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‘Oh, it’s so beautiful,’ Minella breathed. ‘Who lives here?’

‘I do,’ said Benita.

Vasco was still angry for some reason and he jumped out of the car, slamming the door. But when he looked at Minella his expression softened and he gestured with his hands, his shoulders lifting with resignation.

‘I am not happy to leave you here,’ he said, ‘but I will carry you in, and then I must return to work.’

She tossed the blanket aside and tested her legs. ‘I think I’d rather walk,’ she said.

She was beginning to feel like a parcel being dumped first one place, then another, and she made a determined effort to climb out of the car and stand on the uneven path.

‘As you wish,’ said Vasco, a little stiffly. ‘I shall come to see you as soon as I think it is ... convenient. Goodbye.’

Benita addressed him rapidly in Portuguese and he glanced at the cottage with a belligerent shake of his head before making off at an angle from the road. Benita sighed, gave the taxi driver some money, and turned to Minella.

‘He is a strange boy sometimes,’ she said. ‘I do not understand him.’

Minella thought so, too, but the sun was beating down on her head and her eyes didn’t feel up to coping with the glare much longer, so she took a few tentative steps and was glad to find her legs returning to normal. It was a relief to reach the door.

Inside it was cool. A fan revolved in the ceiling, and plain wooden furniture had an uncluttered look on the tiled floor where bright tapestry rugs were scattered. The roof extended out like a canopy from the main room, keeping out the sun and forming a patio with a glorious view of the lake. Somehow she wouldn’t have expected Benita to live in such a place.

‘Now,’ she said, making Minella sit in the most comfortable chair, ‘I will make coffee, and then you go to bed. Tomorrow you will be better, yes?’

‘Yes,’ said Minella, very definitely. ‘And I don’t want to go to bed.’

Benita planted her feet in the middle of one of the rugs and put her hands on her hips. The doctor Henrique, he says you are to sleep today, and I must see that you do. Soon I will take you to the bedroom.’ Alone for several minutes, Minella looked round uneasily. She felt on edge. There was something wrong somewhere, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Too tidy, perhaps. She felt it even more when she went into the bedroom, yet it was a light, attractive room overlooking the garden and had a fan to cool the air. The roughcast walls were dramatically white, but a lavishly embroidered cover on the bed softened the starkness otherwise relieved only by plain burnt-orange curtains. On the wall opposite the bed there was a painting of a weird construction that looked like a cross between a scarecrow and a bunch of bananas which she studied for a moment, then blinked and turned away. It was not the type of room Benita would use. She was sure of that, even on such short acquaintance. There was a well-ordered atmosphere about it that repelled her slightly, and she wondered whether she would have still felt the same if Vasco hadn’t behaved so oddly when the taxi brought them here.

‘I have brought you my nightgown,’ Benita was saying. ‘I will take your clothes and wash them while you sleep, yes?’

Thank you,’ said Minella. She wouldn’t have dared to disobey. ‘But could I wash first, please? I seem to smell of salt water.-’

‘Of course, of course.’

A warm bath did more than anything to restore her morale, though Benita wouldn’t allow her to linger in it. The nightdress was a sleeveless, voluminous cotton which would have fitted two as diminutive as Minella, but it smelled as fresh as the summer air, and the feel of it against her skin was soothing after the salt-caked underwear she had discarded. The sheets on the bed were equally welcoming and she had to admit that all she wanted to do was lie between them and let the rest of the world take care of itself for a little while longer. In no time at all she was sleeping like a baby.

It was not really a sound that woke her. She had come to the surface of sleep where consciousness is only a breath away, and she was vaguely aware that someone different had come into the room. She could feel a pair of eyes gazing upon her with more than casual concern, boring into her, disturbing her greatly even before she was properly awake. Without daring to look she knew exactly who was standing over her, and her heart lurched.

‘Who the hell brought you here when I absolutely forbade it?’ came the furious demand.

It was the Englishman, Sam Stafford.

Minella sat up in the bed, clutching the sheet firmly beneath her chin because Benita’s nightdress wouldn’t stay on her shoulders. There wasn’t a sound in the house except for the quiet whirring of the fan above which ruffled her red-brown hair and made it flick over her forehead. Her brown eyes were wide with amazement and she licked her lips.

‘I’m sorry—Benita said she lived here.’

‘She does, but she isn’t here now,’ said Sam, his voice clipped with disapproval. ‘I’ve been out all day and I came back expecting a meal to be ready. Just wait till I get my hands on that woman!’

His anger sent a shiver of apprehension through Minella.

‘Is she your wife?’ she ventured to ask. She couldn’t picture him married to anyone of Benita’s proportions, but you never could tell. Why would he be living on a remote island if it wasn’t because he was married to one of the inhabitants?

‘No, she is
not
my wife,’ he said adamantly. ‘I don’t have a wife. Never have had, and never will.’

Minella was blessed with a quick sense of humour which sometimes got her into trouble, and it caught up with her now so that she had to pull the sheet up even higher to hide the smile that threatened to turn into a giggle.

‘What a rash statement!’ she said. ‘It doesn’t sound to me as if anyone would want you anyway.’

She ought not to have spoken like that to someone she had only just met, but she couldn’t help it. His arrogance surprised her, but certainly didn’t impress her, and she made up her mind not to stay a moment longer than necessary where she wasn’t welcome. She would leave at the first opportunity.

But he was giving the matter thought, and something that resembled an answering smile hovered at the comers of his lips.

‘You could be right at that,’ he agreed. ‘The trouble is I’ve lived alone too long. Benita is my housekeeper. She has her own quarters at the back of the house.’ He paused, and looked at her critically. ‘The important thing now, though, is what are we going to do about you?’

‘I’m better,’ said Minella. ‘If you like
I'll
cook you a meal. I’m quite a good cook.’

‘You will do no such thing!’ The colour which had returned to her cheeks after resting ebbed away when she made a hurried move to get up. ‘You will stay where you are and behave yourself, then if you’re stronger tomorrow we’ll see what other arrangements can be made. I hope you’re not worried about your reputation.’

‘Why should I be?’

The light was fading quickly and she realised it was evening already. The day had passed unnoticed except for the short periods of wakefulness that had been like cameos set apart from time. Sam Stafford lit a lamp beside the bed which cast shadows.

‘It looks like you’ll be spending the night alone with me. Benita won’t come back now—she doesn’t like the dark.’ He stood up straight and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Wretched woman!’

‘You mustn’t talk about her like that,’ Minella protested. ‘She was very kind to me.’

‘Of course she was. It would amuse her greatly to dump a young girl in my bed and then run off rather than face me.’

‘
Your
bed!’

‘That’s right. It’s only a small cottage.’

Minella wriggled her toes, feeling vastly uncomfortable at the discovery, but there was nothing she could do to alter the situation. If anyone had told her a few days ago that she would find herself in an isolated cottage, alone with a man she didn’t know, she would have been horrified, but it had happened, and somehow she wasn’t frightened.

All the same, it gave her a peculiar prickly feeling to know she was occupying the bed in which he normally slept.

‘Where will
you
spend the night?’ she asked, with only a faint tremor in her voice.

His smile was cynical. ‘There’s a sun-bed on the patio. But don’t worry, I’m kind to children and animals and I’ve never attacked anybody yet.’

He turned to leave, and as he did so Minella picked up a hairbrush from the bedside table and threw it at him, missing his head by a fraction of an inch.

‘I’m
not
a child!’ she yelled, ‘So please don’t treat me like one!’

He stopped. His back was as straight as a knife, the atmosphere as sharp, and when he looked at her sparks were flying. She didn’t know what madness had prompted her to do such a silly thing. His words hadn’t really merited it, but it was the insult behind them that had infuriated her, as if she was not worth bothering about.

‘Then don’t ever do such a childish thing again.’ He bent down and retrieved the brush, tapping the bristles against his palm. ‘If you weren’t convalescing I’d have no compunction about putting you across my knee and tanning your backside with it!’

She was not subdued. His reaction made her tingle and she would have relished a fight, but she was a guest in his house, albeit an unwanted one, and it would have been impolite.

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I didn’t intend to hit you with it, but I hate being spoken to as if I’m about fourteen.’

He sat on the edge of the bed, weighing her up thoroughly with smoky blue eyes before saying anything else. Then: ‘Would you prefer me to treat you like the woman you very obviously are?’

His gaze had dropped downwards from her face and she was suddenly aware that when she had thrown the brush the sheet had slipped, and so had Benita’s nightdress, leaving one shoulder bare and her breasts clearly visible through the flimsy material. She gasped and slid hurriedly down the bed until only those big brown eyes showed above the sheet.

He laughed, a loud, warm, humorous laugh that filled the room. Then he leaned over and put his hands on the bed each side of her body, pinioning her down. Her heart began to race. He was near enough for her to see a pulse throbbing in his throat, and a mat of brown hair curled at the open neck of his shirt. His lips curved into a smile which caused singing in her ears and she was so hot it seemed the ceiling fan must have been switched off, but she couldn’t move. She had never felt such feverish excitement leap in her body before, and if he had bent his head further and kissed her, as she feared he might do, she would have responded to him without a doubt. He was hypnotising her.

‘No,’ she murmured, in answer to a question asked an age ago and lost somewhere amidst a host of unspoken questions which went much deeper. ‘I’d just like to be left alone, please.’

She couldn’t begin to analyse the way she felt. Powerful physical attraction such as this was new to her, and she felt vaguely ashamed. Sam Stafford must never know what havoc he had created in these moments of weakness. Tomorrow he wouldn’t have this awful effect on her.

‘How old are you, Sparrow?’ he asked.

‘Twenty.’

He eased himself back, allowing her to breathe again.

‘And I’m thirty-five, so you see to me you’re still very young.’

‘Such a great age,’ she murmured, with suitable awe, and the relief at being released from his sorcery was so great she grinned. ‘By the way, my name is Minella.'

'Minella. That’s pretty.’ With his index finger he traced a line from the dimple in her cheek to the tip of her chin, and she quivered. ‘But I shall still call you Sparrow.’

‘Not for long. Tomorrow you can have your bed back.'

'I intend to. I shall take you back to Henrique and he can find other lodgings for you until arrangements can be made for you to fly home. Meanwhile you’ll have to put up with my cooking.’

He left her sitting up in bed, a protest on her lips which she knew it was no use voicing. There was a lot she wanted to ask him. Whether he had heard any news of the race and the yachts caught up in the storm. Whether there had been any radio contact, or enquiries about her. She would have to wait until later, but impatience made her restless and she fidgeted with the pillow and crumpled the sheet until she could bear it no longer. Putting her feet to the ground with care, she stood up experimentally and finding herself quite steady she wound the sheet round her like a sarong before padding out in search of the kitchen.

‘Mr Stafford, I’m sorry, but I can’t stay in bed. I never could, even when I was little.’

‘And you’re not much bigger now.’ He turned half round, as if he had been expecting her. A large butcher’s apron covered the front of him and a delicious smell of cooking wafted through the house. She was very hungry. ‘You’d better call me Sam. No one knows me by any other name round here. And if you’re staying up for dinner put some clothes on. You’ll put me off eating.’

‘I haven’t got any clothes,’ she said angrily. ‘Benita took them away to wash.’

He stirred the contents of a cooking pot on the stove and tasted a little on the tip of a spoon like every good chef.

‘Go back to the bedroom, then,’ he commanded.

‘I’m not going to eat my dinner in bed!’

‘If you argue any more you won’t get any. Now be a good girl and do as I say. In a minute I’ll bring you something to wear.’

He was impossible! A bit of civility would go a long way and she wanted to tell him so, but there was no point in starting a slanging match, and the food smelled much too good to risk missing. Her legs felt wobbly again and she held on to the wall as she went back along the passage that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house. Why was Sam so impatient with her? He could at least make an effort to be pleasant, even if she had been foisted on him unexpectedly. It wasn’t as if she was likely to make a habit of dropping in for the evening.