over the smooth chignon in the nape of her neck, and rose to her feet, gathering her belongings. From the brilliance of the sun on the tarmac, she did not think she would need her coat and she slung this over her arm, grasping the strap of her travelling bag.

‘May I be of assistance, mademoiselle?’

It was the young man again. Most of the other passengers were disembarking, wishing the stewardess goodbye, disappearing down the flight of steps to the formality of the airport buildings, but the young man had obviously waited for her.

Dionne smiled a dismissal, shaking her head, and without a backward glance walked swiftly down the aisle to the exit. The air outside was incredibly warm and sweet-smelling, and not even the roar of a jet overhead could wholly dispel the poignance of the moment for her.

Then, shaking sentimentality aside, she ran down the steps and walked towards the Customs building.

It was soon over. The officials smiled at her warmly with the inconsequence of Frenchmen faced with an attractive female, and she emerged feeling flushed and a little more confident to face what was ahead. She looked about her, unable to dispel a faint surge of excitement. The air smelt so deliciously of the perfumes of the flowers mingled with the tang of the sea, while the heat of the sun was warm upon her back. She wondered where she would find the car which she had hired in advance and which was to be awaiting her here at the airport. There were plenty of cars about as well as the buses waiting to take passengers into Marseilles.

The young man from the plane emerged and walked casually across to join her. Dionne bit her lip rather impatiently. She hoped he was not going to prove a nuisance. When he spoke to her again she turned to him with an expression of exasperation marring her smooth forehead above eyes which were an amazing shade of sea green.

‘ Yes, monsieur? ’

‘You are being met, mademoiselle?’ he queried, and Dionne hesitated only a moment before nodding. After all, it was only a distortion of the truth. ‘Then you do not require a lift, mademoiselle?’

‘Thank you, no.’ Dionne moved a few paces away, continuing to scan the cars parked by the kerb in an effort to find the one belonging to Inter-France Travel. There seemed a constant stream of cars coming and going, the glare of the sun glinting dazzlingly on paint and chromework.

Fumbling in her bag, Dionne drew out dark glasses and slid them on to her nose. They were huge squares of polaroid glass and successfully hid her expression. She hoped the young man would take the hint and disappear about his own business, but presently he was beside her again, saying: ‘I think you dropped this, mademoiselle.’

Dionne spun round ready to make some chilling rejection of his supposition and then gasped in surprise as she recognized her hotel reservation in his hand.

‘Oh – oh, thank you,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I – I must have dropped it when I took out my sunglasses, Thank you.’

The young man smiled. ‘It was my privilege, mademoiselle,’ he responded politely. ‘However, I could not help but notice you are intending to stay in Arles. A beautiful city. I live quite near there myself.’

Dionne caught her breath. ‘Really,’ she exclaimed. ‘I see.’ She glanced round swiftly. ‘I agree. It is a beautiful city.’

The young man frowned. ‘Are you sure I cannot give you a lift, mademoiselle?’

‘Oh, no!’ Dionne moved a deprecating hand. ‘I – well – actually I’ve hired a car. It should be here … somewhere.’

The young man listened attentively and then scanned the waiting vehicles with a practised eye. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I think I know where we might find your transport, mademoiselle.’

It seemed he knew what he was talking about, and as he took charge of her cases Dionne had no alternative but to follow him. In no time at all he had found the small Citröen, introduced her to the attendant, and in the process discovered her name, Dionne thought to herself rather uncharitably, and had thrust her cases into the boot.

‘Perhaps we shall meet again, mademoiselle,’ he remarked lightly, as she bade him goodbye and thank you. ‘I am often in Arles and I should be most happy if you would allow me to buy you dinner one evening.’

Dionne smiled vaguely, allowing his invitation to go by without comment. After all, it was reasonable that he should assume she was merely a tourist in the area. He could not possibly be aware of the real reasons behind her visit, reasons which were scarcely acceptable even to herself.

She drove away with his saluting silhouette visible in her rear view mirror and wished with a desperate feeling of inadequacy that she had been only a tourist after all.

She drove west from Marseilles, and then turned north, following the road to Arles across the great Plaine de la Crau. This was a rather desolate area, bare and uninviting, and only in places was some attempt at cultivation being made. She remembered that once Manoel had told her that in legend Hercules was supposed to have come up against a race of giants on this plain and had called on Zeus to help him. The god had rained down rocks and stones and saved the hero from death, but ever afterwards the area had been littered with the rubble from the battle.

Manoel!

A quiver ran through her. For the first time since leaving London she had allowed thoughts of him to invade her mind and it was devastating what even a thought could do to her. She stretched out a hand searching for her handbag and finding it. Extracting a pack of cigarettes, she put one between her lips and lit it with trembling fingers. She did not smoke much, and only when she was under strain, but right now she needed something.

It was after six by the time she reached Arles, and she felt travel-stained and weary. She drove straight to her hotel, checked in, and after refusing anything but a sandwich, which they agreed to send to her room, she went straight upstairs to take a shower. Afterwards, she dressed in a silk housecoat and seated herself by her window overlooking one of the small squares to eat her sandwiches and drink some of the excellent coffee which the proprietress had thoughtfully provided.

A breeze stirred the branches of the plane trees, and several youths cavorted about on bicycles beneath the windows, but it was very peaceful and relaxing, and Dionne allowed her taut nerves to slacken. There was no point in maintaining such a rigid control on herself. The chances of meeting Manoel by accident were very slim indeed, and when she did see him it would be on her terms, not his. If he agreed to see her …

She thrust the half-eaten plate of sandwiches away, as memories came to pain and disturb her newly found peace. What if he refused to see her? He might very well do so. After all, he was not to know the truth, of that she was determined.

She poured another cup of coffee and held the cup between her two hands, cradling its warmth against her palms. She must go over in her mind what she had to say to him. It would not do for her to be disconcerted by any question he might ask. She must have her story so clear in her mind that she would not make any mistakes.

She sank back in her seat, replacing her empty cup in its saucer. Reaching for her handbag, she extracted a leather wallet and opened it. From inside she withdrew several photographs, looking at them tenderly.

The small boy whose image gazed out at her with trusting sincerity touched a chord inside her and she felt the unaccustomed prick of tears behind her eyes. It was a long time since she had allowed herself the luxury of crying. She wondered what he was doing now, whether he was behaving himself for Clarry.

On impulse, she bent her head and touched the pictured lips with her own. ‘Good night, Jonathan,’ she whispered huskily, before putting the photographs back in the wallet and securing it in the larger of her two suitcases. Just in case, she thought regretfully.

In the morning she was awakened by the brilliance of the sun forcing its way through the curtains at her window. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was and she wondered why Jonathan’s cot was not in its usual place beside her bed. But then as consciousness returned with pressing awareness the reality of her surroundings enveloped her.

Thrusting the depression which seldom left her aside, she slid out of bed and went to the window, drawing aside the curtains and looking down on the square. Some children were playing in the little formal garden in the centres, chasing a ball and shrieking with delight. The sight caused a sharp pain in the region of her heart and she drew back from the window and went into her bathroom.

Later, dressed in close-fitting navy trousers and a shirt-necked white blouse she surveyed her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She looked cool and slim and businesslike, the dark hair in its chignon accentuating the air of maturity she was endeavouring to assume. But in spite of all her efforts, the upward tilt of her lovely eyes and the generous sweep of her rather sensuous mouth betrayed her youth and uncertainty. With a feeling of helplessness, she went down to the dining-room.

After breakfast, she drove into the centre of Arles. It was not a large place, but it was a market town and in consequence its mornings were filled with activity. She found herself tempted by the delicious array of sea-foods available on the stalls, but resisted the inducements of the stallholders to buy. Instead, she parked the Citröen and walked round the shops, filling in time until lunch.

She had decided to telephone the Mas St. Salvador at lunchtime in the hope that she would be able to speak to Manoel, who perhaps came home for lunch. She had no desire to speak to his mother, or his father either for that matter. This concerned herself and Manoel, and Manoel alone.

After posting a card to Clarry assuring her of her safe arrival, she found herself becoming increasingly agitated as the morning wore on. It was annoying to feel so emotional about the whole affair, and somehow she must calm that emotionalism before she saw Manoel. It would not do for him to see how stupid she was.

She refused to speculate upon his reactions to her arrival. No doubt he was married to Yvonne now, and had commitments of his own. He might even refuse to see her. Certainly if Yvonne had anything to do with it, he would. And in any case, why should she suppose he might lend her money on the strength of a relationship they had had three years ago, and which he obviously did not consider binding?

She drove back to the hotel soon after twelve and entered the reception hall almost reluctantly. She had noticed a public telephone booth in the hall for use by the patrons and she walked across to it determinedly. She wanted to get the call over before her courage wavered.

Although she had written the number down she could remember most of it without difficulty and with trembling fingers she lifted the receiver and asked the operator for her call. By the time she heard the ringing tone at the other end of the line her palms were moist with sweat and tiny beads of perspiration were standing on her brow.

The receiver was lifted at last and a woman’s voice said: ‘Oui? Mas St. Salvador. Qui est-ce?’

Dionne’s voice cracked, but she managed to say faintly: ‘Madame – St. Salvador?’

‘Non, c’est Jeanne! Vous voulez Madame St. Salvador?’

‘Non, non!’ Dionne’s tone was urgent. ‘Er – Monsieur St. Salvador, Monsieur Manoel St. Salvador, est-il là?’

Jeanne hesitated a moment, and then she replied: ‘Non, mademoiselle, il est en Avignon.’

Dionne’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach. Manoel – in Avignon! For how long? She thought quickly. She could go on asking Jeanne, who she knew to be the old housekeeper, questions, but whether or not she received answers was doubtful. Already she could sense reserve in the old woman’s voice and a desire to know who should want to speak to Monsieur Manoel. With a thudding heart, she said: ‘Merci,’ and rang off, finding to her dismay that she was shaking all over.

Emerging from the phone booth she found the hotel manager in the hall and he regarded her anxiously, noting her pale cheeks and over-bright eyes.

‘Is something wrong, mademoiselle?’ he queried solicitously.

Dionne managed to shake her head with what she hoped was casual composure. ‘No – no, nothing,’ she replied swiftly. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’

‘Beautiful,’ he echoed, nodding, and she fled up the stairs to her room.

As she changed for lunch into a cotton shift in a rather attractive shade of lemon which Clarry had made for her Dionne tried desperately to assimilate her position. She combed and secured her hair again in the chignon, touched eye-shadow to her slightly olive lids, and applied a colourless lustre to her mouth, but she did all these things automatically. She had somehow not planned beyond the phone call. If she were to ring again and Manoel should not be there a second time, the family would begin to become suspicious of her motives and she dared not risk that. But how else could she contact him? She could not possibly drive all the way to Avignon on the off-chance of meeting him.

She descended to the dining-room with a distinctly hollow feeling in her stomach that had little to do with food.

She ate little, even though the fish soup was delicious, and refused anything more than some fresh fruit afterwards. She enjoyed the coffee; it was invigoratingly strong, and as she sipped it she sought about in her mind for a reason to drive out to the manade itself.

Leaving the restaurant, she crossed the reception area to the wide entrance to the hotel, looking out on the shaded square with thoughtful eyes. There were not many guests staying in the hotel. It was early yet for tourists in Arles. They would come later, in May and June, when the festivals began, when the gypsies gathered for their own particular celebrations …

Dionne pressed a hand to her suddenly churning stomach. It was all so bitterly familiar, and so unfair somehow that she should have had to come back here at this particular time of year. She touched her fingers to her lips feeling again the dryness of salted bread and the thirst for red wine poured from earthenware pitchers. She could hear the excited noise, the music, the uninhibited thrill of being part of a ritual that had taken place for hundreds of years …

With tightly clenched fists she turned back into the hotel. It was no use. She had to go through with it, however painful and ugly it might be. For Jonathan’s sake.

She spent the afternoon in the hotel, much to the manager’s amazement. He had obviously written her down as a tourist, and that she should not be out sampling the tourist’s places of interest was clearly an enigma to him. Several times she caught him watching her from the doorway of the lounge and she deliberately pretended not to notice so that she would not embarrass him.

In the late afternoon, when the shadows in the square were lengthening, she left the lounge and made her way to the telephone booth again. Her knees trembled slightly, and she had difficulty in co-ordinating her movements. But she reached the booth at last and lifted the receiver.

A female voice answered the call again, and Dionne’s spirits sank. But it was not Jeanne. It was a girl’s voice, a voice Dionne vaguely remembered. Manoel had had a sister, a young sister – Louise.

‘Excusez moi,’ she said, hoping her accent would not sound too English, ‘mais je veux parler avec Monsieur Manoel St. Salvador.’

‘Manoel?’ The girl sounded surprised. ‘Qui est là?’

Dionne hesitated. How could she tell the girl her name without creating the kind of situation she most wanted to avoid.

‘C’est une amie de Monsieur St. Salvador,’ she prevaricated.

The girl uttered an exclamation. ‘Mais êtes-vous anglaise?’

Dionne pressed her lips together. She had not thought her accent was so bad, but then it was several years since she had used French. What could she say? If she denied it the girl would know she was lying, and if she agreed her position would be even worse.

‘Ce n’est pas important,’ she replied, and for the second time she rang off, despising herself for her cowardice.

Leaving the booth, she went upstairs to her room and stared at her reflection in the mirror of the dressing-table. Her eyes were troubled now, their green depths haunted by the anxiety she was suffering. What was she going to do?

She was in the process of changing for dinner when there was a tap at her door. ‘Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!’

The voice was feminine and Dionne crossed the room to the door, wrapping her housecoat closer about her. A maid waited outside.

‘There is a telephone call for you, mademoiselle,’ she explained with a smile. ‘Unfortunately, you will have to take it downstairs –in the hall.’

Dionne gripped the door handle tightly. ‘Are – are you sure it’s for me?’ she asked faintly.

‘Mais certainement, mademoiselle. It is a man, mademoiselle!’

‘A man!’ Dionne shook her head bewilderedly. ‘Oh, oh, very well, I – I’ll come down. Give me a minute to put some clothes on.’

As she thrust her legs into close-fitting cream pants and a chunky jade green sweater that accentuated her extreme slenderness she sought about in her mind for an explanation. Surely if that had been Louise she could not have recognized her voice so quickly! And even if she had, how could she have known where she was staying?

Her legs trembled as she ran downstairs to the phone, but when she picked up the receiver the voice that said: ‘Mademoiselle King?’ was most definitely not Manoel’s. It was much lighter, much younger, and infinitely less disturbing.

‘Who – who is that?’ she asked, jerkily.

‘Henri Martin, mademoiselle. We met yesterday, on the plane.’

Dionne sagged against the wall of the booth. ‘Oh – oh, Monsieur Martin,’ she breathed huskily. ‘I – I didn’t know your name.’

‘I know. But I was lucky enough to learn yours. Tell me, have you settled into your hotel? Is everything satisfactory?’

Dionne heaved a sigh. ‘Oh, yes, yes, everything’s fine,’ she replied dejectedly. ‘Why are you ringing?’

He sounded disconcerted. ‘Why am I ringing, mademoiselle?’ He chuckled. ‘But of course you know. I want to ask you if you will dine with me this evening.’

Dionne straightened. ‘I’m sorry, that’s impossible.’

‘Why? Why is it impossible?’

Dionne shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I — I’m tired. I don’t feel much like dining at all, monsieur.’

He uttered an exclamation. ‘Ah, but I am desolated, mademoiselle. Surely you must eat!’

Dionne bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Tomorrow, then.’

‘I don’t know what I shall be doing tomorrow.’ That at least was true.

‘You are wrecking my ego,’ he commented lightly. ‘Please, lunch, then.’

‘Some other time,’ said Dionne firmly, and rang off.

Leaving the booth, she walked slowly back up the stairs to her room and once there she did not bother to change, but flung herself on the bed, a well of bitterness rising up inside her. She felt completely alone, and not even the knowledge of Clarry and Jonathan waiting for her so confidently in England could dispel the desolation she was feeling.

Deciding she could not bear the idea of facing a meal in the restaurant, she collected her handbag and went downstairs again and out into the square. The shadows of the street lamps cast pools of light on the shadowed streets, but it was very warm and she found the melting softness of the darkness like a balm to her troubled heart and mind. Tomorrow was another day!

She had a cup of coffee and a pastry in a small bistro on the banks of the Rhone and then walked in the direction of the Arena. She had been to the Arena several times with Manoel, watching the spectacle which could bring nausea to the most hardened stomachs. The famous bulls of the Camargue were worthy opponents for their human counterparts and while Dionne had turned away from the bloody killing, so cruel somehow in the heat of the afternoon, she had been fascinated by the men who diced so casually with death. Some of the most famous bullfighters from Spain crossed the border to take part in the corrida in the arena at Arles, and pit their skills against the sturdy black bulls that could inflict such cruel wounds with the flick of deadly horns, while amateurs from all around continually appeared to challenge the professionals, each more willing than the last it seemed to tempt the ultimate fate.

Dionne had watched Manoel in the corral at the mas with the bulls, and had stood in frozen immobility as he made passes that in the arena would have aroused the excited shouts of ‘Olé!’ Those were times when she had hated him for subjecting her to such an agony of anxiety and she had run away, only to have him follow her, tumbling her to the ground and kissing away her indignation in a way that made her forget everything but her need of him …

A pain twisted in her stomach. How swiftly those months had gone by, how sweetly had each day been the culmination of her wildest dreams, and how tortuous had been the parting when it inevitably came.

She returned from her walk about nine o’clock, the solitary stroll having had a calming effect on her heightened senses. She felt pleasantly tired, and she refused to consider any more the probabilities and possibilities of the morrow. It was hopeless trying to speculate on anything so nebulous.

She entered the reception hall of the hotel slowly, her bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, her hand raised to tuck an errant strand of black silk behind her ear.

She thought the hall was deserted at first, but as she crossed the wide expanse of green carpeting a man rose from a chair positioned at the foot of the stairs and stepped to block her path.

Dionne halted, her gaze sweeping up over mudsplattered knee-length boots and grey suede trousers, noticing inconsequently the man’s height and leanness and the intense darkness of his face in the shadows. For a moment he remained motionless and a twinge of apprehension feathered along her spine, and then he stepped into the light and she fell back a pace, a hand pressed to paling lips.

‘Hello, Dionne,’ he said, his voice, with its unmistakable accent, lacerating her with incisive harshness. ‘Might one ask why you are here and why you wish to speak with me?’

CHAPTER TWO

DIONNE stared at him disbelievingly, unable to accept for a moment that this was not some crazy hallucination brought on by her intense longing to see Manoel St. Salvador again, a longing which until this moment had existed only in her subconscious.

But this was not the Manoel she remembered. Her recollections of him were acute, and this cold-eyed stranger bore little resemblance to the warm-blooded man she had known and loved. The features were the same, and yet not the same. They were arranged in the same order, grey eyes below dark brows, arrogantly carved cheekbones, a full and sensual mouth, dark side-bums growing down to his firm jawline. But he was leaner than she remembered, and the grey eyes were more deeply set in their sockets and tinged with bitterness. Deep lines etched nose and mouth, and he had a slightly bored and jaded air. His body was leaner, too, although the muscles of his chest rippled beneath the soft suede of his short jacket, and the strong thighs strained against his taut-fitting trousers.

Now she shook her head helplessly, aware that this moment had come upon her unannounced and unprepared and she could not cope with it. What possible hope of compassion could she expect from the cruel-looking man who was regarding her with something like hatred in his eyes? How could she begin to believe that she might ask anything of him? How could she have imagined so foolishly that the passing of the years should not have laid as much experience at his door as at hers?

‘Well, mademoiselle?’

It was the cold detached voice of a stranger, and Dionne turned away, unable to stand the accusation in his eyes. But what was he accusing her off? Why did he regard her with such obvious distrust, such aversion? Was the memory of the past so distasteful to him?

‘I – I – how did you find me?’ Dionne’s words were scarcely audible.

Manoel uttered an impatient exclamation. ‘Is that important? Why are you here? What do you want of me now?’ He stepped towards her, swinging her round to face him, his hand a cruel pain on her shoulder. ‘So! Do not turn away, Dionne! Or is the sight of me so repugnant to you?’

Dionne quivered in his grasp and his gaze raked her face grimly and then travelled down the slim length of her body in the chunky green sweater and cream pants. His hand on her shoulder softened and his thumb probed the fragile bones at her throat before his jaw tightened and his hand fell away.

‘Well?’ he said again. ‘I repeat – why are you here?’

Dionne swallowed a choking breath. ‘I – I came to see you. I – I didn’t know – who else to turn to.’

Manoel’s eyes darkened. ‘You are in trouble?’ He glanced round impatiently. ‘We cannot talk here. You have a room?’ And at her nod, he said: ‘We will go there!’

‘No!’ The word was tom from her and she faltered desperately, ‘No – I mean – we couldn’t go there. It’s small – a bedroom, no more!’

‘So? And what do you imagine I intend to do in this room of yours? Swing you about, little cat?’ His mouth twisted harshly.

Dionne shook her head helplessly. How could she explain that she wanted no remembrance of his presence in that small bare room to haunt her through the long lonely reaches of the night?

‘There – there’s a lounge here,’ she stammered. ‘If – if it’s not occupied …’

She thrust open the door on to darkness that enveloped her like a shroud. She moved quickly into the room, switching on the lamps, illuminating the emptiness.

Manoel’s expression was grim. ‘Very well, it will do. Now—’ He followed her into the quiet room, closing the door and leaning back against it, his whole being emanating the kind of strength that she had only begun to remember could annihilate any defence she might erect. ‘Now, Dionne, what is it? What is wrong? Why do you need my help?’

Dionne moved about the room restlessly, unable to stand still under that piercing examination, unable to find words to say what she wanted to say. And presently he tired of her restiveness and said intensely: ‘Pour l’amour de Dieu, Dionne, I am not a patient man! Say what you have to say and be done with it!’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What is it you want? Money?’

Dionne halted abruptly and stared at him, her lips quivering. ‘Why should you imagine I want money?’ She was stung by the cynicism of his tone.

‘Is that not what everybody wants?’ he inquired carelessly. He snapped his fingers. ‘If that is what this elaborate charade is about, then continue with it no longer. Such performances bore me!’ He straightened, looking at her contemptuously. ‘What puzzles me is why you should imagine I might give you money!’

Dionne stared at him, her tongue straying to the comer of her mouth. ‘Am I to take it from your remarks that you refuse to help me?’ she inquired tersely, summoning all her composure to confront him squarely.

Manoel returned her gaze insolently, forcing her lids to fall defensively over the jade green eyes. She found it incredibly difficult even after all this time to sustain a measure of confidence with him, and she was afraid her eyes might mirror a little of what she was feeling. There was a poignant kind of pleasure in just looking at him, but with the looking came memories which she had previously never allowed to enter her conscious mind. She knew every facet of that lean strong face intimately, she had kissed the firm skin of his cheek and felt the sensual curve of his mouth against her body, driving all coherent thought from her mind. Despite the passage of years it was impossible not to be affected by such recollections.

He hooked his thumbs into the belt of his pants which circled his narrow hips. Without bothering to answer her question he said: ‘Tell me something, why do you need money?’

Dionne squared her shoulders. ‘It’s a personal matter,’ she said. ‘Besides, as you so obviously are opposed to helping me, I don’t see that it matters.’

‘I do not recall stating categorically that I would not help you,’ he drawled, his eyes watchful. ‘You are too quick to take offence, Dionne. You cannot expect to come back here after three years and expect things and people to be the same now as they were then.’

Dionne pressed the palms of her hands against each other. ‘I don’t expect anything of the sort,’ she said carefully. ‘I realize life goes on, nothing stays the same. The reason I am avoiding unnecessary complications is so that this situation should not impinge upon your privacy—’

Manoel swore violently, moving towards her menacingly. ‘Do you imagine you can come here without impinging upon my privacy, as you put it?’ he demanded furiously. ‘Good God, woman, we are human beings, not automatons! Anything you do would be bound to effect what has gone before and what is to come after!’

Dionne trembled in the grip of his angry emotions. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said chokingly. ‘I had to come to you! There was no one else I could turn to!’

‘And you need money?’ He was controlling himself with difficulty, his shoulders hunched, his eyes glittering with suppressed violence.

‘Yes.’ Dionne managed to articulate with difficulty.

‘How much money?’

Dionne swallowed hard. ‘Two — two hundred pounds,’ she faltered.

His brows drew together. ‘Two hundred pounds? What is that? About twenty-five hundred francs?’

‘Something like that,’ Dionne nodded.

Manoel chewed his lower lip for a full minute, and then he said: ‘Two hundred pounds, eh?’ His eyes travelled insolently down the length of her slim body, coming to rest almost tangibly on her parted lips. ‘What is it you need this money for, Dionne? You are pregnant, perhaps?’

‘No!’ Dionne stared at him in horror. ‘No! How could you suggest such a thing?’ Her voice broke, much to her chagrin, and she had to take several deep breaths to calm herself.

‘Why?’ he asked now, his grey eyes raking her body mercilessly. ‘Why should I not assume such a thing? Is it such an uncommon occurrence in your country? Are men there any different from anywhere else? I think not. You are a beautiful woman, Dionne, you always were. How many nights have I lain awake remembering exactly how beautiful you were when you lay in my arms?’ His lips twisted cruelly. ‘Surely some other man must have known the delights we shared—’

Dionne’s hand shot out before he could move and stung sharply across his cheek, and then with a little moaning cry she thrust past him, opening the door as though the devil himself were at her heels and fled up the stairs to her room.

Inside, she closed the door and turned the key, leaning back against it shakingly. But there was no sound of pursuit, no angry banging at her door, only the panting sound of her own breathing that took many long minutes to return to normal.

And when it became obvious that no one was going to follow her, she flung herself face downward on the bed, dry-eyed and utterly bereft.

It was with great reluctance that Dionne rose the next morning. She had slept badly and dark lines rimmed her eyes so that she went down to breakfast in dark glasses to avoid the inevitable comment from the friendly manager.

Over breakfast, which consisted only of several cups of strong black coffee, she tried to take stock of her situation. If only Clarry were here, she thought longingly, although Clarry would not approve of the way she was going about things. Clarry was all for telling the truth and shaming the devil, but in this instance Dionne could not agree with her. How could she confess to Manoel St. Salvador the real reasons behind her need for money? What reaction might he make to her confession? What small amount of compassion need she expect from him after his abasement of her last night?

But what will you do if he doesn’t come back? a small inner voice chided her. How will you manage? Will you sacrifice Jonathan’s chances of good health for the sake of pride?

Dionne rose jerkily from her seat. Such thoughts did not bear thinking about. She had to go on. She had to humiliate herself before Manoel St. Salvador, and if the ultimate was required of her she must give it – for Jonathan’s sake.

But what then? Her thoughts ran on. What then? What if, confronted with the truth, he wanted the child? What possible redress would she have? She, who had only her teacher’s pay to support her, and Manoel with his vast estate in the Camargue, the vineyards in the upper Rhone valley, wealth of a kind she had not even dreamed about. Who would win such a battle? She had no need to doubt the answer.

Her palms moistened. Had she been a fool to come here? To ask Manoel for money? Wasn’t she taking an appalling risk anyway? Would he be content to supply her with the money and not investigate its uses?

A sickly feeling rose in her throat. But who else could she turn to? Apart from Aunt Clarry she had no one. Friends were good, of course, but none of them could afford to lend her, let alone give her, that amount of money. And how else was Jonathan to recover from that horrible racking cough that kept him awake nights and Dionne awake, too, listening to him, praying for a way to take him out of that damp climate into a warmer, dryer place where he could regain his strength?

Tears pricked her eyes. Two hundred pounds meant so little to the St. Salvadors; two thousand pounds was a mere drop in the ocean, as she had learned to her cost. They had been keen enough to give her money three years ago, why couldn’t they give her so much less now? She made a helpless little gesture. She should never have tom up that cheque, but how was she to know she would ever need anything from them?

Heaving a shaking sigh, she emerged on to the steps of the hotel. It was another beautiful morning, the sun glinting on the spire of a church in the distance. A group of riders went by, their horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles of the square. There were some children amongst the riders, controlling their mounts with the skill that came naturally to them. These horses were not white but grey, but they had the thick switch of tail that was common to the horses of the Camargue.

Dionne watched them until they were out of sight, and then kicked a foot disconsolately. What was she to do? Wait all day and see if Manoel returned this evening? Or go out and look for him? If she waited until this evening and he did not come, that would be another wasted day.

She sighed. But how could she know where to look for him? She knew the way to the Mas St. Salvador, of course. She had been there many times. But it was private land, and she would be a trespasser now. She had no doubt that Manoel’s mother would take the greatest delight in having her forcibly ejected if necessary.

But she could not hang about the hotel all day just waiting. Already her nerves were stretched to screaming pitch and the only balm for her senses was action, action of any kind.

With decision, she went back into the hotel. In her room she changed from the dress she was wearing into slim-fitting navy slacks and a long-sleeved shirt blouse in a rather attractive shade of magenta. Her hair was secured in the rather severe chignon she had adopted and she hoped she looked businesslike. There was no point in dressing decoratively. No one was likely to be impressed by her appearance at the Mas St. Salvador.

After filling up the Citröen’s petrol tank, she drove out of the town, following the dusty track that wound its way between the river and the marshes, never out of the sight and sound of water that sucked greedily along its length. Overhead, a flight of terns and mallards, startled by her passage, shrieked noisily, while in the distance the pink plumage of a group of flamingoes shimmered like a mirage above the water. They were wading in the shallow waters of an étang, those lakes that teemed with water life of every kind, food for the thousands of birds that made the estuary their home. Patches of colour among the tall reeds revealed themselves as clumps of marsh samphire, and sea lavender whose fragile little flowers seemed incapable of surviving in such an area.

Further on she saw the sight that had once filled her with excitement, which had caused the adrenalin to course along her veins with palpitating haste: the black bulls of the Camargue. There were about a dozen of them, grazing together on the grassy mounds that grew out of the marshy soil. They raised their heads as she drove by, but showed little interest in her progress. Their horns were curved menacingly, and she realized these were Spanish bulls. Her fingers tightened on the wheel; they bore the Double S brand on their flanks of the St. Salvador herd. It could not be far now, she thought unsteadily. She was obviously already on St. Salvador land.

Further on a group of horses shied away from the road into a copse of plane trees, and almost hidden amongst the trees she saw the unmistakable colouring of a gypsy caravan.

Dionne pressed her foot on the brake and drew the car to a halt, staring curiously at the caravan. Despite its neglected air, there was something vaguely familiar about it, and then she realized what it was. This was Gemma’s caravan. The one she and Manoel …

She halted her wayward thoughts and pulling on the handbrake slid out of the car. What was Gemma’s caravan doing here? Why had it such an abandoned look? Surely she had not got another caravan. Unless she no longer needed it.

The idea came unbidden but convincingly to her mind, and Dionne thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her trousers. Surely it was not possible. Gemma had been old, of course, but such an active woman, such a vital person. She could not be dead! Could she?

Dionne halted at the edge of the road. The land around the caravan was swampy and she was only wearing shoes that were entirely unsuitable for walking in mud. Besides, it was obviously deserted. The curtains at the grimy windows were drawn and dirty and there was no sign of life whatsoever.

Shaking her head, Dionne went back to her car and slid behind the wheel thoughtfully. Gemma’s caravan, her home that she had taken such pride in, that she had kept sparklingly clean, left to rust and rot.

She looked back at the caravan again, and a lump came in her throat. Was Gemma dead? Was that indomitable spirit quenched for ever? Was that part of the reason for Manoel’s bitterness?

She rested her arms on the steering wheel, staring unseeingly into space. Gemma had seemed the kind of person who would live forever, the only one of the St. Salvador clan who had shown her nothing but kindness. She had had an agelessness about her that defied the passage of time, and the realization that she was no longer there to support her made Dionne wish she had never embarked upon this journey.

She looked about her desperately. What was she going to do? Turn back now, or go on and risk confronting Manoel’s wife, the girl who had never made any attempt to hide her dislike of the English girl, and who Manoel’s mother had considered so suitable because her father’s property marched with that of the St. Salvadors?

Starting the engine abruptly, she forced herself to think about Jonathan. It was for his sake she was here, and if it meant suffering humiliation then she would have to suffer it alone.

The land to either side of the road was less marshy now, and in the distance a grove of trees shielded a cluster of houses. Small reed-fringed lakes sparkled iridescently in the sunlight, but in spite of her proximity to civilization there was no sign of human life. She might have been alone out in the vastness of unlimited space.

She drew the car to a halt again, and climbed out on to the bonnet, shading her eyes and staring into the distance. Vaguely something stirred out there on the horizon, and she strained to see what it was.

The movement materialized into men and horses, the famous gardiens of the Camargue who patrolled their herds of cattle and horses as they had done for many, many years.

As they drew nearer, Dionne could see that they were driving a herd of cattle before them, strong black fearsome beasts that caused Dionne to scramble down from her perch and seek the comparative anonymity of her car.

The St. Salvador mas, which is the Provençal name for a farm, bred Spanish bulls for the corrida, and not the smaller, less muscular beasts of the Camargue, used mainly in the course libre. On her previous visit here, Dionne had learned that the corrida displayed the kind of savagery that made one wonder how far civilization had progressed since the days of gladiatorial battles in the arena in Rome, whereas the course libre was a gentler, if no less dangerous, sport where the bull survived to fight another day.

But in spite of that, it was the Spanish bulls which were the most highly prized, and Manoel’s father, as the head of his household, could rightly be called a manadier, a rather grand title in this area. Certainly these finely bred cattle looked the fiercest Dionne had ever seen, and everyone was warned, from the moment they set foot in the area, to treat them with the utmost respect and never to underestimate their unpredictability.

The herd surged by, scarcely giving her a second glance, but the gardiens regarded her curiously, obviously wondering who she was and why she was here on St. Salvador land.

One of the older men reined in his horse and approached the car, taking off his wide-brimmed hat that so closely resembled that of a cowboy’s in the western states of America. Dionne had recognized none of the men and was taken aback that one of them should address her.

‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ he said politely. ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?’

Dionne smiled more confidently than she felt. ‘Er – ou est Monsieur Manoel?’ she inquired casually.

The man frowned. ‘Le patron, mademoiselle? Il n’est pas ici.’

Dionne bit her lip. ‘Non, pas le patron, monsieur, mais Monsieur Manoel?’

‘Monsieur Manoel est le patron,’ retorted the man with dignity.

Dionne stared at him disbelievingly. Manoel was le patron, his employer! Then where was Manoel’s father?

But of course she could not ask such a leading question so she made a helpless gesture and said: ‘Pardon! Je ne connais pas bien la famille.’

The man’s frown deepened. ‘Vous êtes anglaise, mademoiselle, oui?’

Dionne inclined her head. ‘Oui. Vous parlez anglais?’

The man’s lips parted in a wide grin. ‘Un peu, mademoiselle, un peu.’

Dionne ran her tongue over dry lips. ‘Very well, monsieur, do you know where Monsieur Manoel is?’

The man glanced about him, turning in the heavy saddle. His eyes were the lightest blue that Dionne had ever seen, diluted by the wind and weather, his gnarled hands and face the colour of mahogany.

‘He could be anywhere, mademoiselle,’ he said at last. ‘There is much to be done at this time of the year. You wish I should tell him you await him at the mas?’

‘Oh, no.’ Dionne shook her head too quickly and the old gardien regarded her suspiciously. It was obvious now that he considered her an intruder particularly as she did not wish her presence here to be made known to his employer. ‘I – I have to go back to Arles,’ Dionne added lamely, unconvincingly. ‘You – you may tell your patron he can find me there.’

‘Bien sûr, mademoiselle.’ The old man inclined his head with controlled politeness, and realizing he was waiting for her to make some move to leave, Dionne started the engine again and thrust the gear into reverse.

But she took her foot off the clutch too tardily and in consequence the small vehicle jerked backwards, its wheels sliding on the uneven surface and causing them to skid to the side of the road and into the ditch that flanked it.

‘Damn!’ Dionne pressed her lips together tightly, refusing to panic, and thrusting open her door she climbed out to inspect the damage.

It was nothing serious, only her offside wheel was stuck in the mud, but without assistance she didn’t quite see how she was going to extract herself. She looked across at the gardien and he patted his horse and it trotted slowly over.

‘You have a rope, mademoiselle?’

Dionne controlled her annoyance with difficulty. She was strongly tempted to retort that she did not normally find it necessary to equip herself with a rope when she went out for a morning drive, but pettiness would help no one. So she shook her head vigorously, staring fiercely at the offending wheel, almost as though she believed her force of will power would be sufficient to make it lever itself out of the ditch.

The gardien climbed out of the saddle slowly. There was a passiveness about him which was in itself infuriating. It came from long hours spent out on the open marshland, communing with the earth and the sky.

‘I have a rope, mademoiselle,’ he said calmly, unwinding a length from the pommel of his saddle.

Dionne’s relief was such that she was able to banish the inevitable comment that sprang to her lips. Instead she smiled rather tightly, and said: ‘Where does one attach it to the car?’

The gardien raised his brows lazily, and then bent to tie the rope to the front fender. This done, he straightened, surveying her flushed appearance. ‘The wheel, mademoiselle; you will direct it – so?’ He showed her what he wanted her to do.

‘Of course.’

Dionne opened the car door and as he attached the rope to the horse and climbed back into the saddle, she began to push. It was hard work, and she was sweating by the time the car began to edge its way back on to the packed surface of the road. The task was almost completed when she heard the sound of horse’s hooves. Glancing round nervously, she saw a lone rider approaching them. At first she thought it was a boy, but as the rider drew nearer she saw the mane of golden-brown hair tossed over one shoulder and she realized it was a girl. She straightened apprehensively as the girl reined in her mount beside them, but she was unprepared for the excited exclamation: ‘Dionne! Dionne, it is you! What in the world are you doing here?’

Dionne stared at the girl in astonishment, her momentary withdrawal banished by the absolute pleasure in the newcomer’s voice. ‘Louise,’ she said slowly. ‘Good heavens, I hardly recognized you. You were a child when – when I left.’

The girl laughed infectiously. ‘I was fourteen, Dionne. I’m seventeen now. What are you doing here? Are you coming to the mas to see Grand’mère?’

Dionne felt dazed. This was a contingency she had not planned for. Louise’s enthusiasm was so genuine, and she scarcely knew how to reply to her. Turning to the gardien who was climbing back into his saddle after untying the rope, she thanked him warmly, giving herself a moment to think of what excuse she could give Louise. But as the old man rode away, something Louise had said pierced the confused reaches of her mind.

‘You – you said Grand’mère?’ she questioned, in astonishment. ‘You mean – you mean Gemma?’

‘Of course.’ Louise’s smile disappeared. ‘You surely did not intend to leave without seeing her?’

Dionne shook her head helplessly. ‘I – I saw the caravan,’ she murmured. ‘I thought—’ She shrugged. ‘Never mind, I – look, Louise, this isn’t a social visit.’ She made a helpless gesture. ‘Surely you are not too young to realize that I would not be a welcome visitor at the mas.’

Louise’s eyes clouded. ‘Grand’mère gets very few visitors,’ she said sadly. ‘But why are you here, Dionne? I thought Manoel went to see you last night.’

Dionne frowned. ‘You know about that?’

Louise shrugged. ‘But of course,’ she said, with typical continental inconsequence. ‘I recognized your voice on the telephone. It was I who told Manoel you must be here.’

Dionne pressed her hands to her sides. ‘And does – does everyone know this?’

Louise grimaced and kicked at the scrub grass beneath their feet. ‘Oh, non, not everyone. Just Manoel and me.’

Dionne bit her lip. ‘Tell me something, Louise,’ she said. ‘Is – is your father no longer at the mas?’

‘Papa is dead!’ Louise spoke regretfully. ‘He died two years ago. Manoel is in charge of the manade now. This is his farm, these are his bulls.’

Dionne shook her head in amazement. ‘I never guessed,’ she murmured, almost to herself. Then: ‘Does your mother still live with Manoel?’

Louise nodded. ‘Of course. And Yvonne.’

A knife twisted in Dionne’s stomach. ‘Oh, yes, Yvonne,’ she agreed tautly.

Louise stared at her for a long moment. ‘You are looking thinner, Dionne. How have you been? Are you still teaching?’

Dionne compressed her lips. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said dully. ‘Yes, I still teach. And you? Are you finished school?’

‘Manoel wants to send me to a school in Switzerland, but I don’t want to go. I love it here. I can see no possible reason for him to send me away. Just because he finds life so impossible.’ She flicked a glance in Dionne’s direction. ‘You know of Yvonne’s accident, of course.’

Dionne’s attention was riveted. ‘No,’ she denied swiftly. ‘What accident?’

Louise shrugged. ‘She was gored by a bull. She is paralysed from the waist down.’

Dionne gasped in horror. Louise said it so chillingly, so carelessly. Almost as though she considered the accident was nothing more than Yvonne’s due.

‘But how terrible!’ Dionne spread her hands. ‘When – when did this happen?’

Louise shrugged again. ‘Soon after you left, I suppose. Is it important?’

‘You don’t think so?’ Dionne was horrified.

Louise played with the reins of the bridle. ‘Yvonne asked for all she got,’ she said coldly. ‘She was angry with Manoel, and she thought she could annoy him by teasing his bulls.’ She gave a characteristic movement of her shoulders. ‘No one can play with bulls!’

Dionne tugged at a strand of silky hair that had come loose from her chignon. No wonder Manoel looked so much older, so much more experienced. What a terrible time it must have been for him!

Now Louise touched her arm lightly. ‘It’s good to see you again, Dionne. I mean that. But why did you want to see Manoel? I thought — we thought—’ She halted abruptly, biting her lips. ‘Are you staying long in the Camargue?’

Dionne fingered the rim of the car door absently. ‘I don’t know, Louise. It – it depends.’

Louise sighed. ‘Did you come out here to see Manoel?’

Dionne hesitated and then she nodded. ‘Yes. Where is he?’

‘Actually he is away today,’ replied Louise, frowning. ‘At the vineyards.’ She stared at the other girl for a long moment. ‘What happened last night?’

‘What do you mean?’ Dionne pretended not to understand.

‘Between you and my brother? Dionne, you know what I mean. He came home in a terrible temper! Not even Yvonne dared to question him. Only I guessed you must have had a row.’

Dionne made a wry face. ‘I must go, Louise. If Manoel is not here, there’s no point – I mean – I have no reason to go to the mas.’

‘And Grand’mère? Do I tell her I’ve seen you?’

Dionne slid behind the wheel of the car. ‘I can’t stop you, of course,’ she said. ‘But perhaps it would not be kind, in the circumstances.’

‘Oh, Dionne!’ Louise clenched her fists, leaning on the bonnet of the car. ‘Why are you so secretive? Why have you come back after all this time? Surely you must have known what it would do to Manoel to see you again – now!’

Dionne started the car’s engine. ‘I’m sorry, Louise. I’m sorry if you think I’m secretive. And I would have liked to see Gemma.’ Her voice broke, and she shook her head. ‘Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye, Dionne.’ Louise straightened and then ran a few steps to catch up with her again. ‘May I come to see you at the hotel before you leave?’

Dionne’s fingers tightened on the wheel. ‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea,’ she said. ‘Au revoir.’

Louise raised a hand in farewell, and Dionne reversed on up the track until she came to a wider point where she could turn the car. Then she drove swiftly away, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her.

CHAPTER THREE

AFTER dinner that evening Dionne went up to her room to write to Clarry. She needed to do something, some normal thing that had little to do with the Mas St. Salvador and its unhappy associations.

All day she had thought about Yvonne’s accident until her head ached with the futility of trying to guess at the other girl’s feelings. How terrible, she thought compassionately, to be paralysed, possibly for life! She forgot Yvonne’s maliciousness of the past; all she remembered was her skill on horseback, her superb physical condition, all destroyed in the space of a few careless minutes. And Yvonne was not the kind of person to accept her fate without constantly railing against it.

Dionne took out pen and paper, but she made no attempt to write. Unbidden came thoughts of Manoel and of the hopelessness of his position. He was such a virile man, so strong and vital. Did Yvonne vent her wrath on him? Was that why he wore that look of strain, that weary jaded air that had tom Dionne’s heart?

She cupped her chin on her hands tightly, willing the tears that pricked her eyes to go away. She ought not to have come here. She ought not to have allowed Clarry to persuade her that she owed this to Jonathan. What good would it do if nothing came of it except to leave Dionne feeling worse than she had ever done before she knew what had happened here?

Her lips softened. If only things could have been different, she thought desperately. If only she and Manoel had never been parted. Surely what they had shared had meant something to him. Theirs had seemed such a strong relationship and yet it had been severed so swiftly. Even now it was impossible not to feel the exquisite pain of that separation, made all the more poignant by what came after.

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