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.

A Haunting Compulsion
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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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

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘DO COME, Rachel. You can’t possibly spend Christmas alone in London. Jaime won’t be home, you know that. We wouldn’t expect you to come, if he was. But you know how much Robert and I would like to see you again, so do come, do come, do come …’

Rachel closed her eyes, as the words echoed through her head, over and over, like a relentless tattoo beating against her brain. Liz had been so persuasive, so sympathetic about her father’s death, so determined that she should not spend the festive season alone in her flat, that it had seemed churlish to go on refusing. Where was the harm, after all? Liz and Robert were nice people, and she liked them. And since Jaime spent so much time abroad, they would no doubt welcome some young company.

Rachel sighed, and opened her eyes again, as the lights of Durham appeared through the hazy darkness ahead of the train. Only a few more miles and they would be in Newcastle, her destination, but despite her contention, the prospect was no longer so appealing.

Perhaps she should not have come, she argued with herself uneasily. This was Jaime’s home, not hers, these were Jaime’s parents. All right, so they had treated her more like a family friend than their son’s—what? Rachel’s lips tightened instinctively. Secretary? Girlfriend? Mistress? A shudder ran over her. Whatever she had been, she was no more, so how could she talk to them as she used to do? How could she discuss her plans for a future in which they had no part? It was an impossible situation. She could envisage the awkward looks, the pregnant silences, the periods of introspection, while each of them regretted the impulse which had brought them all together. And they were committed to ten days of this purgatory. It was going to be awful.

In an attempt to shake off the mood of melancholy which was settling on her, Rachel straightened up in her seat, and retrieving her handbag, extracted her compact. The compartment of the train was almost empty, so she flicked the case open and examined her miniaturised reflection in the mirror.

Her lipstick needed renewing, she decided, but apart from that, the three-and-a-half-hour journey from King’s Cross had not wrought any dramatic changes in her appearance. The same calm Madonna-like features gazed back at her, her dark chestnut hair thick and smooth from a centre parting, her cheekbones high and lightly tinted with becoming colour, her nose firm and straight, her wide mouth, with its sensuous lower lip, deceptively vulnerable. Yet the delicate conformity of those features chilled her somewhat, the slight tilt at the corners of dark-fringed green eyes only emphasising their cool remoteness. Her beauty had long since ceased to please her; the gratification which came from knowing she was attractive to men had died when Jaime proved its worthlessness; and although she still attracted male eyes wherever she went, she had learned to keep the opposite sex at a distance.

The train ambled through Durham station without stopping, and then picked up speed again between the two cities. Already the air felt fresher, colder, even within the air-conditioned comfort of the compartment. It was more than two years since she had been this far north, and longer than that since Jaime first brought her to Clere Heights, and introduced her to his family. But she remembered the sharpness of the air, and the sound of the wind as it whistled around the eaves of the house, and the tumult of the waves, spuming on the rocks beneath. Clere Heights was built on the very edge of the ocean, high above the unpredictable currents of the North Sea, and there was no place in the house where one could escape its savage thunder.

Jaime’s room had been at the back of the house, Rachel remembered reluctantly, overlooking the bay, which in summer could be as calm and as blue as the Mediterranean. But on winter nights, the roar of the elements had been strongest here, and it took some determination for her to push away the memories her thoughts evoked now. It was all in the past, she told herself impatiently, but that didn’t prevent it from hurting.

Of course, his parents had known, but she had not blamed them. They were not responsible for their son’s behaviour, and the friendship which had sprung up between Rachel and the Shards had survived in spite of everything. Nevertheless, she could not help feeling she was accepting their hospitality under false pretences, and if Jaime knew, she doubted he would approve.

The train rumbled ponderously over the Tyne Bridge, and below her a ship’s siren hooted mournfully from the trailing vapours of the fog that shrouded the river. The station was just beyond the bridge, a cavernous edifice, blackened from the age of steam, and presently damp and misty, and heavy with the smell of diesel.

The inter-city express which had brought Rachel from King’s Cross pulled into the platform, and tightening the belt of the dark red leather coat about her slim waist, she hoisted her suitcase and struggled to the carriage door. She guessed Jaime’s father would have come to meet her, and dismissing the proffered services of a young porter, whose keen gaze had alighted on the graceful lissomness of her figure, she walked as quickly as she could towards the ticket barrier.

There was no sign of Robert Shard, however, in the press of people waiting to meet the train. Tall, like his son, his grey head would have been instantly noticeable, she was sure, but there seemed mostly women standing in groups, watching the discharging passengers.

‘Rachel! Rachel, I’m here!’

The slightly breathless feminine tones attracted Rachel’s attention as she was replacing her return ticket in the bag looped over her shoulder. Glancing round, she saw not Jaime’s father but his mother hurrying towards her, her attractive features flushed with anxiety, her ready smile breaking as Rachel saw her.

‘Oh, my dear, I was so afraid I was going to be late!’ Elizabeth Shard enveloped the girl in a warm embrace, bestowing a welcoming kiss on her smooth cheek. ‘It’s quite foggy out of town, and I got stuck behind a horse-box, and I was convinced the train would be punctual when I wasn’t.’

Rachel laughed, returning the older woman’s hug enthusiastically, feeling her earlier misgivings melting slightly in the warmth of Liz’s greeting. ‘Actually, it is on time,’ she conceded humorously, glancing at her watch. ‘But so are you, so calm down. I’ve just walked off the platform.’

‘Have you? Have you really?’ Liz examined her face with a worried scrutiny, and then gave a little laugh. ‘Thank heavens for that! I can breathe freely again. Now, shall we get some assistance?’

Before Rachel could protest, Liz had summoned the very porter she had refused earlier, but fortunately he seemed not to notice. Picking up Rachel’s suitcase, and the leather travel bag containing the book and magazines she had brought for the journey, he led the way outside, and tucking her arm through Rachel’s, Liz urged them to follow him.

‘At least I had no difficulty in parking,’ she remarked, as they emerged into the damp misty air, and detecting a trace of irony in her voice, Rachel wondered why. Perhaps it had something to do with Robert’s not meeting her, she reflected, and hoped her visit was not a cause for contention between them.

‘Did you have a good journey?’ Liz asked, supervising the loading of Rachel’s belongings into the boot of the sleek grey Jaguar that was awaiting them in the station yard. ‘It’s such a filthy night. Not at all like the day before Christmas Eve! I wonder what’s happened to all our white Christmases.’

Rachel smiled, and made some suitable response, then coiled herself gratefully into the front seat of the car. It was good to feel warm again, and when Liz came to join her she said as much.

‘Yes, it is rather chilly,’ her hostess agreed with a grimace. ‘Never mind, we still have open fires at Clere Heights.’

‘I’m looking forward to that,’ Rachel admitted, settling more comfortably in her seat, and again sensed a certain tenseness as Liz started the engine.

‘So, how are you?’ As if to dispel any such suggestion, Liz changed the subject. ‘We were so sorry to hear about your father. It must have been a terrible shock.’

‘It was rather,’ Rachel agreed, with a sigh. ‘But it wasn’t so unexpected, you know. He’d had heart trouble for a number of years.’

‘Yes,’ Liz nodded. ‘I remember Jaime—that is—you spoke of it when you were here before.’

Rachel nodded, aware of how difficult it was going to be to avoid using Jaime’s name, and added: ‘It’s over now. It’s almost four months since Daddy died. And thank goodness, I have my work.’

‘Yes.’ Liz slowed to accommodate traffic lights, then went on: ‘You’re an assistant editor now, aren’t you? You must find that more exciting than secretarial work.’

‘Oh, I do.’ Rachel spoke with enthusiasm. ‘It means I can use my own initiative, instead of only portraying someone else’s. I find it very interesting.’

‘But not too hard, I hope.’ Liz gave her a swift glance. ‘You look—thinner. I hope they’re not working you too hard.’

Rachel smiled. ‘Thinner is hardly a flattering description,’ she commented teasingly. ‘You should say slimmer. Thinner implies skinny.’

Liz gave a reluctant laugh. ‘Well, you’re not that. But you’re not as—rounded as I remember.’

Rachel bent her head. That was true. But it wasn’t entirely due to her work, or to the shock of her father’s death. She had lost weight after the break-up with Jaime, and she had never really regained it.

‘That’s enough about me,’ she said now, refusing to become introspective. ‘How about you—and Robert? Are you both well?’

‘Rob and I?’ Liz spoke a little breathily. ‘Oh—why, yes. Yes, we’re fine, thank you, Rachel. Nothing seems to bother us. Except for the occasional cold, you know, and a twinge or two of rheumatics.’ She moved her shoulders dismissingly. ‘Old age, I suppose.’

‘You’re not old.’

Rachel was quick to dispute it, but Liz shook her head. ‘I’m fifty-seven this year, and Rob’s sixty,’ she declared flatly. ‘We’re not getting any younger.’

‘But that’s not old,’ Rachel argued affectionately. ‘Is Rob still working as hard as ever? Surely he doesn’t still go to the office every day?’

‘Not every day,’ Liz conceded, with a tight smile. ‘Since Robin joined the firm he’s taken a lot of work from his father’s shoulders, and I expect eventually he’ll take over.’

Robin was Jaime’s younger brother. At the time Rachel had known Jaime, he had been at university, and she had only met him once. He was married now, she knew, and in her last letter Liz had mentioned that they had become grandparents at last. Rachel guessed they wished Jaime had been like his brother, content with running the family steel business, but an ordered life had never appealed to him.

‘I suppose your granddaughter must be two months old now,’ Rachel commented, needing something to say now and not quite knowing what, and Liz nodded.

‘Lisa? Oh, yes.’ She smiled. ‘She’s quite adorable. Her grandfather and I see a lot of Robin and Nancy.’

Rachel acknowledged this, wondering how Jaime’s brother had reacted to the fact that she was to spend Christmas with his parents. Did that account for Liz’s occasionally taut countenance, the sudden air of enforced courtesy, so out of keeping with her normal uninhibited chatter? She was getting the distinct impression that all was not well at Clere Heights, and taking the bull by the horns she said:

‘Is something the matter, Liz? I want you to be honest with me.’ And as the older woman started to protest, she added: ‘I know you invited me here, and I am grateful, really, but if it’s causing any problems with the family—’

‘With the family?’ Liz interrupted her impatiently. ‘Rachel, what possible problem could your coming here create with the family?’

She shook her head vigorously, and taking the opportunity, Rachel plunged in again. ‘I’d just hate for you to feel that you’ve committed yourself, and you can’t change your mind,’ she said. ‘I mean, I can easily stay at a hotel—’

‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ Liz sounded as if she meant it, and Rachel sighed.

‘But something’s wrong, isn’t it? It’s not Robert, is it? I must admit, I expected it would be he who came to meet me—’

‘Jaime’s home!’

Liz broke in on her attempted explanation, with flat deliberation, and Rachel felt all the blood drain out of her face.

‘What—what did you say?’ she echoed faintly, but she knew without Liz repeating it. She had said that Jaime was home, and the shock drove the strength from her body.

‘I’m sorry, darling, but it’s true.’ Liz was hastening on with her explanations now. ‘We didn’t know he was coming. How could we? It was totally unexpected. He only arrived the day before yesterday—’

‘You should have told me.’ Rachel only managed to articulate the words with difficulty. ‘You should have let me know. I would have made other arrange—’

‘He wouldn’t let us,’ Liz exclaimed helplessly. ‘And why should you, anyway? You were invited; he was not. And if he hadn’t been shot, he wouldn’t be here—’

‘ Shot !’

Rachel hadn’t thought it was possible for her to feel more shocked, but she did. She turned in her seat, gazing in horrified fascination at Jaime’s mother, and Liz quickly told her what had happened.

‘He’s all right,’ she assured her urgently, while Rachel fought to control the overwhelming instinct she had to grasp Liz by the shoulders and shake the information out of her. ‘It’s a nasty wound, but he’ll survive. He’s fortunate not to have been injured before this, the places they send him! God knows, he was lucky to escape with his life.’

Rachel endeavoured to assimilate what Liz was saying, but her mouth was dry, and there was a beading of perspiration dewing her forehead. Jaime had been shot, she told herself incredulously. Someone had tried to kill him, but miraculously he had escaped serious injury. How had it happened? Where had he been shot? And how long would it take for him to recover?

‘I know it must be a shock to you, Rachel,’ Liz was going on sympathetically. ‘You can imagine how we felt when he turned up on Tuesday afternoon. They flew him home from Masota on Monday, and I think they would have preferred him to spend a few days in hospital in London, but you know what Jaime’s like. He flew to Newcastle on Tuesday morning, and arranged for a hire car to bring him home.’

Rachel expelled her breath heavily and forced down the sense of panic inside her. This was ridiculous, she chided herself angrily. She was behaving like an idiot. Why should it matter to her what happened to Jaime Shard? He meant nothing to her any longer, and of a certainty, she meant nothing to him. Why get upset, just because he was hurt? He deserved to suffer, for the way he had made her suffer; and Betsy, too, come to that. Perhaps fate was kinder than she thought. Perhaps retribution came to everyone in time.

‘You—you mentioned Masota,’ she said now, her brain working furiously as she tried to decide what she should do. Obviously she could not stay at Clere Heights now, whatever Liz said, but conversely, she could hardly demand that she turn the car round and take her back to the station tonight.

‘Yes, Masota,’ Liz agreed, accelerating as the outskirts of the city fell away behind them, and the fog enveloped them in its ghostly embrace. ‘You know where it is, don’t you? It’s one of those central African republics.’ She sighed, having to slow her speed again as visibility was reduced. ‘There was a coup. You may have read about it. That’s why Jaime was in Kamsuli.’ She shook her head. ‘It was one of those awful coincidences. The camera team were caught in an ambush, laid by the government forces, would you believe? He spent four days in a prison hospital before they would let him go.’

Rachel moistened her lips. ‘And—and how is he?’

‘All right, I suppose. Subdued.’ Liz grimaced. ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

Rachel managed to nod her head. ‘I’m sorry. For—for your sake, I mean. It must have been a terrible jolt, him just turning up like that.’

‘With his leg all stiff, and walking on crutches?’ Liz added fervently. ‘My God, I thought he’d had it amputated at first. My blood went cold!’

Rachel could imagine their reactions, and she thought how typical it was of Jaime not to give them any warning.

Choosing her words carefully now, she said: ‘You must see, Liz, I—I can’t stay, as we intended. I mean—I just can’t!’

‘Why can’t you?’ Liz turned to give her an appealing gaze. ‘Rachel, my dear, I know how you must feel, believe me! But you must try and understand our feelings, too.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s why I came to meet you, and not Rob. I thought—foolishly perhaps—that you might take the news more—naturally, from me.’

‘Well, I would—I did!’ Rachel made a helpless gesture. ‘Liz, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I do really, but—’

‘If you leave, Jaime will leave, too,’ Liz declared flatly, and Rachel caught her breath.

‘What do you mean?’

Liz hesitated. ‘When we told him—Jaime, that is—that you were coming, he guessed how you would react when you found out he was here.’

I bet he did, thought Rachel tautly, but she didn’t say it.

‘He knew, if we forewarned you of his presence, you wouldn’t come.’ She put her hand gently over Rachel’s fingers, tightly linked together in her lap. ‘My dear, it is Christmas. Couldn’t you allow for these—unexpected circumstances?’

Rachel turned her face away. ‘What did you mean when you said, if I go, Jaime will go, too?’

‘That’s what he said,’ averred Liz unhappily, and Rachel felt a bitter sense of injustice kindling inside her. This was also typical of the way Jaime used people. He knew he could not stop Rachel from leaving by any normal methods, but by threatening to leave himself, he had effectively tied her hands. How could she go, knowing she would be depriving his parents of their son’s company at this season of the year, particularly when they saw him so infrequently? His home was in London, and such time as he spent in England he spent there, mostly in the luxury penthouse apartment with its magnificent view of the city. It was only rarely he made the journey north, and it was pure misfortune that he should have come to them now, just when Rachel had planned to visit there.

Rachel bent her head now, not knowing how to answer the older woman, and Liz made a sound of frustration. ‘Look, darling, I know this has all come as a shock to you, and you’re probably thinking we’re unreasonable in hoping you’ll stay, but is it so impossible?’ She sighed. ‘After all, it’s not as if you’re going to be alone with Jaime or anything. Robin and Nancy and the baby are coming tomorrow, and on Christmas Day we’re having quite a party!’ She waited for Rachel’s response, and when she said nothing she added: ‘I’m sure you’d enjoy it, Rachel. Imagine how we’ll feel if you let Jaime drive you away.’

It was hopeless! Rachel pressed her lips together tensely, and sought for a way out, but there was none. No matter how she strove to find an answer, she persistently came up against the wall of Jaime’s ultimatum, and she could imagine the bitterness it would evoke if he insisted on returning to London. Particularly when he had been hurt, and had turned to his parents for help.

She drew an uneven breath. Somehow she was going to have to make the best of it, at least until Christmas was over. She could not let the Shards down, not now, not after they had been kind enough to open their home to her. It was not their fault that Jaime had arrived and disrupted all their arrangements. And as it evidently was his leg that was injured, might he not spend a good deal of the time in his room anyway? He would need to rest to recover his strength, and surely after all this time she was not afraid to face him.

‘All right,’ she said at last, making the fateful decision. ‘I’ll stay, Liz. Over the weekend anyway. After that, we’ll see.’

‘You won’t regret it, darling!’ Liz’s relief was palpable. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d refused.’ She allowed a nervous little laugh to escape her. ‘I so much want us all to enjoy this Christmas!’

Rachel forced a small smile. ‘I hope you won’t be disappointed,’ she commented, unable to keep the dryness out of her tone. ‘And please, don’t expect too much.’

‘A reconciliation, you mean?’ Liz shook her head. ‘No, my dear, we don’t expect that.’

‘Good.’ Rachel’s response was fervent, and she turned her head away again to stare blindly through the misting windows. She could never forgive Jaime, she thought, never! And the prospect of the next few hours filled her with apprehension.

In spite of the fog, the journey was over all too soon, as far as Rachel was concerned. The forty or so miles between Newcastle and Rothside, the nearest village to Clere Heights, was accomplished in a little over an hour, and it was only a quarter to nine as Liz drove between the stone gateposts, that marked the boundary of the Shards’ property. Rachel remembered that the drive that led to the house wound between hedges of thick rhododendrons that in early summer were a mass of purple flowers. But at this time of the year the glossy leaves were drooping and wet with the mist that rose thickly from the ocean, and the crunching sound of wheels on gravel was muted by its drifting vapour.

It was a reluctant relief to see the house looming up ahead of them. Lights gleamed through uncurtained windows, throwing shafts of illumination across the gravelled forecourt, and as the car ground to a halt, the heavy oak door was swung wide to reveal Robert Shard’s broad figure.

With the mist shrouding the upper floors of the house, Rachel could only imagine the long-leaded windows, baying out above the front door, and the clinging creeper that covered the walls and gave them a pinkish tinge. She could see the wide bay windows on either side of the door, and glimpsed the leaping flames from the open fire Liz had promised her, but although she told herself she had had no alternative, she couldn’t help the certain conviction that she should not have come here.

‘Rachel, my dear!’ Robert Shard had descended the shallow steps and crossed the forecourt to swing her door open. ‘Welcome to Clere Heights! I’m so glad you made it. Isn’t it a vile night?’

‘I was almost late,’ his wife commented, climbing out at the other side of the car. ‘The fog’s really thick.’ She smiled across at Rachel. ‘It’s just as well you weren’t flying up. I’m sure the airport must be closed.’

As Rachel got out, she heard the muted thunder of the ocean, and her heart quickened. Returning Robert’s kiss with a nervousness she tried hard to disguise, she admitted that the weather wasn’t at all seasonai, and then thanked him for inviting her, through lips stiffened, she insisted, by the cold.

‘It was a pleasure,’ Robert Shard assured her warmly, drawing back to study her face. ‘I suppose Liz has told you we’ve got an unexpected visitor. I guess it came as something of a surprise.’

An understatement, thought Rachel tautly, but she managed to disguise her misgivings. ‘I feel something of an—interloper,’ she offered, glancing round at Jaime’s mother. ‘I’m sure you’d all enjoy yourselves better, if I—were not here.’

‘Rubbish!’ Robert wouldn’t hear a word of it. ‘We’ve been looking forward to your visit, and hearing all about what’s been happening to you. Isn’t that so, Liz?’ And at his wife’s nod: ‘But go along inside now. Are your cases in the boot? Good. I’ll get them.’

Rachel hesitated, but Liz came round the car to join her, tucking her arm through the girl’s and urging her forward. ‘Come along,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Maisie’s got supper all ready and waiting. I expect you could do with something to eat.’

In truth, Rachel had never felt less like eating, but she could hardly say so, and she accompanied Liz into the hall of Clere Heights feeling sick with apprehension. Where was Jaime? Was he waiting for them in the comfortable sitting room, which the Shards used most evenings? Was he in bed? She faced the coming confrontation with a feeling close to dread, and wondered if Liz had noticed she was trembling.

‘Take off your coat,’ said Liz, as they stood beneath the attractive chandelier that hung above the wide, square hall of the house. Panelled in a dark wood, but highlighted by the pale gold carpet underfoot, the hall was as big as any of the rooms Rachel had known in her father’s house, and the staircase that wound around two walls was broad and stately, and heavily carved. An enormous bowl of pink and cream roses occupied a prominent position on the oak settle that stood at the foot of the stairs, and their perfume mingled with the dampness from outside, as Robert carried in her luggage and shouldered the door closed.

Rachel was removing her leather coat as Maisie Armstrong, the Shards’ housekeeper, came bustling through the door beneath the curve of the stairs that Rachel knew led to the kitchen. She had heard the heavy door slamming, and her thin face broke into a smile when she saw their visitor.

‘Well, well! It never rains but what it pours,’ she exclaimed, beaming at Rachel. ‘What a night to arrive, to be sure! You’ll be thinking we have nothing but bad weather up here.’

‘I know you don’t,’ Rachel assured her, smiling, and handing over her coat. ‘How are you, Mrs Armstrong? You’re looking well. The weather doesn’t seem to disagree with you.’

‘Ah, Maisie was born and bred to it,’ Robert remarked, making for the stairs. ‘Come along, Rachel. I’ll show you your room before supper. I’m sure you’d like a few minutes to wash your hands and comb your hair.’

Blessing his understanding, Rachel nodded eagerly. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, looking anxiously at Jaime’s mother, and Liz made a deprecating gesture.

‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she exclaimed, but there was a faint trace of tension in her expression. ‘Come down to the sitting room when you’re ready.’

‘Thank you.’

Rachel nodded, and suppressing the desire to hurry, she followed Robert up the stairs.

A landing circled the hall on two sides, with corridors running in either direction, to the two wings of the house. Built at the end of the last century, when economy of dimensions was not at a premium, Clere Heights was a rambling, spacious building, with two floors above ground level and one below. The second floor rooms were smaller than those on the first floor, meant in the initial instance to accommodate a full quota of servants, but Rachel knew from her previous visits that these were seldom used now. The Shards, who had lived in the house for the last thirty-five years, had made certain modifications, adding central heating and bathrooms, and updating the electrical system, but the character of the place had not been altered, and Rachel had always been happy here. But that was because she had been with Jaime, she thought tightly now, closing her mind to the coming encounter.

Robert led the way along the corridor that gave access to the south wing of the house, and opened the door into a spacious apartment, that sprang to life when he switched on the lamps. The soft green carpet underfoot was reflected in green and gold curtains and a matching patterned bedspread, and Rachel recognised the dark oak furniture from her visit two years ago.

‘Remember it?’ enquired Robert, setting her case on the ottoman at the foot of the square bed, and Rachel nodded mutely, too overcome to speak. ‘We thought you’d like to be in here,’ he added, depositing her hold-all on the bed. ‘Take your time, and acclimatise yourself. Maisie’s supper won’t spoil for a few minutes’ waiting.’

‘Thank you.’

Rachel’s gratitude was evident in the unusual brightness of her eyes, and Robert hesitated a moment. ‘You don’t change, do you, Rachel?’ he said thoughtfully, giving her a rueful smile. ‘You’re still the beautiful enigma, aren’t you? The only girl I ever knew who beat Jaime at his own game. I guess that cool exterior drove him to distraction. I only wish he’d met you before Betsy got her claws into him.’

This was too close to the bone, and as if he knew it, Jaime’s father turned away. ‘See you soon,’ he said, raising a hand as if in apology, and closed the door swiftly, before she could respond.

Left alone, Rachel drew a deep breath before surveying her domain. She still felt weak, and somehow defenceless, and her own reflection in the long wardrobe mirrors didn’t help. It had been a mistake to wear dark colours, she decided. The dark brown silk shirt, and the matching pants that flared at the knee above long suede boots, had looked fashionably businesslike back in London. New they looked drab and unfeminine, robbing her face of all colour, and accentuating the hollows in her cheeks.

Still, she had no time to change now, and carrying her toilet things into the adjoining bathroom, she quickly washed her face. Her skin felt cold, but inside she felt as if she was burning up, and she lifted one of the yellow hand-towels and held it to her face for a few minutes, staring into the haunted green eyes that confronted her. Dear God, how was she going to go through with this? she asked herself silently, then thrust the towel aside before emotion got the better of her.

She had believed she was alone. She had never dreamed that the running water might have provided a screen for someone to enter her room undetected, and when she first glimpsed the dark figure, propped in the open doorway to the bathroom, she started as if she had seen a ghost. But it was no ghost who straightened at her involuntary gesture, who regarded her through narrowed mocking eyes, and she felt as if a sudden blow had just been delivered to her solar plexus.

‘Hello, Rachel,’ he greeted her equably. ‘I thought it would be easier if we got this over in private. I’m sorry if I startled you, but I didn’t like to interrupt your evident absorption in your appearance.’

CHAPTER TWO

HIS SARDONIC WORDS had a steadying effect, reminding her as they did of their last interview. He had been mocking then, and scathing too, and violently angry, although he had tried hard to control it, and a feathering of anticipation ran over Rachel’s skin at the memory of how it had ended.

‘What do you want, Jaime?’ she enquired now, making a display of leaning close to the mirror again, smoothing a delicate finger over the curve of her eyebrow. ‘I should have thought any contact we have to have could be more suitably expressed in the presence of your parents, and I see no reason for us to exchange anything more than the time of day.’

She spoke coolly, controlling the tendency her voice had to quiver a little, and felt quite pleased with her efforts. He should not imagine their previous relationship gave him any prior rights where she was concerned, and it was better to make her position clear, right from the start.

‘You think that, do you?’ Jaime’s voice was low and flat, devoid of expression, concealing his feelings. ‘So we’re to behave like strangers, are we?’

‘We are strangers,’ she retorted, realising she could not go on avoiding looking at him. ‘I told you—I never knew you. Now, if you don’t mind—’

She moved then, as if to go past him, but he was standing squarely in the doorway, and her downcast eyes could not avoid the sight of his booted feet, set slightly apart, with the narrow base of the walking stick that he favoured on his right.

Her eyes moved upward almost involuntarily then, over the cream-coloured corded pants, that enclosed his hips like a second skin, over the dark green shirt he was wearing, the neckline unbuttoned to reveal the brown column of his throat, to the swarthy features of his lean dark face, that she remembered so well. She was a tall girl herself, but he had always been taller, easily six feet, with a lean, muscular body, that owed its hardness more to the tough life he led than to any particular prowess in physical sports. He was not a particularly handsome man. Like his body, his face had a toughness that denied simple good looks. But he was attractive—how attractive, Rachel knew only too well, and the hooded depths of his eyes and the sensual twist of his mouth had an appeal that was purely magnetic. She had felt that magnetism once, she could even feel it at this moment, but now she knew the selfish nature that lay behind that sexy exterior, and despised herself for allowing even a trace of the old charisma to disturb her.

‘Will you let me pass?’ she demanded now, fixing her gaze on the central button of his shirt. ‘I want to put on some make-up and brush my hair, and your mother and father are waiting for their supper.’

Jaime made no move to accommodate her. ‘Aren’t you going to ask how I’m feeling?’ he asked, using his free hand to massage his hip. ‘Don’t you want to know how it happened, and whether they got the bullet out?’

‘I really don’t see that it matters to me, one way or the other,’ Rachel returned callously, hardly aware of what she was saying in her urgency to get away from him—from being alone with him—from this impossible situation. ‘Your mother explained all I needed to know. She told me you got away with it, as usual. You always had the luck of the devil!’

‘Damm you, Rachel!’ His harshly expressed denunciation brought her head up with a jerk, and she stared tautly into his angry brown eyes. ‘Have you any idea how bloody painful it was, dragging myself in here? Just so that you shouldn’t be embarrassed! And you stand there and tell me you don’t care! You—little hypocrite!’ He used a word then that Rachel would never care to repeat.

Rachel quivered, but she refused to be intimidated. She was alarmed to see the sallow cast of his features beneath their swarthy tan. He had not been lying when he said the effort of coming in here had drained him, and in spite of her angry bitterness, compassion stirred.

‘Don’t you think this conversation has gone far enough?’ she suggested quietly. ‘I’m sorry if I sound unfeeling, but I’ve just had a long journey, and I’m tired, and I didn’t know I’d have you to face at the end of it—’

‘You’re tired!’ he grated, bearing his weight on the stick as he moved nearer to her. ‘You’re sorry if you sound unfeeling!’ His mouth tightened ominously. ‘My God, do you think that’s sufficient recompense for the way you’re treating me?’

‘Jaime, listen—’

‘No, you listen! To me!’ He jerked her towards him as he spoke, bringing her close enough to be touching him, her thigh brushing his uninjured leg. ‘I didn’t come in here to quarrel with you, or to beg your sympathy. I came because I knew it was going to be difficult for you, for both of us, and I wanted to—smooth the passage.’ He made a sound of derision. ‘But you don’t want it that way, do you? You want to keep me at bay, to erect all those old grievances you’ve managed to perpetuate against me, to create a situation where it’s impossible for us to behave normally with one another.’ His eyes blazed angrily. ‘Oh, I know you refused to answer my calls, and you didn’t acknowledge any of my letters, but I thought—I really thought—we might be able to talk to one another here—’

‘Well, you were wrong.’ Rachel could not let that go unchallenged. For the first time, she tried to get away from him, but in spite of his injury he was still a lot stronger than she was, and by struggling with him she was only making the situation more volatile. ‘Jaime, we have nothing to say to one another,’ she exclaimed, then froze into immobility when he dragged her arm across his body and pressed her hand deliberately against his right leg.

‘Feel it!’ he commanded thickly. ‘I want you to feel it,’ and she averted her eyes quickly from the disturbing violence in his. But rather than promote another outburst, she flexed her fingers tentatively against the corded cloth. Beneath the dark material of his trousers she could detect the taut ribbing of the bandages, and sensed the heat of his flesh rising to meet hers. ‘Well?’ he muttered. ‘Can you feel it throbbing like a septic pulse? Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think we still had something to say!’

‘Jaime—’

Her use of his name was not a plea for remission, but when she tilted her face up to his, his tormented expression was almost her undoing. Dear God, she thought dizzily, no one could disrupt her carefully controlled emotions like Jaime could, and for an insane moment she wanted him to touch her. She swayed weakly, as her head swam, and her breasts pressed briefly against his chest, but then Liz’s voice, from the foot of the stairs, called irresistibly, ‘Rachel! Darling, are you coming?’ and cold reason replaced the heated urgings of her senses.

She did not have to ask Jaime to release her. He turned, as his mother spoke, his lean face taut and brooding. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t embarrass you!’ and walked with evident difficulty out of her room.

Downstairs, Robert had poured drinks, and Rachel accepted a cocktail gratefully, hoping the alcohol would calm her nerves. She had only had time to apply a little lip-gloss, and brush her hair, and she hoped that the Shards had not noticed her state of agitation.

‘I wonder whether Jaime intends to join us,’ Liz said at last, after Robert had asked Rachel about her journey, and received only monosyllabic replies. She gave the girl an apologetic look. ‘Dr Manning actually suggested that he should spend some time in bed, to allow his wound to heal, but you know what—I mean—well, Jaime wouldn’t listen.’ She offered an embarrassed smile. ‘Er—perhaps you ought to go and see what he’s doing, Rob,’ she finished appealingly. ‘We can’t keep Maisie waiting indefinitely.’

‘All right.’

Robert got up from his seat beside Rachel on the couch, and with a good-natured grimace left the room. In his absence, Liz offered Rachel another drink, and after she had refused said:

‘You’re not worrying about this, are you, darling?’ She sighed. ‘I know it can’t be easy for you, but after all, you and Jaime are civilised people. You can meet as old—acquaintances, can’t you?’

Rachel concentrated on the clear liquid in her glass. ‘If—if that’s what—Jaime wants.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it is.’ Liz was fervent. ‘I think he may be glad of the opportunity to—well, repair the damage. Oh, not for any personal reasons, but simply because he would like to heal the breach.’

Rachel could not answer her, not least because her own preconceived ideas were in shreds. She had thought she could handle Jaime, now she wasn’t so sure whether she could handle herself. And the knowledge that he still had the power to disturb her was terrifying.

‘He’s not coming, after all.’ Robert breezed back into the sitting room with a distinct air of relief. ‘He says he’d rather have supper in his room. He’s got a little pain, I think, and he doesn’t feel like making the effort to come downstairs.’

‘Oh!’ Liz bit her lip and looked uncertainly down into their guest’s taut face. ‘Well—but what about Rachel? Doesn’t he want to see her? To say hello?’

‘He asks to be excused this evening,’ Robert explained, as Rachel started to make her own protestations. ‘He says he’ll see her tomorrow—which I’m sure will be time enough for both of them,’ he concluded, with another grimace. ‘Now, shall we eat?’

The meal was served in the intimate dining room, that overlooked the cliffs at the back of the house. Tonight, of course, the curtains were drawn, and the only evidence of their proximity to the ocean was the persistent murmur of the sea on the rocks. The fog had reduced sound as well as visibility, and its muted cadences were low and resonant.

The food, as always, was excellent, but Rachel ate little, making the excuse that she had had a sandwich on the train. ‘I expect my appetite will improve with all the fresh air I’m going to get,’ she explained, breaking the protracted silence, and Liz smiled her understanding.

‘I think you need time to relax, and get used to us again,’ she declared, as Maisie served their coffee. ‘Don’t worry about anything. It will all work out, you’ll see.’

It was a relief, nevertheless, to escape to her room later. Closing her door, Rachel wished ardently that there had been a key, but there wasn’t, and she could hardly jam a chair under the handle. What possible explanation could she give Liz and Robert, if they discovered her in such a predicament? And besides, if Jaime was in pain, he was unlikely to come to her room again tonight.

Someone had turned on the electric blanket on her bed, and after a cursory wash and a cleaning of her teeth, Rachel unplugged it before climbing wearily between the heated sheets. It was deliciously warm and comfortable, and with the distant murmur of the sea from the other side of the house, she endeavoured to relax. But she couldn’t forget that the last time she had stayed at Clere Heights she had not slept alone, and the knowledge that Jaime was there, only a few yards away across the corridor, filled her with apprehension.

Eventually she slept, and although her sleep was shallow and punctuated with turbulent nightmares, she awakened feeling at least partially rested. Outside, the fog seemed to have given way to a brighter morning, and after watching the play of light between the heavy curtains at her windows for several minutes, she at last thrust back the covers and went to investigate for herself.

As she had suspected, the mist had lifted, and the view from her window encompassed the whole of the garden at the front of the house, and the village of Rothside in the distance. Although the trees were bare now, and the lawns had lost their lambent greenness, the thick hedges were dense and sturdy, with here and there a budding sprig of holly to provide a splash of colour.

The village lay below them, its roofs grey-tiled and solid, with the spire of the church just visible above a cluster of poplars. The road to the village ran beyond the barrier of rhododendrons, and wound its way down between fields, that Rachel remembered as being pastureland. Now, however, they had been ploughed, and left to turn their dark furrows to the blue sky, ready for sowing when the frosts of winter were over.

It was all much as she remembered it, she thought unwillingly, admitting that until now she had not realised how sharply it had remained in her memory. The house, and the village, and the tussocky cliffs sloping down to the river estuary, where the Roth spilled its waters into the North Sea.

She shivered suddenly, as the coolness of her room struck through the thin satin of her nightgown, and was starting back to warm herself beneath the covers when there was the lightest of taps at her door. She stiffened for a moment, and then, realising that Jaime would be unlikely to knock and announce himself, she opened her mouth to call: ‘Come in!’ when the handle turned and Maisie’s head appeared.

‘Oh, you’re up!’ she exclaimed, opening the door wider to reveal the small tea tray in her hands. ‘I thought you might still be sleeping, and Mrs Shard said not to disturb you if you were.’

Rachel relaxed. ‘I was just re-acquainting myself with everything,’ she admitted, taking the tray from her eagerly. ‘Hmm, I could just do with a cup of tea. Especially yours, Mrs Armstrong.’

‘Indeed!’ The housekeeper sounded sceptical, but she looked pleased, and Rachel perched on the side of the bed, setting the tray beside her.

‘Is—is everyone up?’ she asked, raising the wide-rimmed china cup to her lips. ‘What time is it? My watch seems to have stopped.’

‘It’s a quarter to nine,’ replied Maisie chattily, plainly disposed to linger. ‘Oughtn’t you to put on a dressing gown or something? You’ll be catching your death in that flimsy thing.’

Rachel smiled. ‘Well, I was beginning to feel a bit cold,’ she admitted. ‘But your tea has warmed me up beautifully.’

‘Mmm.’ Maisie pulled a wry face. ‘Well, so long as you’re sure.’ She twitched the fringe of the bedcover into position, then added: ‘Mrs Shard is downstairs, taking tea in the morning room, while she opens the mail, but Mr Shard isn’t up yet, and nor is Jaime.’

‘I see.’ Rachel caught her lower lip between her teeth.

‘That was a rare old business, wasn’t it?’ Maisie went on. ‘Jaime getting shot like that, and being brought home on crutches.’ She moved her shoulders expressively. ‘My, my, you should have seen his mother’s face when he limped into the house!’

‘I—I can imagine.’ Rachel’s blood quickened at the thought of it.

‘Yes—well, he came to the right place,’ Maisie opined firmly. ‘It’s only right that he should come home and be looked after by people who care about him.’

‘Of course.’ Rachel wondered if this was a subtle criticism of her.

‘Of course, Mrs Shard was worried about that, what with you coming and all,’ the housekeeper continued. ‘But I said to her, I did, this is Jaime’s home, I said, and Miss Williams won’t expect you to consider her feelings at a time like this.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Armstrong.’ Rachel put down her cup. ‘That was delicious.’ She moistened her lips. ‘Er—will you tell Mrs Shard I’ll be down in fifteen minutes?’

‘Yes, miss.’ The housekeeper picked up the tray again, and moved towards the door. ‘You—er—you haven’t spoken to Jaime yet, have you? He’s in his room, just along the hall, if you’d like to go and have a word with him. After you’re dressed, of course.’

Rachel kept her smile in place with difficulty. ‘I expect I’ll see him later,’ she declared stiffly, and the housekeeper looked disappointed.

‘I’m sure he’d like to see you, Miss Williams,’ she persisted. ‘And it is Christmas Eve, you know. The season of peace and good will.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Armstrong.’ Rachel’s dismissal was unmistakable this time, and with a little shrug the housekeeper left her, evidently feeling she had done what she could to repair the damage.

With her departure, Rachel rose purposefully to her feet again and padded into the bathroom. The night before she had paid little attention to her surroundings, but now she took time to admire the rose and cream tiles that circled the bath, and the fluted glass shower, with its pinewood door. The bath beckoned, but time dictated a shower, so she turned on the tap and stepped beneath its steaming cascade.

Her hair got wet, but she had brought a hand-dryer with her, and its smooth style was easily restored. Then, after examining the contents of her suitcase, she dressed in a pair of well-worn denim jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. Ankle boots completed the outfit, that acquired a simple elegance on her slim body, and applying only the lightest of make-ups, she left the room before she lost her nerve.

In the carpeted corridor outside, she hesitated for a moment, counting the doors to Jaime’s room. His door was half open, as if inviting her investigation, but she was not tempted. She doubted he had asked Mrs Armstrong to intercede on his behalf, but she had no intention of getting involved with him, whatever kind of pressure was brought to bear.

Liz greeted her cheerfully when Rachel entered the morning room a few moments later. As the housekeeper had said, Jaime’s mother was absorbed with her mail, and Rachel walked over to the long windows, gazing out in silent admiration at the greyflecked waters of the bay. Beyond a stone-pillared terrace, sloping lawns fell away almost to the cliff’s edge, and the seaweed-strewn teeth of the rocks below were just visible, constantly washed by the ever-moving tide. On summer days it was possible to swim from the rocks, and there were deep pools where one might find crabs and other shellfish, but although the sky was clear this morning, the sea would be cold as ice. Its distant thunder reached her, as it sucked at the base of the cliffs, the rocks providing a natural protection for the more porous ridges of limestone.

Turning back to the table, Rachel seated herself, and picked up the morning paper lying beside her. She flicked through it idly, until Maisie put in an appearance and asked her what she would like to eat.

‘We’ve got kidneys and sausages, or kippers, if you’d prefer them,’ the housekeeper suggested approvingly, but Rachel only shook her head.

‘I think—just toast and coffee,’ she conceded regretfully. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a good appetite.’

‘Then we’ll have to see if we can change that, Maisie, won’t we?’ Liz remarked, looking up from her bank statement. ‘I seem to remember you used to enjoy your food, Rachel.’

Rachel coloured then. ‘That was a long time ago, Liz.’

‘Not so long,’ Liz retorted firmly. ‘Didn’t you used to share Jaime’s bacon and eggs, the last time you were here?’

His name came more naturally, and although Liz looked slightly appalled afterwards, Rachel forced herself to respond without hesitation. ‘I was younger then,’ she sighed, pulling a wry face. ‘I have to watch my figure these days.’

‘Nonsense! Let us do that for you!’ remarked Robert’s amused tones, and Jaime’s father came into the room, broad and comfortable, in a navy wool dressing gown. He bent to kiss his wife’s cheek, then squeezed Rachel’s shoulders in passing, before settling himself in the seat beside her. ‘So—you’re looking more relaxed this morning. Did you sleep well?’

‘Very well, thank you.’ Rachel saw no reason to tell them of her restless night. ‘And thank you for your kind words. It was a pretty compliment.’

‘Nothing less than the truth, I do assure you,’ Robert replied gallantly, picking up one of her hands from the table and raising it to his lips. ‘Hmm, you smell delightful. What is it? Something to drive us poor males mad, I’m sure.’

Rachel giggled. ‘It’s Charlie perfume, actually,’ she admitted, as he let her draw her fingers away. ‘And you’re an old flatterer. I don’t know what Liz must think of you.’

‘Oh, I’m too old now to try and change him,’ remarked Liz dryly, but she and her husband exchanged a knowing smile.

‘You’ll never be too old,’ he retorted affectionately, then looked up at Maisie and gave her a wink. ‘I’ll have the same as usual, if you don’t mind,’ he told her. ‘Oh, and remind Andy I want to speak to him later, about those canes in the greenhouse.’

‘Yes, Mr Shard,’ Maisie nodded. ‘Shall I take Jaime’s breakfast upstairs, do you think? Or is he likely to be coming down?’

Liz looked uncomfortably at her husband, and he shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly. ‘I—think, perhaps, you ought to take it upstairs,’ Liz conceded at last. She glanced awkwardly at Rachel. ‘You don’t mind, do you, darling? He’s not being deliberately rude. It’s just—’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ Rachel averred, only too willing to put off the moment when she would have to face Jaime in his parents’ presence, and with a sigh of relief Liz gave Maisie her instructions.

‘It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?’ Rachel offered, as the housekeeper left the room. The last thing she wanted was to lose the rapport they had recovered earlier, and as if sharing her feelings, Jaime’s father took up her words.

‘Perhaps you’d like to walk down to the village with me later,’ he suggested. ‘I’ve got a bottle of rare old Scotch whisky for the vicar to sample, and I want to call at the garage for a couple of new plugs for the Rover.’

‘Rob!’ His wife looked slightly scandalised. ‘You’re not going to offer Mr Conway some of that stuff Jaime brought you, are you?’

‘Why not?’ Her husband was unrepentant. ‘It’s good whisky. And you know as well as I do that old Conway enjoys a wee dram!’

‘I know, but—’ Liz shook her head at Rachel. ‘What would you do with him? Anyway,’ she sighed, ‘if you get drummed out of the church, don’t blame me.’

‘They’d have to get me in there before they could drum me out!’ retorted Robert, with a grin. ‘Stop worrying, woman. Conway and I understand one another. And he plays a fair round of golf.’

Rachel smiled. She had always envied Jaime his parents. Her own mother had died in a car accident soon after she was born, and she had been brought up by her father’s older, unmarried sister, who had come to share her brother’s home on his wife’s death. When Aunt Catherine died, Rachel was already fifteen, and old enough to take over the running of her father’s house, and her own ambitions to do well at her ‘A’ levels and go on to university had been squashed by family circumstances. Not that her father had ever deliberately stood in her way. But she had known she could not leave him, and in consequence, she had left school at sixteen, and after a year at a secretarial college had taken a job in the typing pool of an independent television company. That was how she had met Jaime, how it had all started, and she determinedly turned her thoughts aside from the memories it evoked.

Liz had already had her breakfast; like Rachel, she had had only toast and coffee, and leaving Robert to his plate of bacon and kidneys, the two women adjourned to the living room. Like the morning room, this room also was at the back of the house, and Rachel seated herself on the wide banquette that circled the long jutting bay window.

‘Now—’ Liz pushed the letters her husband had not wanted to see away into the small bureau, and added several cards to the collection already hung about the mantelpiece. Unlike the sitting room, there was only an electric fire in here, but the efficient central heating system banished any sense of chill. ‘Let me see what I have to do.’

‘Can I help you?’ Rachel would be glad of the diversion. The last thing she wanted was to be sitting about aimlessly when Jaime eventually decided to put in an appearance.

‘Well, you could get me one or two things at the store, if you’re going down to the village with Rob,’ Liz considered. ‘He hates going in there, you know. It’s such a gossipy place. And if they’ve heard that Jaime is home, Mrs Dennis will be dying to ask questions.’

‘All right.’ Rachel doubted they would remember her, and even if they did, she was not perturbed. ‘You make out a list, and I’ll do your shopping for you. And afterwards I’m quite willing to help around the house.’

Liz smiled. ‘You’re a sweet girl, Rachel, and I’m very fond of you.’ She touched her cheek gently, with a probing finger. ‘I’m so sorry Jaime hasn’t even had the good manners to come and speak to you. And I shall give him a piece of my mind, when I have the opportunity.’

‘Oh, no, don’t! I mean—’ Rachel broke off in embarrassment. ‘Really, I prefer it this way, honestly. He—he and I have nothing to say.’

‘If you insist.’ But Liz still looked slightly doubtful. Then, dismissing her momentary solemnity, she gave another smile. ‘Andy is installing the tree in the hall this morning. Perhaps you could help me dress it before Robin and Nancy arrive.’

Rachel displayed an enthusiasm she was far from feeling, and Liz bustled away to see Maisie, to find out what was needed from the village. Left alone, Rachel gazed out pensively at the seagulls wheeling above the heaving waters, and wondered rather apprehensively how Jaime’s parents would introduce her to their daughter-in-law.

She was lost in thought when a voice broke into her reverie: ‘Well, hello, Miss Williams! It is Miss Williams, isn’t it? You know it’s so long since we met, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m confusing you with someone else.’

Rachel swung round to face her tormentor, and gazed up resentfully into Jaime’s dark mocking face. He was standing just inside the doorway, a sinister Machiavelli, in a black shirt and black denims, his dark hair smooth, and brushing his collar at the back.

‘I suppose you think you’re very amusing, don’t you?’ she demanded tautly. ‘If this is your idea of saving me embarrassment, then don’t bother.’

‘Ah, but that was last night,’ remarked Jaime annoyingly, using his stick to walk heavily across the carpet. ‘And you turned me down. So you can hardly blame me if I try to protect my own interests.’

‘Didn’t you always?’ retorted Rachel angrily, turning back to her contemplation of the view, then stiffened instinctively when he approached the window seat and lowered himself down on to the banquette beside her.

‘What a vindictive tongue you have, Grandma,’ he taunted, glancing over his shoulder to see where she was looking. ‘Reliving the halcyon days of the past?’ He propped his stick against the wall. ‘I seem to remember we spent one memorable afternoon down there.’

‘I don’t recall it.’ Rachel’s mouth compressed. Then: ‘I thought you were supposed to be resting. Mrs Armstrong was going to serve you breakfast upstairs.’

‘And so she did,’ said Jaime carelessly. ‘Only I didn’t feel particularly hungry, and naturally I felt honour bound to come and offer you felicitations.’

‘You needn’t have bothered!’

‘No. But my parents don’t know that, do they?’

‘I’m surprised you care.’ Rachel was behaving badly, she knew, but she was overwhelmingly aware of his thigh only inches away from hers on the cushioned seat, and the muscled length of his legs, splayed carelessly beside her. ‘In any case, I—I’m going out soon. Your father and I are—are walking down to the village. So you could have saved yourself the trouble.’

‘Could I?’

He turned his head to look at her, and the blood rushed helplessly into her face. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her cheek, and sensed the intent scrutiny from between his long dark lashes. They were the only incongruous feature of an otherwise profoundly masculine visage, and she remembered teasing him about them, and stroking her finger over their curling softness …

‘Jaime, please—’

The intenseness of her tone was a source of irritation to her, but she couldn’t help it. He knew exactly what he was doing, taunting her like this, and while her brain insisted that it shouldn’t matter to her how he behaved, her senses responded in a totally different way. He had always had this effect on her, right from the very beginning, and it was this, as much as anything, that terrified her now.

‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked, and she hated him for his arrogance. ‘Why are you trembling? Do I threaten that sterile little world you’ve built around yourself?’ His lips twisted. ‘Or do I remind you of the fun we used to have, before you became so bloody sanctimonious?’

‘Before I discovered you were married, you mean?’ Rachel choked, getting abruptly to her feet, needing the self-assurance that came from being able, physically at least, to look down at him.

‘Okay.’ Jaime shrugged his shoulders indifferently, leaning back against the window with an indolence that both disturbed and infuriated her. ‘So you’ve said it. It’s what you’ve been wanting to say ever since you got here. Well, now I’ve given you the opportunity.’

‘You don’t care, do you?’ Rachel was incensed.

‘Was I supposed to?’ Jaime’s eyes were hard.

‘Don’t you care about—about anything but your own—your own—sexual gratification?’

Jaime’s mouth assumed a mocking tilt. ‘That’s a good old-fashioned way of describing it, I guess.’ One dark brow quirked upward. ‘But I have to say you seemed to enjoy it, too.’

‘You—you—’

‘Cad?’ Jaime pressed his weight down on the stick and got to his feet beside her, immediately reducing her advantage. ‘That’s another good old-fashioned expression. As you seem to be hooked on out-of-date attitudes.’

Rachel clenched her fists. ‘You—swine!’

‘Better.’ Jaime’s smile was malicious. ‘There may be hope for you yet. If you allowed a little more of the real Rachel Williams to emerge, we might find ourselves with a three-dimensional person again, instead of a cardboard cut-out.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this—’

‘Why? Am I getting too close to the truth?’

The sound of footsteps approaching across the hall stilled any response Rachel might have cared to make, and by the time Liz entered the room she had put the width of the hearth between her and Jaime, and was apparently engrossed in reading the cards on the mantelshelf.

‘Oh, you two have met, have you?’

Liz’s reaction was one of relief, although she glanced from her son to Rachel and back to her son again, with a doubtful expression marring her attractively ageing features.

‘We’ve been having a most interesting conversation,’ Jaime remarked, shifting his weight with evident discomfort, and his mother shook her head impatiently, indicating the seat behind him.

‘Do sit down,’ she exclaimed, anxiety colouring her tone. ‘You really should take more rest, Jaime. Dr Manning says it takes time for flesh to knit together.’

Jaime pulled a wry face, but he did sink down on to the window seat again with some relief, and glancing in his direction, Rachel knew a pang of guilt at her own obduracy. She had not even asked him how he was feeling, and although she despised herself for feeling that way, she knew she was still concerned about him.

‘So,’ Liz forced a lightness she was evidently far from feeling, ‘has Rachel told you about her promotion, Jaime? She’s an assistant editor now, isn’t that exciting? Who knows, she may produce her own programmes one day.’

‘I hardly think so,’ murmured Rachel deprecatingly, and Jaime’s cynical eyes probed her embarrassment.

‘She doesn’t have the right disposition,’ he remarked, addressing his mother, but evidently speaking for Rachel’s benefit. ‘Her ideals are too rigid. She doesn’t move with the times. Producers have to be modern in outlook, malleable in intent, they have to feel for their subject, and make allowances for human error. And also they need to be capable of distinguishing between truth and fabrication.’

‘And be sexually aware!’ exclaimed Rachel, unable to prevent the bitter retort, and Jaime inclined his head mockingly.

‘That, too, of course,’ he drawled, with heavy sarcasm, and Rachel longed to wipe the smug expression from his face.

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