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quietly alert, and where someone had hit him by the mouth there was a shadow that was

darker than the short growth of beard. 'What about you?'

He brushed the enquiry aside impatiently, exploring the bump past the edge of her

hairline. 'Don't worry about me.'

She hadn't foreseen the end of her fuse, but Francis had just lit it. The inside of her head

exploded. 'Fine, that's great to know for the next time, isn't it? I'll know better than to

worry, won't I? It's rather nice to know what to expect, if you're going to throw punches

like there's no tomorrow! Whatever possessed you?'

He considered her steadily, the evidence of strain and the remnant of fear still dilating

her grey eyes, the shock and the upset she was bitterly trying to control. He slid his

hands to her neck and began to massage where the tendons stood against the thin

delicate skin, and he said with quiet simplicity, 'The man pushed you down. It made me

mad. I lost my temper, when the first sight of trouble in places like that can make them

flare like tinderboxes. I didn't think fast enough to the consequences. No excuses.'

Her eyes wavered and fell at the unexpected scope of his honesty, and with a sigh the

tension flowed out of her. 'That man was hellbent on destruction. There was simply no

reasoning with him, so I don't really think you could have stopped it from happening,'

she muttered. 'I shouldn't have yelled at you. It's just that—you really scared me,

Francis.'

'I
scared
you?'
With a groan he hauled her against his chest, holding her fiercely and

shaking his head over her, for all the world as if she were some newfound precious chick

and he the clucking hen. 'You frightened the daylights out of me! When I got outside and

found you weren't there, I was frantic to get back inside! How did you get past me?'

'I didn't,' she told him, her voice muffled against his chest. She abandoned pretence and

common sense and buried her face in the vital comfort. 'I got pushed out of a side exit

and came up behind you.'

A heavy sigh shook his chest. With one hand he reached for the interior light and flicked

it off. When Kirstie glanced up, Francis was studying the street for signs of disturbance,

scenting the air like a hound. At her movement he brought one hand up and stroked her

hair absently. 'We should go,' he said finally. 'It isn't safe here. I'll take you back to my

place.'

She stirred at that suggestion, disturbed at the thought of his elegant empty apartment.

'No,' she replied slowly, bringing her wristwatch up. 'It's late. You'd better take me home

instead.'

His green eyes came back to her speculatively. 'You need an ice-pack for your sore

cheek.'

She couldn't look at him. 'I can fix one at home.'

'We still haven't really talked.'

'I know.' She pushed herself upright and his arms fell away. 'But I—I'm too tired to face

it tonight.'

There was a little silence that went on too long. She turned, stared down the length of

the darkened pavement.

'I'll call you next week.'

'Fine. That's fine.'

He tried to see her expression, wouldn't leave it alone. 'You will come?'

Kirstie made a gesture which felt so awkward that she tucked her arm close to her side

right afterwards. 'I don't know why.'

'Don't you?' he asked oddly, and she sent a furtive sideways glance at his impassive face.

With an unsmiling shrug, he reached forward and started the engine.

The trip back to Montclair was silent. Kirstie rode with her head back on the rest,

lethargic after the unexpected stresses of the evening. Francis was preoccupied,

concentrating on the road with a frown. He seemed so thoroughly self-contained as to be

unapproachable, and she wondered if she should say something and, if so, what it would

be.

There were so many things she wanted to ask, but it wasn't the time or the place, and she

certainly didn't have the right. When they turned on to her street and pulled up by the

house, she looked at him across the widening gulf between them and knew it was

insurmountable.

'I'll call you,' he said. She gave a little nod, while wondering if he would. And at the last

he reached forward and touched her sore cheek with a gentleness that brought a wet

sheen to her eyes.

She knew she couldn't reply without making an utter fool of herself, so instead she just

turned and got out of the car. All her thoughts were behind her with the man in the silver

BMW that purred down the street into the night. That was why she never saw the twitch

of a curtain at the lit front window, or the shadow of the woman that moved away.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THERE was no sign of Louise when Kirstie let herself quietly into the house. She breathed

a silent word of thanks, negotiated her way around the squeaky third stair from the top

of the staircase and locked herself in the bathroom.

A quick study of her reflection assured her that, though her cheek was a bit swollen and

red, it wouldn't necessarily bruise. She stripped off all her clothing, turned on the shower

and stepped into it with a long-drawn-out sigh.

The hot, steamy water jetted down on her slim body, washing away all the accumulated

aches and tension. After working overtime for most of the evening, her numb mind

refused to work any more, and like an automaton she soaped all over, rinsed, and dried

off.

With the towel wrapped around her sarong-fashion, she slipped out of the bathroom and

into her bedroom, sparing a quick glance at Louise's closed door. It looked as if at least

some measure of luck was with her. She could afford to relax and not worry about what

tomorrow would bring. Kirstie drew an oversized nightshirt over her damp body and,

without even bothering to comb her tangled hair, she fell into bed and slept like the

dead.

The morning came far too early. Kirstie surfaced out of a murky dream to the sound of

someone knocking on her bedroom door. She rolled over, stretched and groaned at the

protest of stiff muscles. Her cheek where it pressed into her pillow was tender. So too

was the top of her head when she ran her fingers through her hair.

'What do you want?' she croaked.

'Good morning!' called Louise cheerily. 'I'm cooking breakfast and wanted to know how

many eggs you could eat!'

'None!' The thought of food made her stomach distinctly unhappy, and she huddled into

a ball under her blankets. 'I don't want any breakfast. Thanks anyway.'

'Oh, come on, Kirstie! I've already got the bacon cooking, and coffee made. You'll wake

up after you've had a cup. I'll go get you one.'

For whatever reason, Louise was not about to let her pretend that Saturday hadn't come

and, lacking the strength for any more shouted arguments, Kirstie gave in. She cleared

her throat and called out resignedly, 'No, don't bother. I'll be downstairs in a few

minutes.'

'Good,' said Louise with, satisfaction. 'See you then.'

Having committed herself, Kirstie swung her feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the

bed, yawning. She glanced at her clock and found to her horror that it was just eight-

thirty in the morning.

Then, as she shook off the last remnants of sleep, she sat still under the first wave of

cold, clear thought. What in the world was Louise doing up at eight-thirty? Her sister

was a habitual late riser on the weekends, and for that reason alone rarely cooked

breakfast as it was usually lunchtime before she was hungry. Kirstie went to wash her

face and then pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, to the tune of alarm tells ringing caution

in her head.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Kirstie found Louise humming under her breath as she

buttered a piece of toast. The older woman looked enchanting wrapped in a pale pink

dressing-gown with a ruffled collar, her golden curls tumbling from a carelessly used

rubber band. 'Coffee coming up in a moment,' she said, as Kirstie eased into a chair at

the table. Louise turned and briskly set the toast in front of her,, along with an empty

mug into which she poured the steaming aromatic brew.

'Thanks,' muttered Kirstie with a sarcasm she was sure her sister wouldn't catch. She

pushed away her toast and took her mug to sip at it delicately.

Louise brought to the table a plate full of bacon and scrambled eggs and took the seat

opposite her. 'It's a beautiful morning,' she said. 'Have you seen it?'

Kirstie shook her head. 'No, I was too busy sleeping.'

'Ah,' nodded her sister. She took a bite of toast and watched Kirstie sharply. 'Late night,

was it?'

Kirstie almost smiled. So that was the reason for the breakfast and expansive mood.

Louise was curious about where she was last night and wanted to pump her for

information. 'Something like that,' she agreed.

'Did you go out all by yourself?'

The question seemed innocuous enough, but Kirstie was too wise to fall into that trap,

and leaving her car in the driveway was a clear indicator otherwise. She ignored the

question and asked one of her own. 'Were you in last night? I didn't think to check.'

There was a silence. 'Yes,' replied her sister.

Kirstie affected remorse. 'If we'd known, you could have come out with us. I went into

New York with a friend of a friend. We didn't do anything exciting, just ended up at the

cinema.'

Louise stabbed another piece of egg without looking up. 'Do I know the man?'

'I'm not sure you do,' replied Kirstie quietly.

Louise's lips thinned into a humourless smile, her blue eyes cold. 'Gallivanting around

New York with a mystery man in tow,' she said lightly. 'If you're not careful, you could

make me jealous.'

So she suspected, but didn't know for sure. Having Louise as an enemy was a startling

and sobering thought. Kirstie raised her eyebrows and replied, just as lightly, 'I stand

warned.'

By Wednesday Francis still hadn't called, which was no more than she had expected.

Kirstie kept very busy, very reasonable, and struggled with her temper which was

unaccountably volatile. The tourist business was running strong throughout the summer

months. She patiently ferried a rich Texan and his beautiful, spoiled wife around the

New York sights and at the end of the day walked into the central offices of Philips

Aviation with a fifty-dollar tip tucked in the back pocket of her jeans.

'How did it go?' asked Paul when she reported back at his office.

'Well enough, I suppose,' sighed Kirstie, as she rubbed at her tired eyes.

Her older brother looked nothing like his blond siblings, favouring their father's side of

the family with straight brown hair, pleasant if unremarkable features and a steady,

unimaginative disposition. He leaned back in his chair and frowned. 'Were they happy

with the tour?'

'I think so, at least as happy as that pair will ever be. They quarrelled most of the time. I

have the distinct impression that I was given conscience money at the end,' she told him

with a grimace. 'I'm through for the day, so I might as well go home.'

'Fine. See you tomorrow.' Then, as Kirstie turned to leave, Paul said suddenly, 'Wait a

minute. There's a message for you somewhere. I think I have it here on my desk.'

Kirstie froze and inwardly cursed the sudden hammering of her heart. She watched as

her brother seemed to take an inordinate amount of time searching through his pile of

papers, to emerge with a crumpled slip which he held out to her. She snatched at it and

looked at the telephone number written in Paul's large clear script. 'Is that all? Didn't he

leave a message?'

'He?' repeated Paul. 'It wasn't a man, it was a woman. Did I forget to write her name

down? Helen, I think it was.'

Just as she cursed her wild excitement, so she swore at the leaden sense of

disappointment that dragged her mood into depression. Kirstie kept her gaze on the

paper for a long moment until she got herself under control, then said flatly, 'I don't

know any Helen.'

'Well, give her a call anyway before you leave. It's probably business.'

Kirstie found that the office that Paul's secretary used was empty, so she dialled for an

outside line and punched in the number on the slip. After getting an engaged signal on

three tries, she gave up, stuffed the number in her pocket and left for home.

That evening she curled into a ball on the couch and watched a weepy movie while

eating through the contents of a box of chocolates. Louise breezed out of the house at

around seven o'clock, so she knew she could enjoy at least a few hours of solitary peace.

She told herself she'd had a good day. She tried to feel pleased at the prospect of

spending her fifty dollars. She had just decided to skip the end of the movie and go to

bed when the phone in the kitchen shrilled.

Kirstie fell off the couch and ran to answer it. 'Hello?' she said breathlessly before she

had the receiver to her ear.

'Did I catch you at a bad time?' murmured familiar deep tones.

Francis. She caught her breath, found her voice and lied, 'No, I—was just walking