“Let’s talk about what happened in the elevator.”

Rosanna’s heart gave a thud against her shirt. “I’m not angry about that,” she said carefully. “It was my fault, anyway.”

His eyebrows shot up to his hair. “Your fault!”

She nodded glumly. “I was hysterical, you comforted me and the inevitable happened. A good thing the power came back on.”

Ewen’s eyes locked with hers. “What would have happened if it hadn’t?”

CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of their son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of reading to pass her lonely evenings, she began to write the first of her romance novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, browse in antique shops and walk the dog.

The Temptation Trap
Catherine George

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

THE dark attic was airless in the heat of the June day. Rosanna swung herself up through the hatch, found the light switch and picked her way gingerly through boxes and bundles, past her brother’s electric guitar and old tennis racquets, the small desk she’d used as a child. Eventually, behind a pile of boxes full of Christmas decorations, Rosanna spotted some battered old luggage and in triumph seized on a suitcase stencilled with the initials R.N. She threw open the lid, then sat back on her heels, suddenly reluctant to disturb the layers of silver paper. Her grandmother had been dead for a long time but it felt like trespass, nevertheless, to rummage through the belongings Rose Norman had once locked away so carefully.

In silent apology Rosanna lifted the top layers of paper, revealing not, as she’d expected, a favourite ball-gown from Rose’s youth, but worn grey dresses folded with voluminous aprons yellow with age, the red cross prominent on the bibs.

Rose Norman had been a VAD, a member of the Voluntary Aid Detachment in the First World War. Rosanna had always loved hearing how her grandmother had left home at the tender age of seventeen to tend the wounded, unpaid, armed with only a basic training in first aid, but fired with the desire to help.

Rosanna took the clothes out and began filling polythene bags with the countless letters and photographs stored underneath. When the only thing left was a linen bag containing a rosewood box, Rosanna slid it into one of her carrier bags, replaced the clothes in the case, then climbed down to the landing with her haul and pushed the stairs up into place behind their square wooden cover in the ceiling.

Rosanna took her treasure trove down to the kitchen and laid it out on the big round table, amused by her mother’s cunning. Rosanna had actually been driving her to Heathrow Airport when Henrietta Carey casually mentioned that a man was coming to the house the following evening.

‘I meant to tell you before, darling, but with you so snowed under with work it slipped my mind. This Mr Fraser called round last week, credentials very much in order. I thought you wouldn’t mind dealing with it.’

‘Deal with what? Who is he? What does he want?’

Mrs Carey explained that quite by chance she’d seen an item in the Personal column of The Times, a request for information about Miss Rose Norman.

‘Really?’ Rosanna’s eyes lit up. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘I thought you might talk me out of contacting Mr Fraser in case he was up to no good.’

‘As if I could talk you out of anything!’ Rosanna chuckled and, having parked the car, began hauling out suitcases. ‘Who is he, and where does Grandma come in?’

‘He’s involved in research for memoirs of some kind. I liked him.’ Henrietta gathered up her flight bag, smiling at her daughter. ‘I told him to call round after dinner, so make sure you’re in.’

Rosanna drove back into North-West London, quite taken by the idea of research about Rose Norman. Henrietta Carey hadn’t enlarged much on this Mr Fraser, but if he was writing memoirs he was obviously elderly. In which case, after sherry and biscuits, and some reminiscences about her grandmother, he could be eased politely on his way. In the meantime, thought Rosanna happily, with no Monday morning rush to work she had an entire, leisurely day to sort something out for this Mr Fraser.

Rosanna had assumed she knew everything there was to be known about her grandmother, until her mother mentioned the suitcase. Rose Norman had passed it on to her daughter just before she died, and told her to show it to Rosanna when the time was right.

And now, thought Rosanna, pulling the first batch of letters towards her, the time is perfect. She’d packed in her job and, though sharing a flat with her friend Louise was fun most of the time, the prospect of living alone for a while, house-sitting for her mother, was absolute bliss. A spot of research about young VAD Rose Norman was the icing on the cake.

Rosanna forced herself to leave the rosewood box locked for the time being. It so obviously contained something special, she would save it for last. The rest of the papers were mainly letters and cards from members of the family, along with photographs of Rose’s parents and her sister Amelia, stiff, posed portraits very different from the bundles of amateurish family snapshots of a later date.

Rosanna quickly sorted letters and photographs into date order before settling down to read the diaries, which gave a fascinating insight into the life of the time. She read of Gerald Rivers’ proposal, and how dashing he looked in his officer’s uniform. Rose had accepted him, and he’d kissed her reverently and gone off to war, and that was the last she’d seen of him.

‘Gerald is dead,’ said a final, terse entry in 1916. ‘I cannot stay here, grieving and idle. There must be some way to make myself useful.’

At that point Rosanna found she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She yawned wearily, then locked up for the night, deciding to leave the rosewood box for the morning.

Next day Rosanna was so deeply affected after reading the contents of the box, she went for a long run in the park in the early evening, and only just managed to make herself presentable by the appointed hour. In deference to the probable age of her visitor she borrowed a linen skirt and white voile blouse of her mother’s, and used only a minimum of make-up, and was still piling her damp hair into a knot on top of her head when the doorbell rang. She raced downstairs, tucking in escaping damp tendrils, threw open the door, then stared blankly at the man standing in the porch.

This was no elderly gentleman. He was tallish, with high cheekbones in a suntanned face, and a mop of thick black hair in need of a barber. And at a guess he was a mere few years older than she was. And equally surprised—dumbfounded even. He wore a light tweed jacket with jeans, polished loafers and a plain white T-shirt. And something about him was familiar. And very, very attractive. As she met the dazed look in his slanted eyes Rosanna stiffened, astounded by a deep-down flicker of reaction. And as though he sensed it he moved towards her involuntarily, then stopped dead, the hand he’d half raised dropping to his side again.

‘Good evening,’ he said huskily at last. He cleared his throat. ‘My name’s Fraser.’

‘Hello,’ said Rosanna, pulling herself together. ‘My mother said you were coming tonight.’

‘Would you like proof of my identity?’ He produced a yellow card with a photograph and signature that confirmed he was E. A. Fraser, a member of the National Union of Journalists. ‘If you want confirmation your best bet at this time of night would be the offices of the Sunday Mercury.’

‘Is that where you work?’

‘Not any more. But I’m well-known there. Someone would vouch for me.’

Rosanna shook her head, telling herself she’d imagined that first, startled moment of rapport. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary. I gather you’ve already met my mother. Do come in.’ She smiled, determinedly polite, and held out her hand. ‘I’m Rosanna Carey.’

Her visitor shook her hand formally, then followed her along the hall to a small sitting room, where French windows opened on a long, narrow garden at the back of the house.

‘Thank you for seeing me, Miss Carey.’ His careful formality belied the look in his eyes, which were still riveted to her face. ‘Your mother told me she had some papers I could borrow.’

‘Quite a lot of them. I did some rummaging in the attic for you.’ Rosanna made no mention of her mother’s holiday. Bad idea to say she was living temporarily and alone in the house. ‘My mother couldn’t be here this evening. She asked me to deputise for her.’

‘It’s very kind of you.’ Her visitor looked away at the garden at last, breathing in appreciatively as the scent of roses came wafting in on the warm evening air. Someone was mowing a lawn nearby, and there were faint shouts from children playing in a garden a few houses away. ‘This is very pleasant. I miss a garden.’

‘Do sit down. Can I offer you a drink?’ Rosanna smiled, her eyes dancing suddenly. ‘I had sherry and biscuits lined up. I thought you’d be nearer my grandmother’s age than mine.’

He smiled, his teeth gleaming white in his tanned face. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Relieved, not disappointed,’ she assured him lightly. ‘I’d braced myself for a formal exchange with someone venerable. Though I’d better make it clear at the outset that I’ve got reservations about passing on some of the things I found.’

‘Letters?’ he asked quickly.

She nodded. ‘Very private ones.’

He eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, then got to his feet. ‘Look, could we go out for a drink? Miss Carey, you don’t know me from Adam. So just to reassure you I’m not about to nick the silver I vote we adjourn to neutral ground while I ask my questions.’

‘Are you writing some kind of article?’ asked Rosanna curiously.

‘No. This is nothing to do with any newspaper.’ He took a book from his briefcase and handed it to her.

Rosanna looked at the cover, eyebrows raised. ‘Savage Dawn, by Ewen Fraser,’ she noted, and turned to the back cover to look at a photograph of the author. Ewen Fraser. Of course. That was why his face was familiar. His book was a runaway bestseller. She’d read quite a lot about him recently. And not just about his books. ‘No wonder I thought I knew you.’

‘You’ve read it?’ he said, pleased.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry, I haven’t. But you’ve been in the news lately. One way and another,’ she added deliberately. Candid camera shots of Ewen Fraser, usually with some gorgeous female in tow, had appeared regularly in the press since his book made the bestseller list.

His wide, expressive mouth twisted in distaste. ‘Don’t believe everything you read, Miss Carey—other than my book, of course. That was researched with great care,’ he said shortly, obviously nettled by her reference to his private life. ‘Savage Dawn is set in the Zulu wars. It’s selling so well my editor wants a follow-up with a descendant in the same military family in the First World War. Which is why I’m interested in anything you can tell me about your grandmother.’

Rosanna frowned. ‘Why my grandmother?’

‘If you’ll come and have a drink with me I’ll explain.’

She thought for a moment. It was easy to see women, her mother included, took to Ewen Fraser on sight. Rosanna couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d reacted the same way herself. Which was a first. ‘All the necessary papers and records are here, Mr Fraser. We could hardly go through them in a pub. If you’ll settle for a drink here we can go through the papers in peace.’

The leap of pleasure in his eyes ignited a second little flicker of heat inside her, to her consternation. ‘I’d like that very much,’ he said with emphasis. ‘Thank you for sparing me the time.’

Rosanna took a quick look at her father’s drinks supply. ‘You don’t look like a sherry type to me. Whisky? Brandy?’

Ewen Fraser smiled. ‘Any hope of a beer, please?’

Rosanna went off to the kitchen, relieved to find the fridge yielded up a couple of cans of her father’s favourite bitter. She collected a tankard, found some nuts and put them in a dish on a tray, added a tonic water for herself, then went back to her guest.

Ewen Fraser’s manners were too good to plunge into immediate discussion of the reason for his visit. He told Rosanna he lived in Chelsea, and that the idea for his best-selling novel had come from a series of articles he’d done for the Mercury on famous military heroes. While still working as a journalist he’d written two previous novels, but Savage Dawn was his first bestseller, and these days he wrote full-time. Rosanna, in return, told him she was a teacher, and shared a basement flat in Bayswater with a friend.

‘Where do you teach?’ he asked.

‘I started out at a small, private school, replacing someone on maternity leave. After that I was lucky enough to get a junior post at my old school, but it meant an academic year to fill in, so up to Easter I did some supply teaching. Along the way I did a course in computers and word-processing.’ She smiled at him. ‘Technology comes in handy these days.’

‘I’m impressed,’ he said, raising his tankard to her. ‘So what are you doing until the autumn term? Holiday?’

She shook her head. ‘An old college friend started up on his own last year. He works from home and argued it would hone my computer skills if I gave him a hand for a bit, so like a fool I agreed.’

‘You obviously regret it.’

Rosanna’s eyes kindled. ‘Charlie Clayton wants a slave, not a secretary. He’s an insolvency accountant, needs everything documented—not that I mind that part. But his wife goes out to work in the City every day, so Charlie expects me to provide coffee all the time, make him lunch, go shopping sometimes, even iron a shirt in an emergency.’

Her visitor’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘The last straw, obviously. Is that what you’ve been doing today?’

‘No. The Claytons went off on holiday last week. Thank goodness. The workload up to that point was so heavy I decided it just wasn’t on for the money he’s paying me. I told Charlie that, but I don’t think he believed me. When he gets back he can find another dogsbody—or get some voice-activated software and make his own lunch.’

‘Good for you,’ he approved.

‘Help yourself to the other beer, Mr Fraser,’ said Rosanna politely.

‘Thank you. But I’d enjoy it more if you called me Ewen.’

‘Then I will—you don’t sound very Scottish,’ she added.

‘I’m sort of London Scottish,’ he informed her. ‘My father met my mother here when he first came down from Edinburgh to join a Fleet Street daily.’

‘Ah! Printer’s ink runs in your veins, then!’ Rosanna drained her glass then got down to business. ‘Right then, Ewen Fraser,’ she said briskly, looking at him squarely. ‘I’ve told you why I was surprised at the sight of you. But why, exactly, were you so thunderstruck at the sight of me?’

His attractive smile lifted one corner of his mouth. ‘I thought I was seeing things. I know your grandmother’s photograph very well. You’re so like her you took my breath away.’

Rosanna stared, astonished. ‘How on earth did you come by a photograph of my grandmother?’

His eyes, set slantwise beneath ruler-straight brows, held hers. ‘My great-uncle met Miss Rose Norman in France.’

‘Ah, I see!’ Rosanna leaned forward eagerly. ‘Was he 2nd Lieutenant Henry Manners of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, by any chance?’

Ewen nodded. ‘That’s the one. Military Cross and Bar, DSO. By some miracle he managed to survive the war. He was a great old boy, a career soldier. Brigadier by the end. I was very fond of him.’

‘Did he ever marry?’

He shook his head. ‘No prizes for guessing why.’

‘Because Miss Rose Norman married someone else,’ she said quietly.

They looked at each other in silence for a moment, then Rosanna got up. ‘Let’s make a start. We’ll have to work at the kitchen table.’

Ewen leapt to his feet. ‘Right. I haven’t brought much. There’s a huge amount at home, of course, but where your grandmother’s concerned it’s just a diary, plus some letters and the photograph.’

‘The same for me, too,’ she said. ‘I’m not counting the letters from relatives. The prize was a rosewood box left to my mother.’ She smiled. ‘I’d never seen it until yesterday. I made myself go through the other stuff first before opening it.’

When they were ready to start, Ewen discarded his jacket and drew his chair next to Rosanna’s. She turned the small brass key in the lock of the rosewood box, then handed it to Ewen. He stared down at the photograph of Lieutenant Harry Manners, in uniform but hatless, the grenades of the Royal Welch Fusiliers on his collar. His thick dark hair was combed flat, and his slanted eyes shone with bright certainty in his young, intelligent face.

‘The letters are all from him,’ said Rosanna quietly, suddenly conscious of Ewen’s bare brown arm close to her own, of the fine hair which showed dark against his gold watch on a slim, sinewy wrist. She pulled herself together hurriedly. ‘I’d rather you took them home and read them at your leisure,’ she told him. Harry’s letters were so passionate they were best read in private.

‘Thank you. I’ll leave Rose’s letters for you.’ Ewen pulled a leather box from the briefcase he’d brought, and pushed it towards her. And there, on top, was a photograph of Rose Norman in her bloom, a study her granddaughter had never seen before. Waving dark hair piled high, bare shoulders wreathed in white tulle, Rose Norman smiled with a radiance undimmed by the sepia tint of the photograph.

Rosanna swallowed a great lump in her throat. ‘That smile,’ she said huskily, ‘was for Harry.’

Ewen nodded. ‘I know. At first I felt like a voyeur, but once I started reading her letters I was hooked. I just had to know what happened. Damn silly, really. I knew perfectly well there was no happy ending, but I wanted one. Badly.’

‘I know just what you mean. It felt like trespass when I opened Grandma’s trunk yesterday.’ Rosanna sighed. ‘Her diary cut me to pieces in places. Harry Manners was obviously the love of her life. And by his letters she was very much his, too.’

‘And yet she married your grandfather.’

Rosanna nodded, her eyes sombre. ‘Yes.’

Ewen pushed his chair away slightly so he could turn to look at her. ‘You resemble her so closely it’s a pity old Harry never met you. And yet not. It would probably have been too painful for him.’

‘You think I really look like that?’ she said doubtfully, eyeing the photograph.

‘You’re her image,’ he assured her, looking at her so objectively she suddenly felt jealous, stung by the idea that it was Rose he was seeing. Not Rosanna Carey, her flesh-and-blood grandchild.

‘There’s a fleeting similarity, I suppose,’ she said, so furious with herself her tone was distant, and Ewen got up, quick to sense her change of mood.

‘I’ve taken up too much of your time. If I could use your phone I’ll call a cab.’

‘Of course. There’s a list of numbers on the hall table.’

After Ewen made the call he came back into the kitchen. ‘May I take your box with me? I promise to take care of it. Or if you prefer I could just take the contents—’

‘No. Keep the letters in it, but I’ll keep the diary until tomorrow. You can have it then, when you go through the other things. There are later photographs of Rose, and letters to her from her family, and newspaper cuttings.’ Rosanna preceded him into the hall to wait for the taxi. ‘The cuttings are mostly about military events. Rose must have been following Harry’s career.’

Ewen put the rosewood box in his briefcase. ‘I’ll go through these tonight, and bring it back as soon as possible. Is tomorrow any good? Would your mother mind if I came round in the evening? Or will you be back in your own place by then?’

Rosanna hesitated. ‘A friend’s using my room in the flat because I’m house-sitting,’ she said reluctantly. ‘My father’s been away for the past month, doing consulting work in Saudi Arabia. My mother’s gone to meet up with him at my brother’s place in Sydney.’

‘Australia.’ He looked at her levelly. ‘You were afraid to tell me that before.’

‘Of course I was. I didn’t know you!’

‘You do now.’

‘Do I?’ she countered lightly.

‘Of course you do, Miss Carey.’ Ewen took her by the hand, turning her to face the large mirror on the wall. ‘We’re the descendants of two people who loved each other with a very grand passion indeed,’ he told her reflection. ‘We could hardly fail to know each other. Besides, having seen the portrait of Rose, I knew you the moment I set eyes on you.’

Rosanna eyed his reflection analytically. ‘You don’t look much like Harry.’ She smiled a little. ‘But I feel I know him a lot better than you.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve read his letters!’

Ewen turned her to face him. ‘Thank you for giving up your evening, Rosanna.’

He retained her hand, and Rosanna stood very still, her pulse quickening as his thin, strong fingers closed over hers. ‘I enjoyed it. I’ve never met a celebrity before,’ she said brightly.

He shrugged, his smile more crooked than before. ‘No celebrity. Just a journalist who got lucky.’ He looked down at her intently. ‘I’ll bring the letters back tomorrow night, then.’

Rosanna nodded, wishing he’d release her hand. ‘All right.’

‘This time have dinner with me.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, thank you.’

‘I see.’ Ewen dropped her hand. ‘Right. I’ll call round after dinner, then. Or before. Whatever.’

His expression was suddenly so aloof, Rosanna felt chilled. But not enough to agree to a meal together. She never accepted dinner invitations. Nor wanted to. But to her astonishment she wanted to go out with Ewen Fraser so much she had to force herself to refuse. ‘After dinner. If you like,’ she added casually.

The warmth returned to his eyes so suddenly it kick-started her pulse again. ‘I do like. Very much. Tomorrow at eight-thirty, then.’

‘Come a bit earlier than that—if you want to get to grips with the other stuff, I mean,’ added Rosanna gruffly, and bit her lip.

Ewen grinned. ‘Men usually beg you for more time, of course, not the other way round.’

‘I wasn’t begging,’ she said indignantly.

‘I know.’ He picked up his briefcase. ‘You just want to get everything finished and be rid of me.’ His eyes danced, the overhead hall light picking out flecks of gold in the hazel irises. ‘I’d be here at nine in the morning if I thought you’d let me in.’

This time the flicker of response was so violent Rosanna was hard put to hide it, and almost told him not to come again. But she couldn’t think of a feasible excuse, and her tone was cold in sheer self-defence as she told him seven-thirty in the evening would do very well.

Ewen smiled with regret as the doorbell rang. ‘My cab. Goodnight, Rosanna.’

‘Goodnight.’ She opened the front door. ‘Don’t stay up late reading Harry’s letters. In fact, take my advice— read them tomorrow, not tonight.’

‘Why?’

She smiled wryly. ‘You’ll find out when you read them!’

CHAPTER TWO

FEELING oddly restless after Ewen Fraser had gone, Rosanna took her grandmother’s letters to bed to read, which was a big mistake. In their own way the letters were as innocently erotic as the outpourings Rose Norman had received from Harry Manners.

Rosanna already knew how the two young people had met from the entries the young VAD had made in her diary. Rose Norman had been sent to France. With a couple of girl drivers for company, sometimes only one, she travelled in the unwieldy old ambulances of the time to transfer the seriously injured from casualty clearing stations to base hospitals further away from the front line.

2nd Lt. Harry Manners, one arm in a sling, a stained bandage round his forehead, flagged down Rose’s ambulance one day to beg transport for two of his wounded men. The men were crammed in somehow, at which point a flat tyre was discovered. Rose managed to help Letty Parker, the driver, change the tyre with instructions from the young platoon commander, who promptly collapsed in an unconscious heap the moment they finished the job.

Between them the girls managed to heave him into the front seat, Rose holding him as upright as possible on the journey back to the base hospital. Harry Manners’ forehead had been grazed by one sniper’s bullet, and his shoulder pierced by another which missed the jugular vein and the spine by a hair’s breadth, a ‘Blighty’ wound which sent him back to England to recover.

Fate sent Rose Norman home on leave on the same train, helping with the wounded on the journey. When she came across Harry he was light-headed and obviously feeling wretched, but utterly delighted to see her again. They were able to talk only briefly, but Harry begged her home address, and the moment he was discharged from the hospital in Denmark Hill called to see Rose on a day when her mother was helping Rose’s sister, Amelia, with the children’s measles in Kensington.

Far into the night Rosanna lay in the same bedroom her grandmother had occupied as a girl, riveted by the account of a love affair all the more passionate and poignant for the modest, unaffected style of Rose Norman’s letters. Referring to the diary from time to time, Rosanna read how Harry cut short his stay with his parents, and saw Rose every day, courtesy of the measles which focussed her mother’s attention away from her younger daughter.

When Harry asked her to marry him, Rose, still shadowed by the loss of one fiancé, was superstitious, and implored him to wait until the war was over.

‘But in the meantime,’ wrote Rose, ‘we are madly, wildly in love, and alive.

‘Today,’ said the next entry succinctly, ‘we became lovers.’

The diary was blank after that until Rose arrived back in France, not earlier than scheduled due to curtailed leave, as she told her mother, but on the due date after a week of illicit bliss with Harry in a Brighton hotel.

Their next meeting was in France, when Rose managed to get time off to stay with Harry in a pension in Rouen before he went up to the front. When they parted Harry gave his love a brooch in the shape of a gold rose, and kissed Rose’s tears away when she sobbed in his arms.

Rosanna slept late the following morning, and woke to a feeling of guilt. Overnight she’d had time for regrets, very much aware that there was no real necessity for Ewen to bring back the papers in person. Any future dealings with him could have been done by post. But she liked him. In fact, after just one meeting she felt as though she’d known Ewen for years. Or in some other life. Which was dangerous. It stemmed from Harry and Rose, of course. Their love story had fostered an intimacy that would never have happened if she’d met Ewen in other circumstances.

Ewen Fraser was an attractive, intelligent man loaded with charm. But, Rosanna reminded herself, apart from his great-uncle and his success as a writer she knew very little about him. Women, if the press were to be believed, flocked around Ewen Fraser in droves. For all she knew he might even be married. Not that it was any concern of hers if he had a wife or an entire harem.

The day was hot, and Rosanna spent most of it in the garden, topping up her tan. And later, after a quick salad supper, she took time with her appearance, choosing clothes that would show off her newly acquired glow. Some of which, she realised, eyeing her reflection, wasn’t entirely due to the sun. She’d left her hair to lie loose and glossy on her shoulders, and in sharp contrast with the demure look of the night before wore a sleeveless pink shirt and brief denim skirt. Knowing she looked her best heightened anticipation hard to control as she went downstairs to wait for Ewen Fraser.

He arrived punctual to the minute, dressed in a thin white cotton shirt and pale khakis, and presented Rosanna with a bunch of roses, making no attempt to hide the pleasure he took at the sight of her.

‘Hello, Rosanna. You look different with your hair down.’ He smiled and handed over the flowers. ‘Your garden’s probably full of these, but nothing else seemed suitable.’

‘Why, thank you. How kind.’ Rosanna’s smile masked the now familiar leap in her blood. ‘I’ve been lazing in the garden. Would you like a drink out there before we tackle any more papers?’

Ewen agreed with alacrity, and Rosanna sent him off to sit in a garden chair while she put the roses in water. She took her time, breathing in their heady scent, feeling light-headed. There was no mistake, after all. During the day she’d tried to convince herself that Ewen Fraser was just a pleasant, rather clever young man, but nothing out of the ordinary. One look at him again tonight had scotched that theory. He wasn’t handsome exactly, but his tall, rangy body and slanted gold eyes were just as appealing on second acquaintance as at first. Ordinary he was not. Rosanna went out into the garden with Ewen’s beer, and sat down in one of the other deck chairs.

‘You read the letters?’ she asked at once, to emphasize that they were here for a purpose.

‘Yes. I couldn’t resist reading them last night after all,’ he said ruefully. ‘I couldn’t get to sleep for hours. They were a revelation. Harry’s love for Rose was blazingly physical, yet at the same time it’s plain he absolutely worshipped her.’

‘It was mutual.’ Rosanna touched the gold rose pinned to the lapel of her shirt. ‘This is the brooch he gave her in Rouen, the last time they saw each other.’

Ewen leaned closer to examine the pin, close enough for Rosanna to breathe in the scent of expensive soap and healthy male, and she moved away instinctively. He drew back at once, and for a moment there was an awkward silence. They broke it at the same time, then stopped and laughed a little.

‘You first,’ said Rosanna.

Ewen breathed in deeply. ‘I was about to say I’ve already done the major part of the research—war records, and historians and war poets of the time. But Harry’s diaries and the letters he wrote to Rose are even more valuable in some ways. They conjure up the mood and atmosphere of the time so vividly I felt I was living it with them.’

‘I know what you mean,’ she replied with feeling. ‘Rose was a well-brought-up girl sheltered from the squalor and suffering she soon witnessed, but she was so determined she even lied about her age to get accepted. It’s clear from her diary that she found rich rewards in helping the wounded.’ She sighed. ‘It makes my life seem horribly trivial.’

Ewen reached out a hand and took hers. ‘Not in the least trivial, Rosanna. You’re educating the next generation. And my aim is to make sure Harry and Rose’s generation is never forgotten.’

‘Amen to that.’ Rosanna detached her hand swiftly, before he discovered her pulse was racing.

‘I’m very grateful to Harry and Rose,’ said Ewen, his voice deepening. ‘Without them I might never have met you.’

Rosanna cast a wary glance at him.

‘I felt I knew Rose already, of course,’ he went on. ‘But I never imagined I’d meet her in the flesh, in the person of her granddaughter.’

‘I may resemble her a little, but otherwise I’m nothing like her,’ warned Rosanna sharply, worried about where this was leading. ‘She was very much a woman of her time. I’m totally different. I could never have been as noble as Rose. When Gerald Rivers turned up out of the blue, shell-shocked and minus an arm, Rose felt she had no option other than to marry him. So she wrote that heart-rending letter to Harry.’

‘Who did his level best to get killed after receiving it. But in the usual way of things, of course, he got himself decorated instead.’ Ewen shook his head. ‘If this were fiction, Rose would have had his child, Gerald Rivers would have brought it up as his own and you and I, Rosanna Carey, would be related.’

His eyes locked with hers. Something molten in their depths touched a dangerous, responsive chord, and she looked away quickly, shaking her head.

‘In actual fact my mother wasn’t born until the thirties. Though she hardly remembers her father. He died when she was four.’

The silence which followed was so protracted, Rosanna grew restless at last and got up to break it. ‘Shall we make a start?’

Ewen followed her through the sitting room into the hall. Rosanna was suddenly so burningly conscious of his physical presence in the confined space that she tripped on a rug and his hands shot out to save her, closing on her waist. He drew in a sharp, unsteady breath and turned her to face him. For a long, tense moment they stared into each other’s eyes, then Ewen Fraser pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

‘I’ve been wanting to do that from the first moment I saw you,’ he muttered against her mouth, and kissed her again, his lips parting hers with such hunger she was shaken to the depths. She yielded helplessly, lost in the overpowering intimacy of the sensation as his tongue caressed hers, and he held her so tightly she could feel the powerful urgency surging through his body into hers like an electric charge. He raised his head at last, breathing unevenly, and stared down into her dazed, astonished eyes. ‘Are you going to show me the door, Rosanna?’ he asked hoarsely.

Appalled to find she was trembling from head to foot, she raised her chin militantly. ‘Why? It was only a kiss.’

‘Was it?’ he said harshly.

‘Yes,’ she said in desperation, and broke free to precede him into the kitchen, where the bright overhead light dispersed any remnants of intimacy. Rosanna faced him, suddenly angry with herself. And with Ewen. ‘I admit it’s my fault as much as yours,’ she said, her eyes stormy. ‘I obviously misled you by letting you come here again tonight. I’ve got some information you want, and most of it you can have. But that’s as far as it goes.’

‘Then why the hell did you let me kiss you like that?’ he demanded hotly.

Rosanna’s face fell. ‘You took me by surprise,’ she muttered.

‘You could have called a halt long before you did.’

‘I’m aware of that.’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose I was a bit beglamoured by what happened to Harry and Rose. Some of it must have rubbed off. Would you have preferred a slap in the face?’

‘Damn right I would,’ he said bitterly, and held her chair for her. ‘Right. Down to business. Let’s get this over with.’

The tension lay heavy in the air between them, but they worked quickly. An hour later a pile of neatly correlated research material was stacked beside the boxes.

‘Now comes the awkward bit,’ said Rosanna, squaring her shoulders. ‘I need a favour.’

Ewen ran a hand through his hair, eyeing her narrowly. ‘What kind of favour?’

‘Would you agree to an exchange?’ she asked reluctantly. ‘Rose’s letters for Harry’s? I want to try my hand at a novel. Not a serious, historical novel like yours. Just a romantic story about two star-crossed lovers in the past whose descendants get it together in the present.’

Ewen was silent for some time before he raised a daunting eyebrow. ‘Have you ever had anything published?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever tried your hand at fiction before?’

‘No.’

‘Then I wish you luck.’ Ewen lounged back in his chair negligently, long legs crossed at the ankle. He shrugged. ‘All right. You can keep Rose’s letters. I haven’t seen her diary, of course, but that’s likely to be more use to you than to me, anyway, if you’re concocting a romance. My focus will be on the Great War itself, following the lives of two friends, once students together in Heidelberg, now soldiers in opposing armies. Only a small section will be devoted to the doomed love affair. As a final twist the lovers are torn apart, but the friends are reunited after the war.’

Something in the pejorative way he said ‘concocting a romance’ needled Rosanna. ‘That’s fine, then,’ she said tightly. ‘No harm done.’

‘Right.’ Ewen rose to his feet. ‘If you could spare some photographs of the period to go with Harry’s letters, and the rest of the stuff, I’d be grateful. I’ll take copies and return them, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Rosanna, feeling suddenly depressed. ‘Take what you want.’

He sifted through them again, chose half a dozen, then looked at a more modern photograph of Rose on the beach with her child. ‘The family likeness is very marked. That’s how you’ll look in a few years’ time.’

‘Follow me,’ said Rosanna abruptly, and led him across the hall to another sitting room where several silver-framed photographs were grouped together on a small table. One was her parents’ wedding picture, two others were of herself and Sam in their degree robes and mortar boards. The fourth was a formal portrait of a lady with dark eyes still brilliant under her white hair, the smile familiar from Harry Manners’ treasured portrait of Rose.

‘Taken the year before she died,’ said Rosanna huskily.

‘And still beautiful.’ Ewen gazed at the photograph for a long time, then turned away. ‘Thank you for letting me see her.’

‘It needn’t make any difference to your novel,’ she assured him as she saw him to the door. ‘You’re bound to score a big success again. Mine will be nothing like that, even if I manage to get it written, much less published. No one will ever connect yours with mine.’

Ewen shrugged. ‘I doubt if we’ll trespass on each other’s preserves. If I do,’ he added deliberately, ‘you can sue me.’

‘As if I would!’ she said scornfully. ‘Just one more thing. The portrait of Rose.’

‘Sorry. I’m keeping that. You’ll have to make do with Harry.’

Rosanna looked up at him in entreaty. ‘But we don’t have one like that, Ewen. Couldn’t you take a copy of it with the others and let me have the original back?’

He looked down at her in silence for a moment. ‘I’ll compromise. You can have the copy. I’ll keep the original. Unless,’ he added, with a tigerish, explicit smile, ‘you have some kind of persuasion in mind?’

Heat rose in Rosanna’s face and she backed away. ‘You’re angry with me,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Why?’

His smile was unsettling as he followed her step for step as she retreated. ‘Because I keep confusing you with sweet, passionate Rose, I suppose, whereas all the time cool, practical Rosanna was merely using me for her own ends.’

She opened her mouth to deny this, then thought better of it as she found herself backed up against the newel-post at the foot of the stairs. It was neither the time nor the place to confess she’d wanted to see him again for his own sake.

‘I’ve been gazing at that portrait for weeks,’ said Ewen softly, his eyes locked with hers. ‘I thought I was seeing things when you opened the door to me.’

Rosanna swallowed. ‘I’m not Rose, and you’re not Harry.’ She dodged away, but Ewen caught her easily, and locked his arms round her.

‘True, Rosanna Carey,’ he said huskily, ‘yet it seems unbelievable that we’ve only just met. I’ve been living with that photograph, reading Rose’s letters, and then I find you, in the glowing, irresistible flesh. Rose reincarnated.’

‘I’m—not—Rose,’ she said through her teeth.

‘Better still. You’re warm flesh and blood—and alive,’ he said hoarsely, and brought his mouth down hard on hers. At the touch of his lips her breath left her body and the blood pounded in her ears as Ewen Fraser knocked her defences flat for the second time. Held fast against the tall, slim body which grew tense with demand, Rosanna took a regrettably long time to come to her senses at last and tear her mouth from his. Ewen raised his head a fraction to look down into her eyes, their ragged, uneven breathing mingling as she shook her head violently.

‘Why are you trembling?’ he panted. ‘Just as you said, it was only a kiss.’

She struggled to get free. ‘Let me go. Please!’

To her fury he suddenly chuckled, shaking his head as he held her closer. In command of himself again, he was so blatantly enjoying himself she wanted to scratch his laughing, slanted eyes out.

‘Oh, no!’ he retorted. ‘Do you think I’m a fool? I may never get the opportunity again. Don’t be afraid, Rosanna. I promise I wouldn’t harm Rose Norman’s granddaughter for the world.’

She ground her teeth in fury. ‘You won’t get the chance. When I allow someone to make love to me it’s because they want me, Rosanna Carey, not a ghost.’

‘So the men you know only make love to you when you allow it?’ said Ewen with interest. ‘Is that satisfactory?’

‘On my part yes. I don’t know about theirs.’ Her eyes flashed coldly. ‘Besides, we’re not talking in the plural. There’s only one.’

Ewen leaned against the newel-post without easing his hold on her in the slightest. To break free she’d have to make a fight of it. At which point Rosanna made a mortifying discovery. She didn’t want to fight. She actually enjoyed the sensation of being desired so much he wouldn’t let her go. And desire her he did. In such close physical contact it was a fact impossible to ignore.

‘I thought there must be,’ he said, sighing theatrically. ‘Who’s the lucky man? And where is he? Am I likely to see him hurtling through the door at any minute to wrest you from my arms?’

Rosanna would have given a lot to say yes. ‘No,’ she muttered into his shirt-front. ‘He’s a doctor, gaining experience in the States to add BTA to his qualifications.’

‘BTA?’

‘Been to America.’

Ewen grinned, and raised her face to his. ‘Would he mind if he knew you were here like this? With me?’

‘He’d better,’ she snapped.

‘Then I might as well give him something to mind about.’ Ewen stifled her protest with an engulfing kiss, parting her lips with his marauding tongue. He made no move to caress her with his hands, but went on kissing her with unflagging relish, his arms locking her so close against him, their hearts thumped in unison. Rosanna had never been kissed like this, by someone taking so much pleasure in the process that the kisses in themselves were more erotic than anything experienced before. Even in the arms of Dr David Norton.

The thought struck Rosanna like a thunderbolt, and she wrenched herself away, clutching the newel-post. Ewen’s arms dropped and he stood back, his eyes slitted in his taut face, their uneven breathing the only sound to break the silence.

‘Time I went,’ he said gruffly at last.

‘Yes.’ She took in a deep, shaky breath.

But neither made any move. Rosanna knew she should speed Ewen Fraser on his way, in case he took her silence for acquiescence, some kind of tacit invitation to stay and take up where he had just left off. Which, she realised, was exactly what she wanted, deep down. Which was incredible. Even if there were no David she just wasn’t the type to fling herself into the arms of a man she’d known for one solitary day. Especially one who couldn’t separate Rosanna Carey of now from Rose Norman of then. If she were ever mad enough to let Ewen Fraser make love to her she would never be sure if he wanted her for herself or because she was the incarnation of Rose.

Rosanna pulled herself together and released her death grip on the newel-post. ‘Right,’ she said, in a voice intended to be brisk, but which came out so unlike her own she hardly recognised it. She cleared her throat and tried again, wishing Ewen would move, instead of looking at her as though committing her face to memory. ‘Goodnight, then, Ewen. Good luck with the book.’

‘And you,’ he said quietly. He turned to pick up his briefcase. ‘Goodnight, Rosanna. Thank you for the drink. I’ll return everything in due course.’ He reached into a pocket for his wallet and took out a card. ‘Here’s my number should you need to contact me.’

‘Thank you.’ Rosanna took it from him, privately vowing to have nothing at all to do with him again. Ever. ‘Ewen,’ she said impulsively as he went out, and he turned sharply in the porch.

‘Yes?’

‘I had the idea of writing about Rose before I’d even met you, or knew what you wanted. And I’m not using information that belongs to you, except for his photograph, and you can have that back if you want.’

‘I already have one very like it. You keep Harry. I’ll keep my beautiful Rose.’ He smiled crookedly, and she shook her dishevelled head.

‘You’re in love with a ghost, Ewen Fraser.’

His eyes glittered under the porch light. ‘If you mean that what happened between us just now is likely to haunt me, you’re right. But there’s no ghost involved, just the memory of you in my arms. You, Rosanna. Goodnight.’

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