THE QUESTING HEART

Elizabeth Ashton

"Aren't you going to kiss me good night?"

Clare blurted out the words awkwardly. His first reaction of surprise was not entirely flattering.

Clare's lifelong ambition was to write a romantic novel--but how could she when she had absolutely no experience of love or romance? Then she met Christopher Raines, a famous, sophisticated playwright, romantic and experienced.

Suddenly her heart began to pound in panic. What on earth had made her think she could handle the situation her words had provoked!

CHAPTER ONE

ON Tuesdays and Fridays Monica Cullingford was 'at home' in the evenings. On Wednesdays she was 'at home' in the afternoons. The afternoon reception was for ladies, many of them her fans, for even on the Riviera her books were not unknown, the evening ones were accepted as being for men only. Monica called them her soirees and considered herself to be a modern Madame de Stael or similar famous literary hostess.

When Clare Underwood was engaged as secretary by this popular author of romantic fiction, she was told that her evenings would be free bar these two, when she would be expected to be on duty, 'To pass things round and make yourself useful.' Clare was thrilled, hoping to meet some famous people, but she was sadly disappointed by the actuality. For the motley collection of gentlemen who were regular guests at these gatherings, drawn if truth were told more by the lavish supply of free drinks and free smokes than Monica's company, were seedy hangers-on, failures and aspirants to fame without much hope of success. Occasionally someone distinguished was inveigled into putting in an appearance, but he never came again. All Monica expected in return for her hospitality was rapt attention while she discoursed, and plenty of flattery. Clare was relegated to the background, to superintend the supply of refreshment and collect and replace dirty glasses with clean ones.

Clare called the regulars, who turned up unfailingly twice a week, Monica's tame tabbies. They were unknown writers and poets, who were unlikely ever to be discovered. There was the Ginger Tabby, a gaunt Englishman, Eustace Forbes, who was paid an allowance by a wealthy family to stay abroad as he was something of an embarrassment to it. He had a head of flaming hair and a red beard, and fancied he resembled the late George Bernard Shaw. Unfortunately the plays he wrote were far from Shavian quality. There was the Grey Tabby, a sleek Frenchman with polished manners and grey hair, a Monsieur Marcel Durand, who seemed fairly affluent though the source of his income was questionable. The Starved Tabby was a thin hollow-eyed poet who subsisted no one knew how, and several others, all alike in their fawning approach to their hostess and their greed for the comforts she provided; also like the cats to which Clare likened them, they were all capable of scratching if their vanity was punctured. They paid Clare very little attention, and for that she was grateful, as she disliked them all intensely. Monica had indicated that she wished her secretary to appear inconspicuous, she did not want a female rival, and Clare dressed accordingly in plain unbecoming evening dresses, either grey or brown, with V necks and three-quarter sleeves; her brown hair drawn back from her wide low brow and no trace of makeup.

The job had its compensations; she was not hard- worked; Monica dictated several thousand words each morning, which Clare transcribed in the afternoons, and she did not work at all at weekends. She left her correspondence to Clare, but there was not a great deal of it, so that Clare had plenty of time for her own pursuits. What had tempted her to apply for the position was its locale. Monica rented a villa between Monte Carlo and Nice on the French Riviera, and after the Manchester suburb where she had been born and bred, Clare felt she was in paradise. The Mediterranean Sea, the sub-tropical vegetation, the glamour of nearby Monaco delighted her. This environment had figured as a background in the bulk of Monica's torrid books. Clare had her own ambitions in this direction. Monica's novels were not literary, she had a facile style and a gift for dialogue. Clare saw no reason why she should not be able to imitate her, and in the privacy of her bedroom her own book was taking shape, but she was under one great disadvantage. Love with a capital L was the main ingredient of this sort of literature, and Clare had had no experience of the great emotion. Brought up in a household where money was scarce and making a living the main preoccupation, she had gone out to work as an office girl as soon as she could leave school, and had taken a commercial course in the evenings as a means of improving her position. At home, her mother, who was not strong, expected her to help with the chores. Eventually she graduated to being a stenographer, then, weary of her grim and grimy surroundings, had sought for a more interesting occupation. She was twenty when she landed the job with Monica in answer to an advertisement she had seen in the paper and she could hardly believe her good luck when she got it. That Monica had engaged her from among a host of applicants because she appeared quiet, plain and insignificant had not occurred to her. Monica did not want any competition from a glamorous secretary, and most of the other girls had made the mistake of dressing and making up too extravagantly.

Clare had felt some qualms about leaving her parents as she was their only child, and her mother loudly bewailed what she termed her selfishness, but her father spoke up for her.

'Nay, mother, let the lass go,' he told his wife. 'She's a good girl and deserves some reward for all her hard work. She'll come back when she's had enough of foreign parts.'

So Clare went to the Riviera, which she had often read about and never hoped to see.

Monica Cullingford was a big handsome woman on the wrong side of forty, who dressed like a teenager in the belief that she looked twenty. She was good-natured, indolent and very vain, both of her appearance and her achievements. The latter were not negligible—fifty-odd novels with a wide circulation. She had been married, but nobody knew what had become of her husband. Unkind people said he had run away to avoid being smothered by her overwhelming femininity. Clare often wondered how much of the rapture she described so vividly in her books she had actually experienced. At least she had had a man, while Clare had always been working too hard, and was too unprepossessing to have attracted even passing notice. This fact worried her—not that she particularly desired masculine attention, she had rather a contempt for boys of her own age and considered she was too practical to crave for romance, but if she were to succeed as a romantic writer she felt she must somehow or other acquire first-hand knowledge of her subject. None of the tabbies were promising material and they knew better than to glance in Clare's direction. They sat in a charmed circle around Monica, who reclined on a sofa, on the armchairs and couches that were arranged to face her. The table with the drinks and sandwiches was in an alcove behind them, and that was Clare's station. Occasionally she circulated to supply their needs, but she did not speak to them. Monsieur Durand had once tried to help her, coming to the table and paying her some compliments, but Monica soon checked that.

'Do not leave your chair, mon ami, Clare will attend to your requirements. That's what she's here for.'

He decided Clare must be some sort of superior maid.

Occasionally someone brought a younger and more interesting-looking man, but he did not stop long. The tabbies might endure Monica's perorations for what they got out of her, but they were not amusing for a man of spirit.

Came the night of the Tiger. Pursuing her simile of cats, Clare called him that, and the description was not farfetched, for there was something feline about Christopher Raines in his swift supple movements, and he had tiger colouring, dark hair, brown skin and peculiar cat's eyes, a mingling of gold and green, which might be termed hazel except that they glowed amber when he was excited. Above average height, lean and lithe, he had a habit of prowling about the room he was in while he was talking, only Monica's cluttered Salon, as she liked to call it, had not much space for prowling. Eustace Forbes introduced him.

'Chris is a colleague of mine, Madame Monique'—they all called her that. 'Another playwright searching for material. This lovely coast promotes inspiration, and so, dear lady, do you.'

Chris stared with undisguised astonishment at his hostess. It was a warm evening in late May, and Monica was wearing a white dress appliqued with a herbaceous border of bright flowers rising from its hem, which freely displayed her stout arms and neck. Her luxurious black hair was loose and crowned with a wreath of artificial flowers. A mass of beads were hung around her neck, and bangles jingled on her arms as she extended a plump white hand. She batted her false eyelashes, as she murmured:

'Enchante, mon ami.'

Since she had come to five in France, Monica affected French phrases.

Chris, looking slightly taken aback, shook the welcoming hand. Clare was sure his hostess had expected him to kiss it. He backed away as if from royalty.

'Sit down,' Monica commanded, indicating a chair directly in front of her. 'Clare, our guest would like a drink. Whisky?'

'That would be very acceptable,' Chris murmured, subsiding into the low easy chair and staring in fascination at his hostess. She, certain he was admiring her, simpered.

'I knew it, you look a whisky man,' she cooed.

Clare said crisply, 'Neat?'

He looked round and their eyes met. She saw the barely concealed amusement in his and had to repress an answering smile.

'With soda, please,' he told her. 'I'll come and indicate how much.'

He sprang to his feet, no mean effort considering the depth of the chair from which he had arisen, and came to stand beside her.

'Make it strong,' he whispered. 'I think I shall need a stimulant.'

Again their eyes met and she saw his were sparkling with wicked merriment, but she did not respond, feeling it was disloyal to laugh at her employer, though Monica did lay herself out to ridicule.

'Flatter her, that's what pleases her,' she murmured as she handed him his glass. 'Mention her last novel.'

'But I've never read it, what's it called?'

'What are you two whispering about?' came Monica's strident voice. 'Isn't it the right brand or something?'

The tabbies all turned in their chairs to regard the couple in the alcove. Then Eustace said something facetious and under cover of the laugh that followed, Clare hissed:

'Passion Fruit, that's her latest. Go back to your chair.'

He hunched his shoulders in mock alarm, giving her an impish glance, and retreated, but he did not return to the low chair. Instead he perched himself on the arm of a sofa about midway between Clare and the deity on the couch. From this position he could see Clare in her alcove as well as his hostess. Clare watched him a little wistfully. She would have liked to be able to converse with him, he would be fun, very different from the sycophants hanging upon Monica's words.

Monica too was studying her guest with avid eyes. She rarely received anyone so attractive. Apparently he was another struggling genius, for he was casually clad in a thin sweater and slacks, but unlike the others he looked as if he might win success.

'So you're a writer too?' Monica asked. 'Might one enquire what you've written?'

'Oh, just one or two playlets,' Chris replied, looking modest.

'You're wasting your time,' Monica proclaimed. 'There's no money in plays unless you're extraordinarily lucky and you have to have sponsors and backers, and if you do get one acted the critics will tear it to pieces. They're suspicious of new talent.'

'Is that so?' Christopher opened his eyes very wide as if a new viewpoint had been presented to him, while Clare wondered if Monica knew what she was talking about.

'Why don't you try a novel?' Monica went on.

'I leave that to you,' Chris told her. 'After reading'—he glanced at Clare—'Passion Fruit I realised my limitations, I couldn't aspire to such heights.'

Clare knew Monica was too obtuse to detect the note of mockery underlying his words, but after all, the novelist was a success and he had no right to jeer at her.

'I'm not saying you'd be in my glass,' Monica admitted. . 'But there are many lesser writers who do quite well. I always try to encourage struggling talent, but most of it tries to be too intense. The public will only read what entertains it, and I must say that in my case it has shown great discernment. Marcel insists I deserve every penny I earn.' She looked coyly at the Grey Tabby.

'She has given pleasure to countless millions,' Monsieur Durand declared enthusiastically.

'I'm sure she has,' Chris agreed. 'The majority of people aren't critical and are easily amused.'

Monica looked as if she had not quite understood what he had said, and the poet intervened hastily:

'It takes vast skill to deliver the goods.'

'You must lead a very exacting life,' Christopher said suavely.

'Oh, I do, I do—Clare will tell you I slave for my public,' Monica declared dramatically. 'But it's a labour of love.'

At the mention of Clare's name, Chris turned to look at her, divining that she was the person mentioned. She saw that his eyes were alight with derision and when he slid off the sofa arm and came to her for a refill, she said severely:

'You shouldn't laugh at your hostess. You're drinking her whisky.'

'You've got me wrong, I'm thrilled and intrigued to meet her.' He looked thoughtful. 'She'd make a wonderful character in a play.'

'Is that what you do? Caricature your acquaintances?' she asked acidly, for she was well aware of how Monica would appear as depicted by him.

'People are my raw material,' he returned, 'including yourself.'

The last was a concession to her presence, he could not possibly find her interesting, and she smiled wryly.

'I'm sure I'm too insignificant to be useful.'

'Don't be so humble. Incidentally, do you type these works of genius?'

'That's my job.'

Again Monica intervened and he left her, apparently with reluctance. Clare continued to study him, as he regained his perch on the sofa arm, with increasing curiosity, wondering what had brought him there, for Christopher Raines looked out of place in that gathering. He had a charm and vitality rarely met with among Monica's coterie, but having strayed into her orbit he was unlikely to stay there. The other men were too obviously seedy and second-rate to appeal to him, and he would make his way in the world. There was a force and assurance about him that was lacking in Monica's followers. Suddenly she felt angry. He had no right to make fun of them as she knew he was doing from the way his eyes assessed each in turn with that mocking glint in them. It was not given to everyone to command success, and failures should be regarded with compassion. That was a quality she doubted Christopher Raines possessed. He would go his ruthless way regardless of those fallen by the wayside, bulldozing his passage towards his goal. That was the sort of man he was.

The cadaverous poet Esmond Granville came strolling into her corner demanding a sherry, and she asked him kindly how he was progressing.

'I don't,' he said, shrugging his shoulders. 'This is the land of the lotus-eaters, too much sun makes one languid. I need the sharp tooth of the north wind to sting me into action.'

'Then you'll be leaving us?'

He glanced over his shoulder towards Monica. 'I can't „ tear myself away from the siren.'

Or her drinks, Clare thought. Esmond picked up his glass and glared at Christopher Raines over its brim.

'Playboy,' he sneered. 'He takes nothing seriously, nor has he ever felt the grip of poverty.'

'How can you tell?'

'By his arrogant manner, and look at his clothes.'

Clare examined then intently. Though Chris was casually clad as all the other men were, even her inexperienced eye could see that the cut and texture of his garments was superior to theirs, and he was wearing a gold watch on a bracelet of the same metal.

'Where did Mr Forbes pick him up?' she asked.

Again the poet shrugged. 'The casino, I expect.'

'But surely Mr Forbes can't afford to gamble?'

'Bless your innocent heart, Eustace's allowance was due today, and that's where most of it goes. Then he has to exist on a shoestring and dear Madame Monique's charity until the next lot comes.'

'But how foolish!' Clare exclaimed, her thrifty mind shocked by such idiocy. The Underwood family had learned the hard way the value of money and she had no understanding of a gambler's compulsion. It was this failing which had made Eustace Forbes an exile from his country.

'We can't all be wise,' Esmond retorted. 'But if you wish to be so, avoid Lothario.' He jerked his head towards the group in front of Monica. 'That type is a menace to womanhood, and to encourage him would be disastrous.'

Clare burst out laughing at this preposterous warning. Then she checked her mirth and glanced anxiously towards her employer, but Monica was too absorbed in Chris to notice her secretary's unusual behaviour.

'Thank you,' Clare said to Esmond, 'but I'm in no danger. Lothario, as you call him, won't give me a thought and I don't suppose we'll see him again.'

'One never knows,' Esmond observed, and wandered away. Clare looked again at Chris, who was receiving the full blast of Monica's attentions. Far from accepting Esmond's warning she wished there was some necessity for it. Instinctively she knew that Chris was a man who, in the modern phrase, could turn her on. She had hitherto not met one and that necessary erotic experience remained elusive. The interest he had aroused in her would have been a start, thus a heroine would be aware that she had met her fate, but this fate would walk out of her life without noticing her. A pity, for if he used people as prototypes for his creations, she could have utilised him very satisfactorily for hers.

Monica's soirees seldom lasted past midnight; even though when conversation flagged they resorted to cards,- they were apt to drag. But Christopher Raines did not stay until the end. He had, he said, another call to make. This time he did kiss Monica's hand as he took his leave. He had previously let slip that he might be in the neighbourhood for some time, and she besought him:

'Come again. Look in any time you're passing. As the Spanish say, my house is yours.'

'You're too kind.' But he did not promise to come again. He favoured Clare with a distant inclination of his head and a wave of his hand. She thought the room seemed darker when he had left it.

'That young man is a mere dilettante,' Monica pronounced, when he had gone. 'He will never achieve anything, he lacks application, but he's very decorative.'

The company agreed with her as they always did, except Clare, whose opinion was never asked. She thought Christopher Raines would succeed in whatever he undertook, » if he had not arrived already, for he carried the aura of success, but she had never seen his name on any publication in any literary magazines that Monica bought.

Monica retired as soon as her guests had gone, but Clare felt restless and reluctant to do so. It was a warm night and she wandered out into the strip of garden in front of the villa. It was built on a hillside above the Lower Corniche and looked out over pine trees to the sea. A bright glow to her left indicated the position of Monaco, and a similar golden haze but fainter than that of Nice. Motor headlights flashed in a unending stream along the road below her and the sea was dotted with illuminated yachts. Her employer had rented the villa for a couple of years and was always grumbling at the exorbitant rent. Clare thought she was foolish not to have chosen somewhere less fashionable and would herself have much preferred a less sophisticated place with fewer people about, but at night it was beautiful with all the glittering points of light.

She opened the gate and moved into the lane that connected the house and several other villas above and below it with the main road. Here it was dark in the shadows of the pines and the mountains above it. They were arid hills, these Maritime Alps, what greenery they possessed rapidly withering in the hot summer sun. Then she nearly jumped out of her skin as a voice said out of the dimness:

'Where are you going to, my pretty maid?'

She recognised the low mocking tones.

'Mr Raines! I thought you'd gone hours ago.'

'Gone and come back again, and I'm in luck, I see, no dragojjs on guard.'

'I don't understand.'

'Aren't my words clear, or perhaps I'm not so lucky? You go to keep a rendezvous?'

'Oh no, I'm just taking a stroll before turning in.'

'Then if I may I'll stroll with you, though I don't think the Corniche is a good place for strolling. You're liable to be run down by some maniac exceeding the speed limit. Wouldn't it be a better idea to go for a drive along the coast?'

'An excellent idea, if I possessed a car,' said Clare dryly.

'Mine is at your service. Shall we go?'

He was only a dark shadow beside her in the night and he did not seem quite real.

Clare was automatically about to refuse, when she hesitated. Caution and decorum demanded she should return indoors, but caution and decorum would never help her to find material for her book. Christopher's invitation was an opportunity not likely to occur again. She suddenly wondered if he had mistaken her for someone else.

'Do you know who I am?' she asked doubtfully. 'I'm only Clare, you know, Mrs Cullingford's secretary.'

'Of course I know you're only Clare, the little brown sparrow who poured my whisky for me.' He looked up into the trees above their heads, through a gap in which was the faint glimmer of a star. 'It's a fine night and the lights of the Promenade des Anglais are attractive. Only Clare might like to see them.'

'I would indeed.'

'Then what are we waiting for?'

He guided her towards his parked car, a firm hand cupping her elbow. Unused to such masculine courtesies, Clare felt a wave of exhilaration. She was actually being treated like a frail female instead of having to pick her own way down the steep lane; she had only contempt for the women who scoffed at such attentions.

Clare had been to Monte Carlo and Nice during the daytime, but she never went out at night, having no escort. She was unprepared for the blaze of light along the Promenade, the glittering sky signs, and the huge hotels like crystal palaces. Chris drove her right round the long sickle of the bay. Then he suggested stopping for a drink.

'At this hour?' she queried.

'There are no licensing hours in France.'

'But... but am I suitably dressed?'

'You're clothed, which is more than a lot of the visitors are,' he remarked drily. 'Why do you cover your neck and shoulders? Have you a birthmark or some such?'

'I have not!' Clare exclaimed indignantly. 'I dress modestly as is suitable to my position. What sort of a girl do you think I am?'

'A frustrated one,' he told her, which was so near the mark that she was startled. 'We'll find a cafe where anything goes. Suit you?'

Clare agreed eagerly. The dress she was wearing was what Monica liked her secretary to wear, a dark brown garment, long with very little shape and no style. She had posed her anxious question because the women she had glimpsed in the street were either wearing glamorous evening gowns or gay casuals. She did not want Christopher to be ashamed of the brown sparrow, as he had called her, among birds of so much brighter plumage. But Chris did not seem to mind. He drove away from the front into a square lined with palm trees drooping tired fronds, where there was parking space and conducted her to a cafe with tables and chairs spilling out all over the pavement. There was a smart hotel opposite to it, up and down the steps of which a continuous procession of people passed, exposing a great deal of suntanned, limbs either above or below. A string band inside the cafe poured out a medley of popular music, adding to the stir and bustle of the seething life around them. Clare watched the scene avidly, her wide grey eyes taking in every detail to impress it upon her mind for future reference, while Chris watched her eager face with amusement.

'Taking it all in?' he enquired, refilling her glass from the bottle of wine he had ordered.

'It's a long time since I've been out at night.' She turned to him with a brilliant smile. 'I haven't felt so alive for many a day.' The light caught the gold about his wrist, and she eyed him thoughtfully. 'You know, you're something of a mystery, Mr Raines. You pretend to be a struggling writer, but you drive a good car, you wear an expensive watch and the wine we're drinking isn't a cheap brand.'

'You're observant, a necessary quality in a writer.' He grinned boyishly. 'It so happens I'm on holiday and I like expensive things.'

'Don't we all... but...'

'You think I should look shoddy and unkempt, and subsist upon a crust in an attic? Picturesque but uncomfortable. I've had ... er ... a bit of luck lately and I can afford to indulge myself.'

Clare's early training did not approve of such extravagance.

'You should save for the lean times,' she said severely.

'Perhaps there won't be any lean times.'

'Aren't you being over-optimistic?'

'You, I fancy, lean towards over-caution. That's a mistake. You can miss so much by always thinking about rainy days.'

'You mean live for the moment and let the future go hang? I don't think that's a very praiseworthy philosophy.' He smiled at her earnest expression. 'Perhaps it's something to do with the air of this place,' she went on. 'I feel quite, reckless tonight.'

He laughed. 'That's out of character,' he mocked her. 'Prim little brown sparrows don't become reckless.'

Clare flinched at his simile, which was a little too apt, and wished she could discard her sense of responsibility that had hampered her all her short life. Chris seemed inflicted with no such burden.

'Did you bring me out to make fun of me?' she asked reproachfully.

'Good God, no! You intrigue me, I haven't met a girl like you for a long while.'

'I'm sure there are plenty around, though I don't suppose they move in your circles.'

'They certainly don't.'

She thought she had divined his motive. 'Do you want to study my reactions to put in a play?' she suggested.

'Now that's an idea.' The amber eyes gleamed mischievously. 'But I'm afraid Quaker girls are right out of fashion. The modern miss doesn't believe in the old- fashioned virtues.'

'Are you so certain I do?' she asked provocatively, and as he arched his brows quizzically, she leaned forward and said coaxingly: 'Won't you tell me what you do write about?'

He refused to be drawn. 'Anything and everything,' he stated evasively. Putting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his clasped hands, he stared at her critically. 'Do you have to eclipse yourself even when you're off duty?'

Clare flushed a little under his close regard. 'You mean I'm not with it? Actually I can't afford a double wardrobe for off-duty days.'

'She likes you to appear as a foil to her exuberant personality?'

'That's about it. A shadow to her sun.'

'But you're much better looking than she is if you gave yourself a chance.'

'Comparisons are odious,' she rebuked him.

'I mean it. Your eyes are beautiful and your face is a perfect oval. I can't see much of the rest of you in that shroud, but I did notice you had a neat ankle.'

She moved uncomfortably, not believing this flattery which seemed to her to be pointless.

'Do you have to scrape your hair back in that hideous way?' he demanded.

'Yes,' she returned coolly.

'You should wear it loose about your face,' he decided. 'And wear bright plain colours. Can't you do something about it?'

She shrugged her shoulders. 'Not worth while, there's no one to dress up for.'

'There's me.'

'You?' she laughed. 'Here today and gone tomorrow.'

'I hope to see more of you before I leave the locality,' he assured her.

'You can't really be interested in me,' Clare protested. 'A brown sparrow, as you called me.'

'We have a kindred interest in literature.'

'My dear man, I know enough of authors to know they're only interested in their own productions.'

'You're wrong, of course, as are most of your statements. We're not all Monica Cullingfords.'

The mention of her employer's name reminded her of the flight of time. Glancing at her watch, she exclaimed:

'Is it really so late? I must fly!'

'Will you be locked out?' %

'Quite possibly. Oh, I daresay I can get in the back way, but I really should be going.'

The enchantment had gone out of the evening. Chris had taken her out for a whim, but he could not want to repeat the experiment. She had been naive and dull and he must be used to much more sophisticated company. She did not know what he had expected of her, but she was sure he must have been disappointed. Certainly he made no attempt to detain her and hurried her back to the car.

He drove in silence which she made no attempt to break. She was very conscious of him beside her in the intimacy of the front seat. She began to weave a fantasy in which Chris was her boy-friend and wondered what his kisses would be like, blushing at her audacity under cover of the darkness. There was an accepted formula for a goodnight parting after an evening out, so she might possibly find out.

Arrived at the villa, they both got out of the car, and she thanked him for a lovely evening. She stood hesitating, for there was still something to be done, but Chris said easily: 'Be seeing you,' and turned back to the car.

She blurted out: 'Aren't you going to kiss me goodnight?'

He turned back and his surprise was unflattering.

'Do you want me to?'

'I thought it was usual,' she returned. 'A way of saying thank you, but you needn't if you don't want to.'

'Don't ...!' He laughed. 'My brown sparrow has more to her than I suspected.'

Clare turned towards the villa, exasperated. She had made her request because she wanted to feel his lips on hers and test her reactions, but he found her too unappetising for such a salute and was laughing at her.

'Goodnight,' she said frigidly, closing the garden gate between them.

'Hey, wait a minute!' He pushed it open and his hands came down upon her shoulders, restraining her. 'You're not going like that. Not after your so charming invitation.'

'Forget it,' she snapped.

'Impossible.'

His kiss when it came was not at all what she had expected, with Monica's turgid descriptions in mind she had anticipated something far more devastating. The pressure of his lips was gentle, though lingering, and he did not fold her in a fierce embrace as she had feared ... hoped ... he would, merely letting his hands rest on her shoulders when he bent his head.

'Goodnight, Brown Sparrow,' he said, as he released her.

The appelation stung her. She was dowdy and plain and he had kissed her to please her, not because he had any desire to do so.

'Goodnight, and thank you again for a lovely evening,' she returned formally, and walked sedately up to the villa, resisting a desire to look back. The front door was locked as she had expected, and she went round to the back unconsciously listening for the sound of his retreating car. Marie-Celeste had left the door to the kitchen open; she was Madame's maid and indulged in nocturnal diversions of her own to break the monotony of her service.

Chris did not start his car until Clare had turned the light on in her room and he knew that she was safe indoors. As she went to lower her blind, she saw his headlights flickering down the lane. It had been nice of him to wait, but concern for her material welfare was not what she wanted. As she prepared for bed she felt vaguely cheated.

CHAPTER TWO

THE three days until Monica's next soiree passed in the usual routine. On the Saturday afternoon following that eventful Friday Clare went into Nice on the bus, as was permissible since it was her free time, and sought again the square where she had sat with Chris. There was of course no sign of him, and the place looked a little tawdry by daylight. The hotel opposite the cafe seemed asleep in the afternoon since its residents were either on the beach or enjoying a siesta.

As soon as the shops were open again Clare bought a printed cotton dress in gay colours, also a pair of thin trousers and a tank top, garments she had long wanted but resisted because she had no occasion upon which to wear them. These purchases made a hole in her savings which she was accumulating with North-Country thrift against the time when Monica would dispense with her services, or the other way round. She did not intend to stay with the author permanently.

On her return to the villa she locked herself in her bedroom and changed into the sleeveless bright dress, and loosened her hair about her face. Staring at herself in the glass, she saw a replica of many of the girls she had seen in the streets, neither pretty nor plain, but nice-looking with the ever-attractive bloom of youth. Her figure was slim and shapely but unremarkable. Quite ordinary, she thought disgustedly, for Christopher's remarks had led her to expect a more striking metamorphosis. She changed back into her brown pinafore skirt worn over a beige blouse, chiding herself for her extravagance. Chris had not meant anything and his momentary interest would have died already. She had wasted her money, for Monica would object to the vivid greens and blues that patterned her new dress and she certainly would not tolerate slacks.

She went to her accustomed station on the Tuesday night trying to stifle her expectancy, which gave her an unwonted colour in her usually pale cheeks. Monica remarked acidly that she hoped she had not got a fever, for she had a horror of infectious complaints, and although Clare assured her that she was perfectly well, bade her keep her distance as much as possible, as if poor Clare ever did anything else upon these occasions. But her eager anticipation was unfulfilled; Christopher Raines did not appear. The only newcomer was a stout German agent who wanted to acquire the translation rights of Monica's new opus, undeterred by Monica's insistence that such business was transacted through her publishers. He consoled himself with port.

Clare went to bed when it was over resolved to forget Chris Raines; that night in Nice had been a momentary gleam of brightness in her dull life, but there would be no sequel. Unable to sleep, she re-read what she had written of her novel, and found it lacking in life. A romantic novel, however silly, must be written sincerely, and she felt impatient with her efforts to describe erotic sensations which she had never experienced. She concluded that she must be lacking in imagination and fell to dreaming of Chris and that unsatisfactory kiss. She had read somewhere that the authoress of this kind of writing should always be a little in love with her hero to be able to express her heroine's reactions to him. It would not be difficult to re-create hers in Christopher's image, and imagine—well, much more, satisfying kisses. She realised she was blushing, and seizing a Biro she began to scribble. Several hours later she came out of her fantasy world to find the night was far advanced towards morning and she had many hectic pages to her credit, Chris had done that much for her, but when she finally lay down on her bed as the eastern sky was beginning to lighten she felt despairing. He had stimulated her writing, but she wanted more than that.

'I am half sick of shadows.'

Was she like the Lady of Shalott, condemned to see life passing through a mirror without first-hand knowledge of love?

On Friday evening Chris came again and Monica hailed him with enthusiasm.

'So you found you couldn't keep away from me?' she asked archly.

'Madame, you draw me like a magnet,' he returned gallantly, and only Clare noticed the wicked gleam in his eyes. She brought him a glass of whisky without waiting for him to ask for it, avoiding his eyes and without speaking. He made a half movement to rise, but Monica commanded him to keep to his seat and take no notice of Clare.

'She's my dumb waiter,' she declared, and laughed as if she had made a joke. Chris, however, frowned.

Later in the evening when Monica decided to play Bridge, and there was a shuffle to arrange tables and chairs, he came over to Clare.

'When's your time off?' he asked abruptly.

Clare, who had been dreaming of him all the week, was suddenly embarrassed to find herself confronted by him in the flesh. Her heart was beating fast. He was like and yet different from the fictitious personality she had been creating.

'It varies,' she prevaricated.

'If you make a date will you be able to keep it?'

'With luck, yes.'

'Chris, come here,' Monica called. 'We want you to make up a four.'

'In a moment,' he flung over his shoulder. 'I'm making my choice of this noble array of drinks.' Then to Clare under his breath: 'Sunday afternoon, three o'clock at the bottom of the lane. Possible?'

Clare nodded and he left her to make up Monica's four.

The rest of the evening passed for her in a daze. Monica played badly, talking of irrelevant matters while her partner was trying to concentrate. Clare was aware that Chris was secretly laughing at her. His remarks, interlarded with fulsome compliments, were double-edged. Monica swallowed them as a heron gulps fish and again Clare resented Christopher's attitude, but as Monica was so dense and gullible she supposed there was no harm in his performance though several of the other men were concealing their mirth. She marvelled at her employer's vanity which twisted every malicious thrust into praise of herself. If ever I succeed I'll never be like that, she promised herself.

Christopher's date presented no problems, Sunday being a free day, as he had surmised. Monica usually spent it with friends, leaving her secretary to her own devices. That particular Sunday she was going to acquaintances in Monaco, and she asked Chris to accompany her.

'Descartes is a film director and I might be able to interest him in your work,' she told him. 'It is drama you're trying to write, isn't it? Television provides enormous scope for a dramatist.'Chris pleaded a previous engagement.

'Cut it,' she commanded.

He looked shocked. 'I don't do things like that, Madame. Perhaps another time.'

Monica was piqued. 'You're a very foolish young man to neglect opportunities,' she said severely. 'There may not be another time.'

'That'll be just too bad.'

'Obstinate boy!' She smiled at him. 'But I suppose I must be charitable, and forgive you. It's been my metier to help so many young aspirants. Some of my proteges have been quite successful through my efforts. I'll mention your name, and if they invite you, you must come next time.'

Chris bowed elaborately. 'You're too kind and generous, Madame.'

Clare listened to this dialogue with mixed feelings. Was Chris really passing up a golden opportunity because he had made a date with her? Descartes was an influential man in the film world. She longed to be able to tell him that he was free if he wanted to go, and yet she could not believe he would permit such an important fixture to stand in his way if this was the case. She watched him anxiously and gained the impression that he did not care two pins about meeting Descartes, which, if he really were an aspiring playwright, was an attitude he could not afford to take. She came to the conclusion that Mr Christopher Raines was altogether too arrogant in his casual dismissal of possible patrons.

Monica, whose mind was ever embued with romance, said coyly:

'Am I right in supposing this unbreakable date is with a young lady?'

'That, Madame, would be indiscreet to reveal,' Chris returned imperturbably.

'If it is,' she said tartly, 'you're a bigger fool than I took you for. Opportunity knocks but once, women are knocking all the time.'

'A remark hardly worthy of the author of Passion Fruit,'' Chris retorted.

'Oh, that!' She shrugged her plump shoulders. 'We're discussing the realities of life.' She emphasised realities.

'And you don't consider love is one of them?' he asked in surprise.

'Well, do you?'

Christopher laughed. 'Believe me, Madame, it comes at the bottom of my list of priorities.'

A statement Clare marked and was to remember.

On Sunday morning Monica departed in her chauffeur- driven car, remarking that if Clare had nothing better to do she could retype a chapter of the current novel that was full of corrections and she wished she would hurry up and pass her test. Clare was having driving lessons at her employer's expense with the idea that when she was qualified, Monica could then dispense with her chauffeur, the inducement being that Clare could then dispense with the bus when she wanted to go out herself. Clare was very glad that that happy day had not yet dawned, and she did not have to take Monica to Monte Carlo.

She spent the morning typing and after an early lunch dressed herself in the new dress, letting her cloud of soft brown hair curl about her neck. It was shoulder-length and waved nicely, being one of her assets. She hesitated over make-up, but being inexperienced in its use, contented herself with lipstick. Then, putting on a pair of sun-glasses, she strolled down to the bottom of the lane.

Traffic was speeding along the Corniche. Chris's car was a dark red, and every time a maroon vehicle came in sight her heart gave a lurch. She was a little early and stood, screened by the high bank on the corner to keep out of the way, so that when finally a car of the right colour came swooping into the lane at exactly three o'clock it nearly knocked her down. Chris pulled up with an oath and a screech of brakes, and leaped out.

'Your pardon, mademoiselle, but if you will play at being a wood nymph, I may be excused for not seeing you. You aren't hurt?'

Clare pulled off her glasses. 'Mr Raines, didn't you recognise me?'

Chris's eyes swept over her. 'Good lord! Are you really my Brown Sparrow?'

'Not a brown sparrow today,' she smiled.

'No. You look just like every other girl.'

'Oh!' She was dashed. 'Is ... isn't it an improvement? I've done what you said ... a bright colour, loosened my hair.'

A half tender smile softened his face.

'Do you think so much of my opinion?'

'As you're the only person who's going to look at me, naturally I wanted to please you,' she told him composedly. 'Don't you think I look nice?'

'The ... er ... hair is charming,' he said guardedly. 'But come on,' he opened the car door, 'hop in, we're blocking up the lane.'

Clare hung back, half inclined to say that she would prefer to stay at home. His reaction to her dress had disappointed her, especially after she had confessed she had chosen it for him. With a swift movement he seized her arm and propelled her into the car's front seat, slamming the door behind her. Clare fell on to the floor, and righted herself hastily, glancing anxiously at her tights as Chris came round and slid in beside her.

'Looking for ladders?' he asked cheerfully as he started the engine.

'No thanks to you that there aren't any,' she returned, arranging her skirt over her knees.

'You were dithering,' he accused her. 'I hate ditherers, so I took prompt action.'

'I'll make a note of that.'

The car gathered speed in the direction of Monaco, a direction that raised Clare's apprehension.

'Mr Raines, you're not going to take me to call on the Descartes?'

'The Lord forbid!' he ejaculated. 'But Monte Carlo is on the route to Italy. Have you your passport?'

She told him she always carried it in her handbag.

'Good. We'll have a look at Menton, Bordighera and go on possibly as far as San Remo. These seaside places are all much the same, but there's a casino at San Remo.'

'So there is at Monte. I don't gamble.'

'Obviously we can't go to Monte today and I feel like a flutter. You might bring me luck.'

'I should think that would be most unlikely. In fact by taking me out instead of going with Madame you're flying in the face of luck.'

'Didn't you want to come out with me?'

'Not if you're jeopardising your chances.'

'What a noble sentiment,' he jeered. 'Believe me, I can do without any help from Monsieur Descartes.'

'You're not in a position to be independent,' she said firmly, and began to lecture him upon his irresponsibility, which was only too common a failing among the rising generation. 'You simply can't afford to neglect any chance, that comes along,' she concluded.

'You aren't dressed for the role of mentor today, mademoiselle, those colours are much too frivolous,' was his response.

Diverted from her subject, she asked: 'What's wrong with them?'

'Did I say there was anything wrong with them, or the dress?'

'No, but your expression implied it. You find no difficulty in paying compliments to Mrs Cullingford, but you've none to spare for me.' It would not have hurt him to pretend he liked it.

'You know perfectly well they're insincere, and you advised me yourself to flatter her,' he reminded her. 'I wouldn't insult your intelligence by making false statements. You're so transparently honest and candid yourself, it's what I like about you, so the least I can do is to be truthful in return. That's more subtle flattery; I put on an act with a lot of people who ask prying questions.'

Clare digested these remarks while he negotiated the crowded streets of Monaco, which necessitated all his attention. That he was all things to all men—and women— she did not doubt, and she supposed she should be pleased he showed her his real self, but though truth-telling was worthy, she would have preferred it with a little gloss on it, arid wasn't his label of honesty and candour a polite way of telling her she was crude and blunt?

Monaco is such a tiny state that land is at a premium. Huge modern buildings rise skywards, dwarfing the older structures, including the palace, and others cling precariously to the mountain slopes. A final development is to reclaim land from the sea, the only expansion left unless the inhabitants decide to five underground.

Beyond the Principality, Christopher avoided the auto- route, taking the old coast road through the towns bordering the sea.

'Like all motorways it's fine for getting from A to Z, but we want to see something of the country,' he explained. They reached Menton, a white town famous for its lemon groves, with its old citadel set up on a low hill. He wanted to stretch his legs, so they left the car and wandered down to the beach. This in parts was stony—all sand along that coast has to be imported—and they seated themselves on a bank of pebbles away from the crowd at the water's edge with the Mediterranean, its own peculiar blue interspersed with patches of emerald and purple, spread before them.

'You asked me what was wrong with your dress.' He reverted to the thorny subject. 'Nothing is wrong with it, and it suits your colouring, but it's not you. Pretty-pretty clothes do nothing for you, they make you look ordinary. You had more distinction in your plain brown shroud.' He squinted at her appraisingly. 'You should wear plain colours and well-tailored gowns. Your hair ...' He leaned forward and lifted it from her neck. 'It should be shortened to show the very excellent shape of your head and jaw, and a hat, not those disfiguring sun-glasses.'

'I didn't know you were a fashion expert,' she said, wincing away from the touch of his fingers because it excited her.

'I'm not, but clothes should express the wearer's personality. I'm very particular about how my heroines dress. It should be a key to their characters.'

'But I'm not one of them and I've no wish to appear on a stage.'

'All the world's a stage,' he quoted airily. 'I'd like you to make the most of yourself.'

'Thank you,' she returned. 'I'm flattered you take such an interest in my appearance and sorry I fall short of your standards, in that respect. Since the only approval you've given me would apply to a Girl Guide, I'm a little puzzled to know why you've asked me to come out with you.'

He slid down on to his back on the warm stones, gazing up at the sky.

'You're restful,' he said dreamily. 'You don't expect me to chatter all the time, and you don't want me to make love to you.' He turned his head and shot a sudden glance at her drooping face. 'Do you?'

'Of course not,' she declared vehemently.

'So I surmised. I like feminine company so long as it isn't too exacting.'

'So now we know where we stand,' she said coolly, masking. her inner chagrin. She would learn nothing from him if he did not want to make love to her and she was aware as she sat beside him of an intense desire to touch him and to be caressed by him. She had never felt such a desire with any other man, and it would have to be suppressed if they were to continue on his terms.

'Do you meet many exacting females?' she enquired pertly.

'Dozens,' he answered abstractedly, his eyes on the sea. 'It gets monotonous.'

That she could believe. If she with her unawakened sexuality could sense his attraction, more blatant and sophisticated girls would be unwilling to leave him alone, and refuse to accept that he did not want to respond to their advances. Probably he did upon occasion and his boredom was the result of satiation. Clare was innocent, but she was not ignorant. She had seen enough of what went on around her to have few illusions about modern life.

'That's rather a pity,' she said slowly.

'What is? The number of predatory girls I've known?'

'Oh no, I'm not interested in them, only in my own reactions. You see, I want to be a writer too.'

Chris sat up abruptly. 'You do?'

'Yes, and you needn't try to discourage me. I know all the difficulties and discouragements, as well as you do. You haven't established yourself yet, have you?' She looked at him interrogatively, but he said nothing and she went on: 'My ambition is not to win fame. I only aspire to write something like Passion Fruit.'

'But good God, girl--!' he exploded, and she smiled serenely.

'That form of writing can be very lucrative.'

Chris's eyes ran over her slight neat figure seated demurely beside him on the shore, her arms clasped around her raised knees.

'Maybe,' he agreed. 'But you ... you look the last person to exploit the throes of burning emotion.'

'That's just it,' she sighed. 'I need some initiation. I hoped you might give me some, but you don't want that sort of friendship, which from my point of view is a pity.'

Christopher began to laugh immoderately, but presently his mirth faded and an almost anxious expression crossed his face.

'But good lord, Sparrow, you can't go around inviting all sorts of stray men to kiss you to ... er... gain copy.'

They both recalled that she had asked him to kiss her goodnight and while she blushed at the recollection, Chris looked comically dismayed.

'I've got to learn,' she said doggedly.

'But writers don't have to have experience of what they write.'

'Most of the women ones are married,' she retorted. 'Monica's been married, but I've never met anyone who wanted to marry me.'

'If that's your motive for marriage you can be thankful for that. It's the dullness of ordinary marriage that turns Monica's readers to romance,' Chris said drily. 'You're all mixed up, my darling. Romance is escapism, not actuality. Incidentally, does your employer know you intend to rival her?'

'Of course not,' Clare said crossly, subtly wounded by his careless use of an endearment which she knew meant nothing. 'She'd fire me at once if she did, imagining I use her time to work in.'

'Oh, would she?' Chris looked pleased. 'And do you?'

'Never. I write in the evenings when my time's my own.'

'Such a conscientious little lady!'

'Oh, you can jeer, but I don't want to be an underdog all my life, and this seems to be the only way to get on top.'

'A long hard way and beset by disappointments.' He became serious and she recalled that he was also a would-be author with his way to make. He looked up at her consideringly.

'Got any family?'

'Parents. My home's in Manchester.' He made a grimace.

'Oh, it doesn't rain all the time and it has access to some beautiful country. But my people aren't enterprising. They go to Blackpool for what we call Wakes Week. Dad's a warehouseman and thinks only of watching football. Mum's a housewife and houseproud. She even whitens the window sills and doorstep ... ours is a terrace house in Newton Heath ... one in a row.'

She became silent, seeing in her mind's eye the rows of smoke-grimed houses back-to-back from which she had so thankfully escaped to the glitter of the Cote d'Azur, unaware that she had betrayed in tabloid form the bleak existence that had been hers before she came there. Chris glanced at her pensive face and ejaculated:

'Poor kid!'

'Oh, there were compensations. There are good theatres in Manchester, I went to plays whenever I could afford a gallery seat, and a marvellous library. I read a lot.'

'Naturally, if you've a literary bent.'

'But I wasn't living,' she complained.

'No boy-friends?'

She shrugged. 'I'm not glamorous enough to attract anyone worth having.'

'And the Riviera has been a disappointment in that respect?'

She laughed. 'You've seen Mrs Cullingford's circle.'

'A collection of tame cats, and mangy at that.'

'That's what I call them, the tabbies.' She smiled at him shyly. 'You're so different.'

'I'm glad you except me.' He threw a pebble into the sea. 'I'm not a failure, you know.'

'You told me you'd had some luck, but as I said you shouldn't be so extravagant until you're established.'

Chris grinned. 'Practical, aren't you? It used to be a rule in China that the husband turned over his money to his wife to administer. You would dole out my spending money to me each week while you built up a savings account.'

'I would that.' Clare found she was pleased by this Unking of himself with her, although it was only in fun. She picked up a handful of pebbles and let them dribble from her fingers as she asked with studied indifference: 'Have you a wife?' »

'God forbid!' he exclaimed fervently. 'And the sort of girls I meet are spenders, not savers.'

'So I should imagine,' she said drily. 'If you prefer the glamorous types, you have to pay for them.'

'You know nothing about my preferences,' he returned.

Clare thought she did; he had practically admitted he consorted with sophisticated women. She picked up another handful of pebbles, but before they started to drop from her fingers, his hand closed over hers.

'Stop that! It's distracting, and I've a proposition to put to you.'

Clare caught her breath, staring dumbly at the brown fingers closed over hers. Had she been too frank about her needs? Men, she believed naively, were ready to take any girl who made herself available and he might have construed her remarks as an invitation. Chris seemed to read her thought, for his mouth curved sardonically.

'It's nothing to raise your blood pressure, it's not amorous,' he told her. 'I merely wondered if you'd like to change your employer.'

'It depends upon the employer,' she told him, becoming very cool and distant to disguise a faint disappointment. 'Are you suggesting another author?'

'Yes, since you're familiar with that sort of work.'

'I don't know,' she ruminated. 'Mrs Cullingford is fairly easy-going, and she does allow me time to go out and also to write my book.'

'She wouldn't if she knew what you were doing,' he teased her. 'But wouldn't you prefer to work for a man? Most women do.'

She stared at his smooth unrevealing face and saw a spark of mischief in his eyes. In the bright sunlight they shone gold. His hair was not black as it had appeared indoors, but a dark brown, and though he was richly tanned by the sun, there were indications that his skin was naturally fair. His brow was prominent over his eye sockets, which with his slightly beaky nose gave him a resemblance to a hawk when his face was in repose. More often it was alight with malicious amusement; a fascinating personality, she thought involuntarily, with half her mind while she considered his question, but not exactly lovable.

'I'm not most women,' she said slowly. 'Men can be very tiresome.'

'So can women.'

'But not so dangerous.' The words slipped out unthinkingly.

Chris chuckled. 'Your duties would be only clerical,' he told her, and grinned impishly as she blushed. 'Board but not bed.'

'You mean I should have to live in?'

'You do now, don't you? It would be in this part of the world. You wouldn't want to go back to England?'

She looked round at the blue sky, the bluer sea, the groves of lemon trees behind them. Menton was famous for its lemons.

'I'd say not, but before I consider your ... er ... proposition, I'd want to know more details and whether I should be bettering myself.'

'Oh, you'd be doing that, but I can't wait too long for your decision.'

'You? How do you come into it?'

'I'm asking you to come and work for me.'

She laughed merrily. 'You're joking, of course.'

'I'm in deadly earnest. I must warn you it's no sinecure. When the mood is on me, I work long hours and become very irritable. I've been idling enough and I've a play ta finish, you might find it interesting.'

'I might, but... but can you afford to pay me?'

He stared at her, his lips twitching. 'That is of paramount importance? You wouldn't work for love?'

'I can't afford to,' she explained. 'I have to live. Mrs Cullingford pays me a very generous salary.'

'And what princely sum does she consider your services are worth?'

She told him.

'I'll double that,' he said carelessly.

'Oh, don't be absurd!' She was exasperated. For a moment she had believed he really was serious and the prospect he opened before her was alluring. To be in daily contact with Chris, to come to know him intimately as she must—secretaries often knew more about their bosses than their wives did—was thrilling, but she might have known he was not in earnest.

'I'm sorry you think that,' he said stiffly.

'But of course it's absurd. I'm not worth so much and you're a struggling playwright who couldn't afford to pay it.'

'You're not yet au fait with my financial circumstances.'

'But you said ... everyone said ...' she began, wondering if he had private means.

'I use a little camouflage because I don't want to flaunt myself,' he told her flippantly. 'Officially I'm on holiday and it's more fun if people don't know ... everything.'

'I see,' she said, feeling bewildered. Who was she talking to? 'But I'll have to know... everything, if I work for you.'

'Only what's relevant,' he insisted. 'So you don't find the idea so absurd after all?'

Clare looked at him levelly. 'I find your offer attractive, provided you can guarantee my monthly wage.'

Chris laughed gleefully. 'Oh, my darling, you're rich!' he gurgled.

'So must you be if you can afford such wages for a secretary.' She looked at him enquiringly.

'There are no rich men nowadays,' he returned evasively. 'The Inland Revenue sees to that, but your salary will be paid on the dot on the first of each month. Does that satisfy you, you she-Shylock?'

'Completely.'

He sobered. 'In addition to your secretarial duties I want you to let me take you in hand.'

Her grey eyes clouded and she moved uncomfortably. In spite of his assurances she feared he was going to make demands that she would find impossible to fulfil. And yet why should they be so? She wanted to see life to gain emotional experience, and nowadays girls thought nothing of casual lovemaking. It came to her then with a sense of shock that she did not want to be a mere episode in Christopher Raines' life.

'What do you mean by that?' she asked nervously.

'Don't look at me if you thought I meant to rape you,' he chided her. 'I'm not that sort of man. I only want to groom you to fit your part.' He ran a derogatory eye over her slight form, to which the cotton dress clung limply, and her hair was blown by the breeze into untidy disorder. She looked oddly immature for all her self-possession and twenty years, and his face softened, though his words were harsh. 'At the moment you look like an escapee from a vicarage garden party.'

'Oh!' She supposed the floral print did look a little parochial, but she found this request much harder to accept than the erotic favours she had previously envisaged. It seemed to impinge upon her personal liberty. She was not surprised he had not been impressed by his first sight o£ her when he had dubbed her a brown sparrow, but when he called the dress she was wearing pretty-pretty it was a slur upon her taste. What sort of freak did he want to make of her if she agreed to his whim, and what was his object in wishing to remould her?

'Of course I wouldn't wear a dress like this for work,' she said primly. 'A secretary should look unobtrusive.'

She thought of the pseudo-blonde girls with their paint and false eyelashes who had been her colleagues at night school and who had been chosen in preference to herself as personal attendants by business executives. Was Chris suggesting that he wanted her to look as they did?

'Mine shouldn't. She will have to be a bit of a dragon to guard my privacy, also she may have to deputise for me upon occasion. She should appear elegant and immaculate to do me credit as well as herself. You have the potential, my darling, the right clothes and make-up will do the rest.'

Clare did not at all want to be shaped according to his fancy, but she was becoming eager to accept the job, so all she said was:

'You shouldn't call me darling, that's not businesslike.'

'Everyone does in the Profession,' he remarked.

'The Pro ... Oh, you mean the stage. Of course, you write plays.'

'Which are sometimes performed.'

This surprised her. 'Then you're not unrecognised?'

'I'm on my way up.'

'Then I can't conceive why you bothered to go to Mrs Cullingford's soiree,' she voiced her astonishment. 'She collects failures and beginners.'

'Poor souls, they were a seedy lot,' he admitted absently. 'I went at Forbes' insistence the first time out of curiosity.

I'd never met a lady novelist, and the second time to see you again.'

Clare was incredulous. 'A brown sparrow?'

'As I told you, I'm short of a secretary and it seemed to me that you might suit me.'

'Without enquiring about my qualifications, or knowing if I were efficient?' she enquired, a little dashed by his prosaic explanation.

'Anyone who could cope with Madame Monica would have to be efficient,' he told her. 'My own observations bore that out. So you accept?'

'Oh, please don't rush me.' The situation sounded both interesting and exciting, but some inner sense was warning her that she should not put too great a trust in Christopher Raines.

'You'll be a fool if you don't,' he said succinctly.

Clare was not given to hasty decisions, not being naturally impetuous, but meeting those hawk-like amber eyes, a new recklessness stirred within her. If she never ran any risks she would never climb out of the rut, and she was heartily tired of Monica's posturings.

'I accept,' she said quietly. She would have to give Mrs Cullingford a month's notice, which would give her time to reconsider if Chris' demands proved too exorbitant.

'Good girl,' he said approvingly.

'But you do realise that I'll expect my salary paid regularly?' she emphasised, for she knew artists and authors had a reputation for being casual over such matters.

'Mercenary little sparrow,' Christopher returned pleasantly. 'I promise you it will be, and I'll damned well make you earn it!'

CHAPTER THREE

CLARE&APOS;S expectation of a month's respite during which she could change her mind about accepting Christopher's offer if it seemed expedient was not fulfilled. Instead she was precipitated into a whirlpool of events that nearly shipwrecked her.

As they continued their expedition she reflected that during her remaining time with Monica, she must endeavour to find out more about her prospective employer. Eustace Forbes, who had introduced him, might be able to give her some information. The generous remuneration offered had been a big inducement for during the past few months she had been sending money home. Mr Underwood was out of work and her mother had written a long wail, deploring her absence and the loss of her contribution to the housekeeping funds, demanding her return, but her father also wrote declaring that he could manage and it would be foolish to throw up a good job to help them when she might find herself unable to obtain another one. Clare had compromised by sending part of her monthly salary home, saying she had nothing to spend it on as she had her keep. This was not wholly true; she needed clothes and enjoyed occasional expeditions on the Riviera, and she was prudently trying to save for emergencies. Christopher's offer would make a great difference to her, but could she rely on him?

She made several tentative attempts to elicit further details from him, but he brushed them off impatiently.

'I've talked enough business for today,' he declared. 'We've come out to enjoy ourselves. Let's forget that such things as typewriters and play scripts exist and just amuse ourselves.'

Clare was quite ready to fall in with his carefree mood, which was a novelty for her, as she was inclined to take even her pleasures seriously. He proved himself to be a most entertaining companion, and she did not mind his teasing, glad that she seemed to divert him. He varied Brown Sparrow with Little Puritan when she said something particularly naive, and she did not resent these appelations. She decided that he had not encountered many girls like herself in his world and her unsophistication had the charm of novelty. Unfortunately that would soon wear off upon continuing association, but under his tutelage she might acquire more poise, though she must not forget today was an exception and when she went to work for him, if she so decided, their connection would be much more formal.

They did get as far as San Remo and looked in at the casino, but Chris did not play. He said it was uninspiring in the afternoon and he preferred to gamble in style when the participants wore evening dress, which produced the right atmosphere.

They stopped on the way back to have a meal of seafood at an unpretentious restaurant on the Italian side of the border, though Clare never discovered the name of the town. The place, in spite of its humble appearances-produced an excellent repast, langouste salad with French dressing being what she remembered best. She did not notice how frequently Chris refilled her wine glass and he, associating her with Mrs Cullingford's lavish refreshments, did not realise that she was unused to alcohol. Soon she was seeing the universe through a golden haze and Chris tookon the semblance of a young god who had descended from » Olympus to honour a mortal maid.

It was very late when they finally reached the villa which greeted them with darkened windows. Clare's mind was focussed upon their parting. When Christopher kissed her tonight, and she felt certain he would, she was sure she would be able to respond more adequately, and thus arouse him to greater ardour. She was viewing the prospect with pleasurable anticipation, but the wine she had drunk was affecting her, so much so that she was dazed and dreamy when he hauled her out of the car.

As she stood swaying he stared at her in dismay.

'Good lord, what have I done? It never occurred to me that Hebe couldn't take her wine. I thought you were used to it.'

'Hebe, gods' cup-bearer,' Clare murmured in soft slurred accents. 'She didn't drink the nectar herself. Mrs Cull... Cullingford wouldn't allow.'

'Mean old bitch!' He put a firm arm about her waist and piloted her towards the house. 'She shouldn't muzzle her ox.' He looked doubtfully at the closed appearance of the house. 'Shall we have to knock someone up?' He felt responsible for Clare's condition and did not want to have to face an indignant Monica.

'Round to back,' Clare told him.

'Ah yes, your secret entry.' He guided her round the house and found the back door unlatched with a dim light shining in the passage beyond. Clare slumped against him, and he said sternly :

'Pull yourself together and get yourself upstairs to bed.'

Clare giggled feebly but made no move to free herself from his arm. She looked childishly vulnerable and Chris cursed himself for having landed her in this state. He wondered whether he should risk discovery by conducting her to her room, or whether it would be wiser to leave her in the kitchen which would provide her with poor comfort for the rest of the night. His dilemma was solved by the arrival of Marie-Celeste. The maid looked with amusement at Clare's tousled head lying against Christopher's shoulder and said something in French which caused Chris to frown and tell her not to be impertinent, it was not as she supposed.

'Mademoiselle Underwood is not feeling well,' he said glibly. 'Can you get her up to bed?'

He handed the maid a folded note, which she pushed into the front of her dress.

'Hush-money,' she said impudently. 'I take it as a sign of goodwill, monsieur, but I do not need to be bribed to give the care to Mademoiselle. I am glad she has found a lover.'

Clare became vaguely aware that Marie-Celeste was under a misapprehension.

'No ... no...' she objected. 'Boss, new boss, not lover.'

Marie-Celeste winked. 'Same thing.'

'Not at all,' Chris corrected her. 'I never mix love and business.' He shook Clare. 'Remember you must give in your notice tomorrow.'

Clare lifted a dazed face towards his.

'Kiss me goodnight.'

'Oh, go along with you.' He pushed her towards Marie- Celeste..'She doesn't know what she's saying—my fault, I'm afraid. Goodnight, ladies.'

Marie-Celeste watched his hurried exit with appreciative eyes.

'Mon dieu, but he is ravissant! Come along, mademoiselle, doucement, we must not wake Madame.'

The sturdy maid practically carried Clare's much slighterform upstairs, and dumping her on her bed, proceeded to undress her.

'Sleep it off,' she said kindly. 'Ces jeunes hommes, they give a silly girl too much wine and it is all over. Mais, moi, I would not mind being seduced by that one.'

Clare did not hear her for she was already asleep.

She awoke with a headache and no recollection of her arrival at the villa on the previous night, so that Marie- Celeste's conspiratorial air when she brought her an early cup of tea was lost upon her. But she did remember very clearly that she had pledged herself to work for Christopher Raines and Monica had to be informed.

She approached her after breakfast, stating that she had been offered a better situation and wished to leave. Mrs Cullingford was taken aback and proceeded to give her a long lecture about the folly of leaving her erudite establishment where an intelligent girl could learn so much if she watched and listened and her regret that she was unable to appreciate her privileges, winding up with the reminder that she was entitled to a month's notice.

'Not that you'll be difficult to replace,' she said loftily, 'but I need time to pick and choose, next time I must make sure I have engaged the right person.'

Clare meekly accepted the snub and said she was prepared to stay the requisite period, though she knew it would be a very trying month. To her relief Monica did not ask where she was going or who was employing her, not that she had any intention of telling her. Monica had already dismissed her from her mind and was thinking that it would be more amusing to engage a male secretary who would give her the adulation, real or feigned, that Clare could not bring herself to pretend. She wondered if there were any chance of persuading that delightful Mr Raines to accept the post, which would be mutually beneficial as she could give him advice and encouragement in return for his compliments.

Chris rang up during the afternoon and Clare answered the phone as she usually did on Monica's behalf. She told him that all was well and she would be free after working out her month's notice. To her dismay he declared he could not wait a month; he needed her services at once.

'Then I'm afraid it's all off,' she said regretfully, aware of acute disappointment. 'I can't just walk out on her.'

'Nothing easier,' he returned. 'But I suppose you can't help being a conscientious idiot.'

'She can be vindictive, she'd probably sue me.'

'Don't you worry about that. I'll deal with Madame Monique, and I'll send a taxi to collect you tomorrow morning.'

Clare was alarmed, but before she could expostulate, he hung up, and she did not know from where he was ringing. She hoped he would not do anything reckless and she did not believe he would be able to placate Mrs Cullingford, who would not be pleased when she learned by whom she had been engaged. She visualised more lectures and some of Monica's criticism would be justified, for she was acting unwisely, but so strong was Christopher's attraction becoming that she was loath to sunder their association. Because of that her folly was all the more apparent and she could not wholly justify it. In sudden panic she wondered if she could rescind her notice.

Clare was on tenterhooks for the rest of the day, fearing Chris might call on Monica, but as he did not put in an appearance she decided he had thought better of it, and had accepted that she was unavailable, in which case she had lost the job. She felt bitter as she reflected upon his unreasonableness, but artistic people were not au fait with » business practices or he would have known she could not walk out at a moment's notice. Other people had to be considered besides Mr Christopher Raines' convenience.

That evening Mrs Cullingford told her that she was going out to a cocktail party and Clare need not wait up for her.

'I'll make sure my next secretary is a qualified driver,' he told her acidly. 'Then he'll be able to chauffeur me around.'

Clare noticed the masculine pronoun. So Monica was making plans and there was no going back. Since Christopher could not wait, she would have to return to Manchester without a job at all.

Disconsolately she went to her room after Monica's departure, and idly glanced through her manuscript but felt no urge to add to it. She stared despondently out of the window at the spangled sea glimpsed through the trees, wrapped in the velvet Mediterranean night. Fireflies gleamed in the bushes near the gate, points of green light. Manchester had never seemed less attractive. Finally the excesses of the night before caught up with her and, early as it was, she went to bed and slept.

She was awakened early by Marie-Celeste bringing in a breakfast tray on which was an envelope with her name upon it in Monica's scrawling handwriting. Opening it, she found a note and a cheque for what salary was owing to her.

'Madame said you were to go at once,' Marie-Celeste informed her. 'But I could not let you depart without your coffee. She meet your jeune homme at her party. What he do I not know, but she come home what you say ... in at the deep end. She tell me she throw you out then and there only she fear that the neighbours make scandal. You must go now, shall I help you pack?'

Clare nodded mechanically while she perused the note. She had never dreamed that Chris might be at the party, somehow he must have engineered it, and he must have said something drastic to Monica to produce the letter she held. For Mrs Cullingford declared that Clare was a deceitful, unscrupulous snake in the grass who had abused her trust and solicited her guest. The sooner she returned to the gutter where she belonged the better for all concerned, and she never wanted to see her face again. 'If you were starving,' the note concluded, 'I would not give you a crust.'

Clare drank the coffee but could not eat any food. She dressed hurriedly under Marie-Celeste's repeated urgings, and bundled her belongings into her two cases. The maid was anxious to get her out of the house before her mistress was astir and Clare was equally anxious to be gone; she had no wish to encounter Mrs Cullingford in her present mood. She remembered that Chris had said he would send a taxi for her, which had seemed to her at the time an act of blind optimism, for she had not contemplated being able to use it, but it seemed she had underrated him. She hoped it would come, for she did not think she could manage her luggage on the bus, nor did she know where to go, since he had not given her an address. She was beset by a sudden terrible doubt that he had played a malicious trick upon her, the sort of jest that fitted his occasionally cruel humour. He had effected her dismissal, as he had said he would, and she shuddered to imagine what he must have said to Monica to achieve it, but he was unpredictable, and she was never sure when he was serious and when he was joking. If he did not succour her now she would be . stranded.

The early hour, Marie-Celeste's panic haste and Monica's letter had dragged her spirits down to zero, and she had never felt more alone or more abandoned, and it was all her own idiotic fault. She never ought to have listened to Christopher's beguiling tongue.

But her despair and her doubts proved to be quite unjustified, because as she was humping her cases downstairs, Marie-Celeste came running into the house with the welcome news:

'The taxi... he come!'

Clare was driven to an unpretentious hotel in a back street in Nice. During the drive she reflected that her hand had been forced. She had no option now but to fall in with Christopher's wishes,, unless she went home defeated, a proceeding she was reluctant to contemplate. But first she must discover by what means Chris had obtained her dismissal; if they were too reprehensible she would tell him what she thought of him and go home.

He was standing outside the hotel when she descended from the taxi, a demure insignificant figure in her neat dark suit. He ushered her up to the desk while a porter dealt with her cases.

'I've arranged for you to stay here tonight,' he told her, as the receptionist showed her where to sign her name and she handed over her passport. Obviously she had to stay somewhere and this place did not look beyond her means. Key in hand, she turned round to confront Chris, who was hovering behind her, his whole bearing expressing triumphant glee.

'So it all went according to plan,' he crowed. 'There was no hitch?'

'You mean you deliberately schemed to have me thrown out?' she asked indignantly. 'Mr Raines, what on earth did you say to Mrs Cullingford? I didn't even know you were going to see her until Marie-Celeste told me this morning you were at the party.'

'Ssh!' With a proprietorial hand at her elbow, he guided her away from the desk to a distant seat beneath a potted palm. Dumping her down upon it, he told her: 'That was my strategy. I got myself invited to the same party knowing that she couldn't vent her venom on me too vehemently with other people around her—not that she wanted to. You were the villain, my pet, and I was the victim of your shameless wiles.'

'Oh, really!' Clare exclaimed in exasperation.

Still looking very pleased with himself, Chris seated himself beside her and went on, oblivious of her rising anger:

'Not that your desertion would have done the trick alone —I had to hint that she was nurturing a viper in her bosom.' He brought out the preposterous phrase with gusto. 'I told her that you were pilfering her ideas to use in your own manuscript, copying her style quite cleverly, and you had shown me parts of your Perfidious Passion, which was a fair imitation of her Passion Fruit.'

Clare nearly choked over this monstrous piece of invention.

'Chris... Mr Raines ...' she gasped.

'Chris will do.'

'Mr Raines,' she repeated with emphasis. 'How could you do such a thing!' Her eyes became grey pools of reproach, and her voice quivered with distress. 'I told you about my writing in confidence, and my book is not called Perfidious Passion ... hideous tide!'

'It's a better one than hers, that's what narked her most.

Seriously, Clare, why the tragedy? You didn't want to stay with her, did you, and I needed your services urgently. You're splitting hairs, and you can't deny you were secretly aiming to compete with her.' Clare turned her head away, for that was true, but it had seemed such a remote possibility it had not troubled her sensitive conscience. 'I had to get you away somehow, and I had a heaven-sent inspiration.'

'More likely it came from the devil,' Clare rapped tartly. 'You're a ruthless man, Mr Raines.'

Chris only laughed. 'One has to be ruthless to get what one wants,' he declared.

'I'm surprised you consider I'm worth so much trouble and ingenuity.'

'No trouble at all, darling, and I enjoy exercising my wits. I'd decided you would suit me and all that was entailed was presenting a few facts to Mrs Cullingford to make her fall in with my plans.'

'Oh, was it?' Clare's smouldering anger flared up. 'Do you realise you've maligned me to her and stripped me of everything? Even my good character. I can't ask her for a testimonial now.'

'But you don't need one.' He met her rage with careless insouciance. 'Oh, come off it, Clare, keep cool. You've been moaning about life passing you by, and you'll have more fun with me than with her. You ought to be thanking me for my ... er ... ingenuity.'

'Fabrications!' she snapped. She was too upset to be easily appeased. She had meant no harm to Monica by attempting to imitate her. The field was wide enough to accommodate them both and if she ever had any success, which was doubtful, she would have probably left Monica's employ by that time. Christopher's betrayal of her ambition seemed a deliberate violation of her private life, and bitterly did she regret having given him her confidence to put to such an unscrupulous use.

'I must have been mad to agree to work for you,' she told him. 'I can't now, not after what you've done.'

Christopher's eyes narrowed to mere slits, and his brows drew together, as he said silkily:

'Have you any alternative, darling? Your only option is to go home in disgrace without a reference. What will your respectable parents, and I conclude they are respectable, think of that? Especially as I might feel it was my duty to inform them of the sort of life you'd been leading under the pernicious influence of the Riviera. Last night, for instance.'

'What about last night?' she asked anxiously, for her recollections of the latter part of it were hazy.

He grinned and lifted his arm in a significant gesture.

She stared at him, horrified. 'You mean ... I was tipsy?'

'Near enough.'

'Then it was your fault,' she said firmly, recalling Marie- Celeste's remarks. 'My parents wouldn't believe you.'

'Although you had returned so hastily and without a character? Mrs Cullingford would confirm that you'd been running after me.'

She stared at him in shocked disbelief, stunned by his twisted distortion of the facts, and he went on flippantly:

'I would tell them I had written to them wholly for your sake, because I was distressed to see such a nice girl being corrupted by the low standards of foreign playgrounds, and suggest that they persuaded you to stay at home in future.'

'You ... scum!' she exclaimed in a low tense voice.

He only laughed, his curious cat's eyes glinting.

Clare drew a deep breath. He could not really mean what he was saying—at least not all of it; he was an inveterate tease. She said composedly, 'You don't mind hitting below the belt, do you, but surely even you wouldn't stoop to blackmail.'

'I'd do worse things to get what I wanted,' Chris declared.

'You couldn't. Blackmail is despicable. Aren't you ashamed to badger a poor helpless girl with empty threats?'

'No,' he returned equably, 'and you're very far from helpless. But you are pigheaded and unreasonable. I'm doing you a kindness by saving you from your stupidity.'

'Calling me names is no way to placate me,' she told him, but her indignation was fading. She did not want at all to go back to Manchester. She knew her mother would greet her return with a scornful, 'I told you so.' Mrs Underwood regarded all foreigners with suspicion and declared to her daughter that the Riviera was a hotbed of vice. That neither Monica nor Chris were foreigners would make no difference. If they chose to live in such a place they must be tainted with the same evils as the natives. Her husband had tried to bring her round to a more enlightened view, but without any success. He would be more understanding of his daughter's situation, but it would not be easy to convince him that she had left of her own accord after the enthusiastic letters she had written to him to reassure him. It would mean lies and prevarications, which she loathed, for she could not bear to confess her folly.

But to stay with Chris in what she was well aware would be an equivocal position meant she must be able to trust him. She looked at him searchingly, seeking the real man behind the jester's mask. Imperious, impatient of obstruction, cynical but generous was the sum of her knowledge of him, a flimsy foundation upon which to build a relationship even though it were only a business one. He met her questing gaze without flinching, and said lightly:

'My dear girl, you're making the proverbial mountain out of a molehill. If women will be so foolish as your late employer, it's impossible not to play them up, for me anyway. All I've actually done is to free you so that you can accept more congenial work—at least I hope you'll find it so.' He dropped his bantering manner and went on simply and seriously: 'If you can tell me honestly that you'd really rather go home than stay with me, I'll arrange it for you.'

His green-gold eyes were as unrevealing as glass as he held her gaze; they had a mesmeric quality like those of a snake. Like a fascinated bird ... the sparrow he had called her ... Clare was unable to look away and her resistance crumbled. Though his methods were questionable, he had put himself to considerable trouble to secure her services, and that was subtle flattery. The last thing she wanted to do was to return to England and never see him again.

'I can't condone what you've done,' she said uncertainly. 'But...' it came out in a rush, 'I don't want to leave you.'

Her wide grey eyes were expressing more than she meant to betray, and a flicker of something undefinable showed in his. For a tense second they gazed at each other in wordless communication, though Clare would have been at a loss to describe what was passing between them. Certainly at that moment a seed was planted in her that was to bear a bitter harvest. Chris broke the tension, dropping his eyes and seizing her hand.

'Let's shake on that,' he suggested in his normal light tones. 'And that being settled, we'll deal with the next item on the agenda. I've made an appointment for you at a hairdresser, and then we'll have to get you some more attractive clothes.'

She had forgotten that that was one of his conditions, and » she gave a small gasp.

'Mr Raines, you take my breath away!'

'I'm a fast worker,' he declared complacently. He glanced at his wrist watch. 'Your appointment is due in ten minutes. You've only just capitulated in time.'

Clare went out into the sunlight in a chaotic state of mind. The brush with Chris had shaken her and it had ended in her complete surrender. After all, though she disapproved of his actions, they had landed her where she wanted to be and it was absurd to be too sensitive about them. His interest in her appearance was causing her some qualms about his motives. He had been insistent that he was not interested in her sexually, so she could not understand why he was going to so much trouble to change her. The neat suit she was wearing, navy skirt and jacket with a white blouse, was good enough for Monica and should be good enough for him, but some authors cherished weird eccentricities, and she supposed this was one of his, though it seemed a little out of character. It would have been more gratifying to her vanity if he had questionable intentions and that would have added spice to her new post, but in spite of his eagerness to engage her, she feared that was not so. Perhaps when she had been groomed and dressed to meet his approval she might be able to penetrate his indifference. That was an exciting thought and reconciled her to falling in with his wishes, though she had no idea of how she would deal with the situation if it arose, but that was one of things about which she was anxious to learn.

It was only a short distance to the hairdressing salon, and Chris left her there saying he would return for her when she was ready. Clare's hair was cut, shampooed and styled to fit closer to her head, and she had to admit the result was much more effective than her former loose locks. It showed the delicate shape of her head and jaw. With some trepidation she asked for the bill, but was told that Monsieur had settled that. When Monsieur arrived she was shown to him with pride and he professed himself delighted.

'I was sure your face and neck were beautifully structured,' he told her when they regained the street. 'Now I can see I was right. You please my ascetic taste, my dear, which is all for good simple shapes.'

The visit to a modiste was more of an ordeal. Christopher seemed well known to the Directrice, who greeted him as an old friend, calling him, 'Monsieur Krees.' Clare supposed vaguely that his familiarity with costumiers and hairdressers was somehow connected with his work for the stage, though as far as she knew he had never had a play produced in London. He certainly seemed very knowledgeable about feminine gear. He told Madame la Directrice that Clare was a cousin from the country, whose parents, knowing he was a man of the world, had asked him to advise her upon the choice of some quiet but chic dresses suitable for her job as a hotel receptionist that she had just obtained.

'Young girls have such appalling taste,' he declared with the wicked gleam in his eyes that Clare was beginning to know so well.

Madame said she understood ... perfectly, and her sly look roused Clare's indignation. When the woman departed to fetch some clothes, she demanded why Chris found it necessary to invent such lies.

'If I told her you were my secretary you know what she'd think,' he returned coolly.

'She thinks it already,' said Clare.

'But she's not sure,' Chris insisted. 'You look more like a cousin than the girls she usually sees me with.'

The implication did not please Clare at all, and she wondered where he found the money from to buy clothes for his women; it seemed to her a shocking instance of his extravagance, if nothing worse.

Madame returned with an armload of dresses and to Clare's discomfiture Chris demanded that she appear before him in each one she tried on. Her cheeks burned with mortification, but Madame took it as a matter of course. She discussed Clare's appearance with hini over her head without consulting her at all, as if she were a lay figure. Their conversation was in French, and Clare only restrained her protests because she doubted if she could make them understood in that language. The dresses for day wear they finally selected were in a new material, eau-de-soie, but without the stiffness of the old watered silk, and were, Clare noted with satisfaction, drip-dry. They were very plain but beautifully cut, one blue, one pink and one green, with wide white turn-down collars and cuffs above the elbow on the short sleeves. To go over them she was provided with an off-white silk coat, loose-fitting, which Chris decided would be comfortable for travelling, and a white wide-brimmed hat. Almost as an afterthought an evening gown was added to the collection, in coppery shot silk.

'We must be prepared for all occasions,' he said in French.

Clare who had been looking for non-existent price tags, was feeling worried; the clothes looked expensive.

'I don't need that,' she declared.

'You may,' he insisted, and addressed himself to Madame.

Clare left in her new outfit wearing the pink dress and leaving her old things to be packed and sent to the hotel. She had to admit that her reflection had shown her a totally different personality from the grey sparrow of Monica's day. The bright colour brought a fresh glow to her skin and made her eyes look brighter. The slim lines of dress and coat caused her to appear lissom and elegant, too much so for a mere secretary, and her grey eyes were questioning as she searched Christopher's enigmatic face.

Out in the street, he said: 'Now I know how Pygmalion felt.'

'Who on earth was he?' Clare asked, finding the remark irrelevant.

'The Greek guy who created a statue that was brought to life.'

'I fail to see the connection.'

'Don't be dim. I've turned a brown sparrow into ... well, something worth looking at.'

'Don't forget my primary function is to manipulate your typewriter ... if you have a typewriter,' she told him acidly, for her worry was increasing. 'I don't know how I'm going to pay for all that trousseau, and I can't let you.'

'I don't intend to. I'll take the amount out of your first month's salary.'

She looked at him aghast. 'But, Chr ... Mr Raines, it'll take all of it and more!'

'Have you anything else to spend it on, little miser?'

'Yes,' she said, looking across the street with unseeing eyes. 'My father has been working short time and I send half my earnings home.'

She had not wanted to disclose that fact; it was why she had been so insistent upon prompt payment and why losing her job with Monica could have been so disastrous. She really had no right to take any chances, and if Chris had not forestalled her she would probably, have ended by turning him down.

'But you can't send money out of the country.'

'It's arranged, through a bank.'

'Poor little Sparrow,' Chris said softly. 'Don't bother about the clothes. Regard them as a uniform supplied by your employer.'

She had to laugh. 'You're very ingenious, as you said, and very generous, but I can't accept so much from you.'

Christopher must be very much better off than he had led her to suppose. They argued for a while and effected a compromise. She would pay him back half the value of the clothing in instalments.

'Thus ensuring that you'll continue to work for me until you're clear of debt,' he told her cheerfully.

'Didn't I say I didn't want to leave you?'

'You don't know me very well, do you, darling? There may be some shocks in store for you.'

'You've given me a few already, but I daresay I'll be able to cope,' she returned. 'One can't judge authors like ordinary people.'

'Madame Monique tried hard not to appear ordinary, but I don't diink she and I have much in common.'

'You're alike in both being supreme egoists,' she said bluntly, for she was still rattled by his domineering behaviour in the dress shop.

'Or appallingly vain?'

'You've said it, not I, but I've yet to discover what you've got to be vain about.'

She looked at him expectantly, hoping to needle him into telling hgr what he had achieved, but all he said was:

'That you'd be able to judge in due course.'

He left her at the entrance to her hotel, telling her that the rest of the day was free for her to do what she liked. They would be leaving for Italy next morning in his car. The retreat for which they were bound was up in the mountains there.

'I've been meeting too many old acquaintances here,' he told her. 'A friend has lent me a place where I can work without distraction. Once we're settled in, I'll put you through it, my darling.'

'Okay,' she was unalarmed. 'The sooner I'm doing something to earn my money the better I'll be pleased.'

There was one more episode to close that most eventful day. In the evening, bored with her own company and finding the hotel close, Clare went out for a stroll along the Promenade des Anglais. She found that whereas on former occasions nobody had noticed her if she went out alone, her changed appearance brought her some unwelcome attentions, which though gratifying in a way were embarrassing. Trying to ward off an importunate young Frenchman, she was rescued by a fatherly personage with an unmistakable Northern accent.

'Leave t'lass alone,' he said sternly to her follower. 'Come along o' me, miss, I'll see you home.'

She thanked him gratefully.

'Nay, lass, I've daughters of my own, but you shouldn't be wandering about by yourself at night. These furrin towns be full of rapscallions. Have you no one to take care of you?'

She explained that she was on her own and had come out without thinking. He told her he was on holiday with 't'missus but she had gone to bed, exhausted with sightseeing; they came from Lancashire. This put him on common ground with Clare ai)d they chatted eagerly as they walked along. Pointing to one of the huge hotels, Mr Preston, for that was his name, remarked:

'There's high life for you, lass. Folk with more brass than sense.'

A party was coming out of the hotel, evidently seeking some night spot after a late dinner. The women were wearing glamorous evening gowns, the men accompanying them were elegant. Suddenly Clare gave a gasp. With a gorgeous redhead upon his arm, Christopher Raines had come out on to the pavement. Up to now she had only seen him casually dressed, but tonight he had changed into a white suit, with pale blue tie and blue socks. Coat, vest and trousers were beautifully cut, fitting his slim graceful figure with the precision that only a master tailor can achieve, but his head and face were unmistakably that of Christopher Raines. Somehow in that outfit he looked vaguely familiar, though Clare was certain she had never seen him until the night she had met him at Monica's. The redhead, swathed in green chiffon and very decolletee, was laughing up into his face provocatively, and his long mouth was curved in sardonic amusement. This was a Chris Clare had not yet encountered, an elegant sophisticated squire of lovely women, for the redhead was lovely in a voluptuous manner.

'What's t' matter, lass?' Mr Preston enquired.

'Nothing, I caught my heel. Shall we go on?'

She wanted to increase the distance between herself and Chris in case he recognised her, though with such a distraction he was unlikely to have eyes for anything else. So she sought to move Mr Preston on, but he seemed mesmerised by the spectacle of so much affluence and fashion. Chris suddenly lifted his head and his keen glance swept over the passersby. For a second Clare thought it rested upon her, but hoped she was mistaken. Then the stylish group moved away in the opposite direction and she sighed with relief.

Mr Preston escorted her to the door of her hotel, refusing her invitation to come in and have a drink, and she went to her room to conjecture upon what she had seen.

Chris had told her he was meeting too many old acquaintances in Nice and he had to get away to find a quiet place to work. If the group she had seen that evening were his friends they were of a much superior grade to anything that she had imagined, not that she had given them much thought. Christopher Raines was presumably one of the impecunious youngsters who wandered through Europe in search of copy, though the amount of salary he had offered her hardly supported that view. The people she had seen coming out of the hotel were in a different dimension altogether—jet set sophisticates, beautiful people, the smart set, or whatever they were termed nowadays, and the jettiest, most beautiful and smartest of them all was the redhaired woman who had been clinging to Christopher's arm with all the pride of possession.

Could it really have been Chris whom she had seen in that superb white suit? It seemed improbable, for though she suspected now that he was considerably better off financially than he admitted, he could not be in that class unless ... horrible thought ... the redhead was supporting him, a not uncommon feature of Riviera life. But her mind revolted from such a suggestion, Chris would never stoop to being any woman's lap-dog, on the other hand if it had been he, and she was sure her eyes had not deceived her; he was obviously deeply involved with the glamorous beauty, in spite of his gibes at predatory women.

Clare sighed, for he would certainly never waste an amorous thought upon a brown sparrow when he could command such loveliness. His interest in her appearance had caused her to form half-hopes that once they were alone together their association might ripen into something warmer than that of employer and employee, though she had no clear idea of what she intended to do if it did. Chris as a lover would be overwhelming, and she had never had a lover. With unerring feminine instinct she was aiming for the best within reach, but now the redhead had shown her that he was far out of reach and she had been indulging in wishful thinking. Chris had no personal feeling for her at all; he wanted an efficient secretary who also looked smart —to do them both credit, as he had put it—no more no less. When it came to making love he chose women like his redhead.

She turned her thoughts to the immediate fyture, the mountain retreat to which they were going on the morrow. In the rush of the day's events there had been no time for details; she supposed it would be some small hotel, boarding house or even a private residence. That her position was a little unconventional did not trouble her. Business men often travelled with their secretaries, and Chris needed her for his work, and presumably she would be accommodated in the same house, since she was to have her keep —board but not bed, he had said with his habitual mocking grin. She had had no opportunity to press for details, and she began to wish he had been more explicit and she had been less rash. She had wanted to see more of life and gain experience of it, and life with Chris promised to be something of an adventure, though she was dimly aware that she might suffer if her heart strayed too far in his direction, but that again was something she had not yet experienced, and would assist her writing. Her only anxiety was her family, whatever happened she must ensure they received her aid.

That Chris now knew about her commitment was a mixed blessing. He had said he would guarantee she could continue to fulfil it, but it also gave him a hold over her if he chose to act the tyrant.

She went to bed and slept soundly—too soundly, because she overslept and had to rush through her breakfast and packing to be ready at the time Chris had named, but her misgivings had dissipated during the night. The sun was shining, and her very presentable employer was about to drive her into Italy, a delightful prospect, while as for the redhead, Chris was fleeing from her because she was too distracting. So perhaps there were some advantages in being merely a brown sparrow.

CHAPTER FOUR

CLARE had some difficulty in packing her new acquisitions, they would not all go into her two cases and she had to supplement her luggage with a large cardboard box. It looked the reverse of elegant and she wished that she had had the foresight to purchase a holdall or some such during the previous afternoon.

Chris arrived as the porter was carrying her possessions to the front door and he hastened to assist him to put them in the boot. He came back uttering a brief good-morning to her, as she went to the desk for her bill and passport. He pounced on the former, saying shortly: 'This is my liability, as arranged.' Watching him as he settled with the clerk, Clare tried to reconcile his present appearance with that of the immaculate figure she had seen last night. He wore a singlet with short sleeves edged with blue and open at the neck, and a pair of denim pants, a very dissimilar costume to the white suit, so that she wondered again if she had perhaps been mistaken. She noticed that he was pale beneath his tan and had dark smudges under his eyes, evidence of a dissipated night. She recalled the redhead and with the naivete of innocence concluded that he had spent the night with her, if he were indeed that other man. She hoped fervently it would turn out he was not.

His transaction completed, he turned to her with a slight frown, the gold-green eyes inimical under the pent brows like those of a falcon seeking its prey. A shiver ran down Clare's spine at her extravagant fancy, but she did not think she was the prey he sought.

'I'm glad to see you're punctual,' he observed ungraciously. 'Come along and don't loiter, we've a long way to go.'

Clare had merely paused to say goodbye to the staff and tip the doorman. Chris was obviously in a bad temper and she wisely decided not to try to make conversation as they drove away through the busy streets. He had added to his informal ensemble a panama hat to shield his eyes from the strong sun, jamming it on his head at a rakish angle.

For all I know you may well be a rake, Clare thought, and wondered at her temerity in entrusting her fate into his hands. -

A glimpse of a portable typewriter reposing on the back seat had been reassuring, indicating that he did intend to work and that this was not some crazy expedition into the unknown.

Chris took to the autoroute after Monaco running above the sunlit coast of France, interspersed with tunnels through the mountains. They had travelled so far in silence, but now to her discomfiture he suddenly asked:

'Who was the stout party you were with last night?'

This was confirmation of all her fears. Chris had been the man she had seen with the redhead and his hawk's eye had recognised her in the crowd.

'A Mr Preston from Lancashire,' she told him.

'An old friend?'

'Well, a compatriot, as you might say,' she hedged, unwilling to reveal the circumstances in which he had rescued her. 'It was nice to hear a Lancashire voice after so much French.'

'Which you don't speak very well,' he said cuttingly. 'That's another thing we must do something about. I hope he isn't another applicant for your services?'

'Why should he be? Not all my acquaintances are itching to employ me,' she returned, annoyed by his tone. 'I also saw you, all dressed up. Who was the redhaired lady?'

'Signora Violetta Albanesi,' he informed her glibly. 'Beautiful, isn't she?' He said it with pride—the pride of possession?

Clare said she was lovely. 'Italian, of course?'

'Naturally, with that name. Actually it is her castello we're going to. She's leased it to me.'

'Then she's an old fla ... friend?'

'Both.'

'I didn't quite say it.'

'It's a conclusion any woman would leap to after seeing us together, so I hasten to confirm your conjectures.-Satisfied?'

'Oh, quite.' His confirmation of her suspicions depressed her. She longed to ask what was their exact relationship, but that would be impertinence, instead she said loftily: 'That part of your life is nothing to do with me.'

'I'm glad you've the sense to know that.' His voice was very cold.

They reached the frontier and stopped behind the lane of cars waiting for inspection. Chris turned in his seat to look at her with a mocking gleam in his eyes.

'Do you wish to cancel your engagement now that you've found out I have an Italian mistress?'

'I repeat it's nothing to do with me,' she reiterated dully.

'Then why are you looking so downcast?'

'I wasn't ... the heat is affecting me a little,' she said mendaciously. He was correct in stating that his love life was no concern of hers, but his blunt admission had wounded her. He belonged to another woman, however irregular the union, and if her erotic fancies strayed towards him, she would be trespassing. Then she caught the wicked glint in his eyes and she wondered if he had told her the truth or was merely teasing her; he delighted in trying to shock what he termed her puritan outlook. He could not know that she feared her own heart was becoming involved. She had wanted to fall in love since it was something she had never experienced, but it hit her with unwelcome force that unrequited love could be painful, and jealousy ... was she jealous of the redhaired Violetta? ... a strong but despicable emotion. Rousing herself, she managed to say brightly:

'I'm gaining lots of copy for my book.'

'Ah yes, the great romance. There's always another woman, isn't there? She's a necessary ingredient.'

'If you imagine I'm casting you for my hero ...' she began with more heat than wisdom, since that was just what she was doing, when the car ahead of them having been cleared moved on and it was their turn to face the officials. When they went on again, Christopher talked about the scenery, which was very fine, with the blue sea on one side, divided from them by gardens and villages, and the arid slopes of the mountains on the other.

They stopped for lunch at Ventimiglia, which had once been a Roman stronghold, and Chris discoursed learnedly about the Romans who had marched that way into Gaul on their all-conquering progress. Presently when he had tired of the subject, she asked:

'What's your play about?'

'What play?'

'The one presumably that you're working on and I'm to type.'

'It's a modern comedy, and if you think typing is all you're going to do you're very much mistaken. I shall try . my dialogue out on you and if you dare to criticise it, you'll get sacked.'

'Then what's the point of trying it out on me if all you want is insincere adulation?'

'Because that's the way of authors. They ask for criticism and are furious if it's adverse.'

'I'll bear that in mind,' she promised. 'But I didn't expect you to be as touchy as Mrs Cullingford.'

'Did she ever ask you for your opinion?'

'Not on your life! I was considered the lowest form of life when it came to literature, but I've seen her bristle when one of the tabbies dared to make a suggestion. As far as I was concerned, I was just ten fingers that knew how to manipulate a typewriter keyboard, and she couldn't spell; that I had to correct.'

'Actually I'm not very hot on spelling myself,' Chris confessed. 'I see you're going to be invaluable.'

'Nice you should think so,' she said modestly.

'That's your sparrow look. You should reply, "Of course I shall be, that's why you engaged me." People always accept you at your own valuation.'

'Not always. If I took you at yours you'd be worth your weight in gold.'

He looked genuinely hurt. 'Am I so conceited?'

'No, only self-confident,' she amended hastily. 'Which is a very good thing to be if you want to get on.'

'Now you're talking, but we'd better be getting a move on if we're to reach this place in time to settle in before dinner.'

His remark recalled her to practical details not yet described.

'Before we go, I'd be glad if you'd explain one or two things,' Clare said diffidently. 'Owing to my hurried departure we haven't had time to discuss them.'

'I thought we'd covered the essentials.'

'Not quite. You did say something about board—do I understand I'm to be kept?'

From the way his mouth twitched she knew too late that she had expressed herself badly.

'Yes, my darling, you'll be a kept woman,' he drawled.

'Please be serious,' she besought him, wishing she did not find him so madly attractive when he was looking mischievous. The green-gold eyes danced, and the lean, bronzed planes of his face were softened by laughter lines. 'Do I lodge in this ... er ... castle with you?'

'But of course, there isn't anywhere else. Does the thought of sharing the same roof offend your Victorian sensibilities? If so, there might be a spare cowshed available.'

'Now you're being absurd. I'm not in the least Victorian,' her grey eyes sparkled indignantly. 'I don't mind a bit. Is there a family? Of course I realise that though I'll be living with you, my position will be under you ...' His laughter interrupted her and she flushed with annoyance. 'I'm not trying to be funny.'

'No, darling, but your way of putting things is a little unfortunate. You'll not be under me, as you naively express it, but treated as one of the family, only there's no family in residence. Violetta assures me that there is a fully competent staff to wait upon us. To set your mind at rest, we're to have a suite with a room to work in and separate bedrooms. Dinner will be served downstairs, other meals will be brought to us when we've time for them. Actually I'd made all arrangements some time back and engaged a secretary, a man, but he was such a dope I couldn't face being incarcerated with him up in the mountains, so when I saw you at Madame Monique's, so quietly . efficient, so unobtrusive, I was sure you'd make a pleasant substitute, and might be quite decorative as well when you were properly clad.' He gave her a mischievous grin. 'The only thing I haven't covered is a duenna or a chaperone, but perhaps we can find some old crone in the village who you could say was your grandmother to satisfy convention.'

'That won't be necessary,' she assured him. 'The age of chaperones is past, and even you couldn't carry that off. Me with an Italian grandmother!'

'Some English people do have Italian grandmothers,' he pointed out. 'But since you don't like the idea we'll drop it. Sure you don't mind losing your character?'

'Haven't you done that for me already?' she asked reproachfully, for he seemed to have forgotten he had brought about her dismissal without a testimonial. 'But in this day and age, nobody bothers about conventions.'

'What a very sensible point of view,' he said admiringly. 'Now if you're quite happy about everything, let's get on.'

Clare stifled a small sigh as she preceded him out of the ristorante. She could ask for nothing better than to be alone with Chris in this mountain retreat, but the castle belonged to Violetta, and she would be there by her grace and favour. Chris was in love with the beautiful Italian and she had a premonition that it would not be long before the Signora invaded their privacy, especially if she discovered that Chris bad taken a girl there. Conventions or no conventions, the Italians had only one idea where a man and a girl were concerned, and the pity of it was her suspicions would be quite unfounded.

As they re-entered the car a new thought occurred to her. Signora was the equivalent of the English Mrs.

'Is there a Signor Albanesi?' she asked with assumed carelessness.

'There was, but he is gathered to his fathers. Do you think I would abuse his hospitality?' Chris returned.

'Sorry, but modern people seem very casual about marriage,' Clare remarked.

'Well, I'm not,' Chris declared unexpectedly. 'That's why I'm still a bachelor. If I ever marry I want it to be for keeps.' He did not seem to be contemplating marrying his redhead.

'Enzo Albanesi was in the motor trade,' he went on after about half a mile. 'A rich old man, and Violetta was made to marry him, before she was out of her teens. Her family were impoverished nobility and though the castello was her inheritance it was a crumbling ruin. Enzo renovated it for her and when he died he left her a considerable fortune, so she had some compensation for her forced marriage.'

A rich and lovely widow, what could be more attractive for a young impecunious man? Only Clare doubted that Chris was really hard up. He glanced at her pensive face and his lips curled sardonically. He knew what she was thinking, he had in fact encouraged her to arrive at her conclusions. .

'Come to think of it,' he observed lazily, 'she might make a good heroine for one of your novels. Beautiful, exploited and ready for her first real romance.'

That stung Clare, for surely Violetta's romance had been Chris.

'I'm not supposed to draw my characters from life,' she said, though her heroine was a projection of herself, which she had not realised.

'That's all rot,' he declared. 'Nobody ever created a character that wasn't founded upon a real prototype, however remotely.'

They argued upon this point during the next few miles, » then Chris slowed down, having reached the point where they left the main road.

Their route wound up into the hills, the Maritime Alps having given place to the Ligurian Appenines. Their slopes were terraced with olive trees and vineyards until they became too steep for cultivation. In sheltered places there were copses of deciduous trees, a change from the prevalent cypresses. But there was little water. In summer the rivers dried up and were only stagnant pools when they reached the towns.

The castello, when it came in sight, was an imposing erection built on the site of an ancient fortress, perched on the crown of a hill above a scattered village in which most of the houses seemed to be derelict. On either side of the pointed hill were deep depressions descending to distant valley floors, and it was encircled by arid mountains. The scenery was impressive but grim.

'The mountain villages always cluster round a castle for protection,' Chris told her. 'There used to be a great deal of fighting in this part of the world in olden days.'

Clare looked at the precipitous depths on either side of the zig-zag road they were ascending, already filled with violet shadows.

'It's Gothic,' she said, and shivered. 'I could imagine Dracula living up there.'

'It breathes melodrama, doesn't it? Not quite the right setting for light fiction.'

'Or to inspire comedies, we'll have to change our conventions to suit our surroundings,' she remarked.

'Oh, I shan't notice anything once I get going,' Chris told her. 'All I need is seclusion and that it seems I'll get.'

They reached the summit of the hill and Chris drove through a gateway set in what had once been the curtain wall. The house it enclosed was built of honey-coloured stone blocks and followed the pattern of the original structure, two wings with crenellated walls being built out on either side of a square central tower. In front of it was a paved courtyard with several flower beds filled with geraniums, but even these bright patches of colour could not dissipate the slightly sinister aspect of the place. Clare was seized by sudden panic as she realised her isolation. She must have been completely crazy to allow herself to become involved in this adventure. She really knew practically nothing about the man beside her, and he had brought her to this gloomy desolate spot where anything could happen and nobody be any the wiser. When she had accepted the position she had fondly imagined she would be lodging in or near Nice, and when later Chris spoke of a retreat, she had expected a sunny, friendly village, not these decaying habitations surrounded by frowning mountains. She had the sensation of being trapped. Unaware of her perturbation, Chris was looking about him with satisfaction.

'No distractions whatever,' he observed. 'I'll be able to concentrate here.'

'It's hateful!' Clare burst out, and he looked at her in surprise. 'It... it frightens me.'

'You're too impressionable,' he told her. 'You'll soon get used to it.'

About to demand that she was returned to civilisation, the arrival of several Italian servants created a diversion. They looked friendly and greeted them with little cries of welcome. But their English was rudimentary and Clare did not speak Italian, though she knew some French. Christopher spoke the language fluently, and after a short consultation with the man who seemed to be in charge, whileothers were dealing with their luggage, he turned to her.

'All is in readiness for us. We're to be accommodated in the Eastern wing. Violetta's rooms are in the West. This young woman,' he indicated a sturdy sloe-eyed raven-haired girl, 'will wait on you. Her name's Emilia.' He changed to Italian to say something to her and Emilia smirked.

'Buon giorno, signorina.'

'Good afternoon,' Clare responded faintly.

'You ... come?' Emilia asked, seizing the cardboard box, Clare's cases had already disappeared, and she followed her indoors.

The entrance to the castello led into a vast marble-paved hall at the base of the tower. A fine staircase ascended upwards to a landing beneath a large stained glass window. From thence other stairways branched left and right to give access to either wing.

Emilia, murmuring 'Permesso,' preceded Clare up the stairs, taking the left-hand turn, at the top of which was a long corridor. It was lighted from above and ran the length of the wing with doors on either side. Clare's bedroom was at its furthest extremity, with one window looking over the courtyard in front and another over the sheer drop into the valley. The bathroom was opposite to it across the passage, as Emilia indicated. Clare's two cases were already installed, and Emilia put the cardboard box on top of them. Then, murmuring something in her own tongue, the girl smiled and withdrew. The furnishings except for a giant armoire along one wall were modern, fitted carpet, bright curtains and divan bed, which somewhat restored Clare's confidence. A door in the inner wall stood open and she saw the room beyond was fitted as a sitting room, and as she surveyed it, a man came in from the corridor and put Chris's typewriter carefully on a square wooden table. So that was where she was to work, and again the sight of the machine was reassuring. It was a familiar object in an alien world.

Clare unpacked, hanging her new clothes in the vast armoire, thinking the expenditure had been a little unnecessary. There was no one here to notice how she looked except Chris, and he had indicated that once he became absorbed in work he did not notice anything.

After a wash and brush up, she went into the sitting room, wondering what she was expected to do next. It was late in the afternoon, and the sunlight was cut off by the bulk of the mountains as the sun sank, and the valleys were full of shadows.

Chris came in through a further door opposite the one into her room, and she guessed that it was his bedroom. They had been accommodated in a compact unit. He unlocked a case that had been deposited on the floor and extracted from it paper, carbons and sheets of manuscript.

'Do you want to start work now?' she asked, going to help him by placing the articles on the table.

'It's too late—besides, you look tired,' he said kindly. 'You see it's not so bad after all, quite luxurious in fact. Reconciled?'

'For the time being.' She would not commit herself.

'We'll make a start tomorrow,' he went on. 'I've ordered dinner for eight and we're expected to dine in state downstairs. I don't care for the Latin habit of eating late.'

'That'll suit me,' she agreed. 'Do we change?'

'Of course. Oh, you needn't dress up, I shall put on a tie and jacket. The servants will expect it. Violetta's domestics are used to style.'

The reminder that she was in Violetta's house was unwelcome. Enzo Albanesi must have been a very wealthy man to be able to perform such a massive reconstruction job » and Chris must be on very good terms with his wife to have acquired the loan of it. It seemed to her the height of ostentatious extravagance to have rented such a palace with its large staff, but if in actuality he was a guest that was more understandable.

'That is my opus,' he told her, indicating the folder Clare held in her hand. 'I've roughed out the plot, and that,' pointing to another bulky folder, 'is correspondence, etc, in connection with it and other works. It's all in a muddle so you could arrange it in date order for a start.'

'I'll do that now,' she said, opening it. 'Oh, I don't mind,' as he started to protest, 'I've nothing to do at the moment.' It contained a miscellany of memoranda, bills, letters and copies of agreements. With deft fingers she began to sort them into some sort of chronology. As she proceeded, the name Cedric Radford became in evidence. There were a lot of letters dealing with an American production of his play, Autumn Fires. Cedric Redford was a brilliant young dramatist, who often acted in his own plays. He had been hailed as a second Noel Coward. Clare had seen Autumn Fires during its trial run in Manchester. Admitting it was clever, she had been repelled by it. It was a mercilessly satirical comedy dealing with ageing women who refused to grow old gracefully, butts of its cruel wit. The young actor who had mocked them and fooled them had seemed to her, to be a callous brute. Wanting to live herself, she could sympathise with those who felt life slipping away from them unfulfilled.

But what had Autumn Fires to do with Christopher Raines? She looked across at him and saw that he had dropped into a chair and was absorbed in the file containing his manuscript. She noticed the ruthless set of his jaw when his face was in repose. Underneath his light-hearted raillery was indomitable purpose when he had an aim to achieve.

'This Cedric Radford,' she said hesitantly. 'There seems to be a lot of stuff dealing with him ...?'

'Oh, that's my pseudonym,' Chris told her absently. 'Please put all the Autumn Fires stuff together.'

Clare sat down with a small gasp as everything started to click into place.

Time had blunted her recollections of Autumn Fires-, it was two years since she had seen it and she had dismissed it as superficial. Striving to recall it in detail, she remembered that it had been set on the Riviera and its leading man had worn a white suit in the first act very similar to the one , Chris had appeared in on the previous night. He had been slim, elegant and sardonic, a slightly younger Chris. That she had not recognised him was not surprising, as she had seen several plays since and others on television. One good- looking actor was much like another, and Cedric Radford had not impressed her.

Chris had deceived them all, posing as an unknown writer with no hint that he had ever appeared on a stage. He had been able to do so because his real name was not well known and his puckish humour would delight in the deception. Monica had declared he had not the application to succeed, and she herself had lectured him about his extravagance, before she began to have doubts about his supposed poverty. Cedric Radford earned so much money that it had been announced that he was contemplating living abroad to escape his income tax as some fellow artistes had done. Luxurious hotels in Nice were his natural habitat, the luscious Violetta Albanesi his normal appendage, Monica and her tabbies victims of his perverse humour. He had decided that Clare Underwood could fill the gap left by the secretary he had discarded because he did not like him. What had happened to the poor creature? He had not mentioned that. So he had inveigled her into accompanying him to this isolated spot without scruple as to how he did it, and unless she could make herself indispensable she would in her turn be discarded if a more useful candidate presented herself.

Finding something portentous in her stillness, Chris looked up.

'Anything the matter?'

'I'm trying to assimilate the fact that you're Cedric Radford.'

He laughed merrily. 'My own name is a useful disguise, I don't always want to be recognised. Actually I had to act and write under a professional name to appease my grandfather. He brought me up and wanted me to go into the Army as all the Raines men did. My father wis killed in Korea when I was a year old. But it was not the sort of life that appealed to me.'

'No, I can't see you as a soldier,' she agreed. 'But if your family were Service people, where did your talent come from?'

'My mother was... is ... an actress. When Dad died she took off, hadn't any use for babies. I believe she's married again several times.'

An edge crept into his voice and Clare felt a throb of pity, Not surprising that he was a cynic, and he had never forgiven his mother for abandoning him.

'I'd no idea I had been engaged by a famous man,' she said shyly.

'But you've been working for a famous woman,' he gibed. 'Monica Cullingford's name is nearly as well known as my nom-de-plume in some circles.'

'But you're not in the same class,' Clare declared.

'How do you know?'

'I saw one of your plays in Manchester. This one,' she touched the file folder. 'Autumn Fires.''

'And did you like it?'

She hesitated. 'It was very clever,' she hedged.

'I asked if you liked it. Of course it was clever, even my most biased critics allowed that.'

Remembering his warning, she still sought to prevaricate; it had been very well done, beautifully acted—but Chris cut her short.

'Come, let me have your honest opinion,' he urged. 'I'd like to hear it.'

'Very well, I didn't like it. I don't care for superficial comedies, and it was horribly cynical.' He looked annoyed and she realised she had blundered. 'Of course that's only my personal opinion, or should I say taste? It had a long run.'

'Of course you're too immature to understand it.'

She should have said no more, but his charge of immaturity nettled her.

'I was old enough to hate it for its cruelty.'

'Who to? A lot of old cows making fools of themselves?' Chris had risen to his feet and was scowling at her.

His anger sparked hers; after all, he had asked for her opinion.

'They were to be pitied, not mocked—but I don't believe you're capable of human compassion.'

'I've no use for mawkish sentiment,' he snarled. 'Naturally, having been with an authoress renowned for her romantic rubbish, you wallow in shallow sentimentality. You're only an ignorant little adolescent. A lot of use you'll be to me!'

The falcon eyes were glittering, but she answered coolly, 'I can still type ... and spell.'

'I hoped for a lot more than that—sympathetic understanding, honest criticism ...'

'That's what I gave you.' Clare too had risen to her feet and they were facing each other over the table, both too angry to choose their words. 'But you couldn't take it.'

'Take it from you? What do you know about female psychology? I tell you, all women, both young and old, are bitches.'

'Thank you, but then you don't consider I'm a woman, do you? Merely a precocious teenager. You consort with painted sluts like Signora Albanesi and believe they're representative of the whole sex. Decent respectable women don't interest you.'

She ought not to have mentioned Violetta, but the woman's voluptuous beauty had haunted her, and if it was from her sort that Christopher judged women no wonder he had a low opinion of them.

He said: 'By decent respectable women you mean yourself. Let me tell you you're no better than the sluts you despise. It's simply that you haven't been aroused.' He came round the table and murmured softly, menacingly:

'It's time you learned something about yourself, my Brown Sparrow. That underneath that facade of virtue you've all the natural urges that make other women sluts, as you call them. You haven't got that passionate mouth for nothing.'

Clare's heart began to pound against her sides. By her own foolish words she had provoked a situation with which she could not cope. She did not know this fierce, angry man who was quite unlike the suave indolent Christopher with whom she was familiar. She had stupidly wounded his vanity, in spite of what he had told her about authors resenting unfavourable criticism, and she had insulted the woman he loved. The atmosphere of this forbidding place had affected her, awaking violence to meet violence, and violence was what Chris intended as he advanced upon her with an evil glitter in his eyes.

All her fumblings towards fuller experience vanished in sheer panic, as she backed away from him, whispering faintly:

'No ... please, Chris ... no!'

'You wanted experience,' he said brutally. 'You shall have it. And think yourself honoured that I'm prepared to teach you.'

Her fear was swamped in furious anger at his arrogance.

'Honoured by your attentions?' she cried, and struck him with all her force across his sneering mouth. It was the worst thing she could have done, for her action excited him. He mastered her in one swift movement, twisting the offending hand and arm behind her back. With his other arm he crushed her against himself and his mouth came down on her with punishing ferocity.

According to Monica, Clare should then have experienced a surge of rapturous response, especially as she was more than half in love with her aggressor. Actually she felt only bewilderment and pain. Her failure to reciprocate, her stiff unyielding body against his arm, doused Christopher's spurt of passion. He released her so suddenly that she staggered, and walked back to his chair.

Clare eyed him apprehensively, fingering her bruised mouth. If she were due for instant dismissal she would be in a terrible predicament, but nothing would make her beg for mercy from the tyrant who had assaulted her.

Chris said coolly, without looking at her, 'I'm sorry about that, but you shouldn't have slapped me. That's a very provocative thing to do.'

'You provoked me,' she retorted.

'Nice little girls like you are supposed to turn the other cheek,' he gibed.

She did not deign to answer this sally and started to collect the papers she had been sorting which had been scattered by his violent action. Her mind was still seething with questions, the first and foremost being how she was to extricate herself from an impossible situation.

'Let them be,' he told her impatiently. 'It's time we got ready for dinner.'

'I don't think I could eat any dinner,' she said frostily.

'Now you're being ridiculous. Of course you must eat some dinner. You need food to help you recover your temper.'

'I like that!' she cried, her eyes flashing stormily. 'You lost yours.'

'That's no way to speak to your boss,' he rebuked her.

'I'll treat you with respect when you deserve it,' she muttered rebelliously, and Chris whistled.

'Wow, I've got me a tartar for a secretary, and having brought you up here, in the belief that you were a meek little mouse, it seems I'm stuck with you.' He regarded her ruefully but with the familiar mocking glint in his eyes, so that Clare was reassured. 'I must say that temper becomes you,' he went on reflectively. 'You're quite handsome when your eyes blaze, but don't do it too often, Miss Sparrow, or I won't answer for die consequences.'

'I'm sorry,' she said quietly, 'I said some very foolish things. I won't offend again, Mr Raines.'

'Forget it;' he told her lightly. 'Actually I don't mind a little ... er ... argument occasionally, it breaks the monotony.' He made a mocking bow. 'Now, Miss Underwood, if I might suggest it's time you prepared yourself for the meal of which we must partake in state for the sake of the staff. Must keep up appearances, you know. We can eat in dignified silence if you would prefer it.' She had to laugh.

'Very well, Mr Raines. I'll be ready in a few minutes. And perhaps we should essay a little polite conversation? For the sake of the servants.'

She went into her room, and Chris watched her go with an oddly tender expression on his face.

CHAPTER FIVE

CLARE was a little exercised as to what to wear for dinner. The new silk gown, she decided, was too grand for an informal tete-a-tete. The dowdy dresses of Monica's regime were definitely out. There remained the despised cotton print, which was sleeveless, and with a little manipulation she could lower the neckline. She added a beige open-knit shawl which Monica had bestowed upon her, remarking that she hated the colour and Clare might find a use for it. Tonight she had, and a string of beads completed her out- i fit, which she decided was quite adequate.

The light was fading as she stepped out into the corridor, wondering if she should proceed downstairs. The twilight did not linger in Italy as it did in northern climes and it would soon be dark. A sudden blaze of light flooded the passage, for in spite of its isolation the castello was fitted with electricity, and also quite modern plumbing. Clare saw Christopher at the far end of it coming towards her. He had, as he had said he would, put on a brown and blue check jacket with a blue de over a white shirt, and his hair had been smoothed into a dark cap. He looked very tall and a little menacing as he strode towards her, and it seemed to her there was an ominous glitter in his amber eyes. It flashed into her mind that she had not yet been forgiven for that ill-advised slap and she might expect further retaliation. Involuntarily she quailed, shrinking back against the panel of her bedroom door.

But his voice was normal, as he said easily:

'Hullo there! I came to fetch you. Why are you skulking in the shadows?'

'I ... I didn't know where the switch was.' She was aware that her voice had trembled. She had tried to dismiss the incident earlier in the evening from her mind. If she were to continue in Christopher's employ it would only be possible on an impersonal basis. He had apologised and she blamed herself for provoking him. In future she must guard her tongue and remember her position, which in their solitude was inducive of too great intimacy. Now that she knew he was a successful and popular man of the theatre she must accord him greater respect and consider herself privileged to work for him.

But when he came swooping towards her down the passage, something very far from impersonal stirred within her, an awareness that he was a man and she was a woman, and that they were alone in this isolated place except for the servants and she was very far from indifferent to him. Her nerves tingled as she awaited his approach, half expecting some further demonstration of displeasure. His words had sounded innocuous enough, but he was unpredictable.

He halted in front of her and offered her his arm.

'Allow me to conduct you to the salotto di pranzo.'

'And what may that be?' she asked, timidly laying her hand on his coat sleeve.

'Dining room, of course, and it's awe-inspiring.'

They proceeded side by side along the corridor, Clare very conscious of the muscular arm beneath her hand. Chris had found time to bathe and shave and a whiff of after-shave lotion reached her nostrils. It was not going to be easy to keep the distance between them if he treated her so casually, more like a fellow guest than an employee. Not that she had any real objection to that, except that it was like playing with a big cat. If she overstepped the limits of his tolerance he would cease to purr and claw her, the difficulty being she had no idea of how far she could go without giving offence.

The head of the stairs was ill lit and shadowy, and he said cheerfully that this was where the ghosts congregated.

'Is the place haunted?' she asked doubtfully.

'Of course, all the best castles have their spectres. This one will have inherited a few from the older building, victims of the bloodthirsty dukes who used to hold sway here.'

'I don't believe in them,' she said scornfully.

They were descending the stairway into the great hall, the corners of which were filled with gloom and felt eerie.

'Perhaps you'll be converted by the time we come to leave.'

Clare repressed a shudder; there was a creepy atmosphere about these lower rooms that were built on the scene of so many terrible deeds.

'I refuse to be scared,' she said firmly.

Christopher chuckled. 'Intrepid, aren't you? It'll be the ghosts who are scared.'

'You sound as if I were some sort of dragon,' she said reproachfully. She wanted to appear soft and feminine to him, but since she had repulsed him he seemed determined to make out she was some sort of Amazon.

'No, only a sparrow,' he teased her. 'But sparrows can be very fierce little birds, and they peck.'

They had reached the dining room and the butler, major- domo, or whatever his position, was waiting to receive them. He was an animated little Italian called Roberto. The lower rooms of the castello were vast marble-floored apartments and would be quite impossible to heat in winter. Though some of the original outer walls had been incorporated into the new building, its large windows were modern. Heavy damask curtains covered them tonight, and the furniture was antique. A big refectory table was in the centre of the room with carved wooden chairs at each side of it. The light from sconces high up on the walls was poor, and had been supplemented by candles. Two magnificent three-branched candelabra were set in the centre of the end of the table where their places had been laid. Christopher sat in a throne-like chair at the head, with Clare on his right hand. Another maid, not Emilia, waited on them while Roberto poured their wine—Chianti since they were in Italy. Chris addressed some remarks to Roberto in Italian in which Clare caught the name of Signora Albanesi, more than once although, Roberto called her Madama, a reminder of the real owner of the castle in which Christopher seemed so much at home.

To Clare her situation became more and more unreal. She had been engaged to do clerical work for Christopher Raines and she should not be sitting at this table like an intimate friend, and Signora Albanesi would probably resent her presence if she knew of it. Would they be expected to dine in this stately manner every night, or was Chris merely showing off to impress her? She found her environment oppressive, and Roberto's bright inquisitive glances disconcerting. She would much rather have her meal upstairs if it could be arranged. During the temporary absence of the servants she asked if that were possible.

'Have a heart, Sparrow!.' Chris exclaimed with mock reproach. 'Would you condemn me to eat alone in this mausoleum? I'm relying upon you to frighten the apparitions away.'

'I'm sure it isn't correct to dine with your secretary,' she told him. Mrs Cullingford had never eaten with her except afternoon tea. Clare had been served her dinner and lunchon a tray. She was not sure what the procedure should begin a ducal house, but she was certain she should not be sitting there with Chris like ... like his wife!

'My duties, may I remind you, end at nightfall,' she went on, 'and I'd appreciate having my evenings to myself ... to get on with my book.'

'How unsociable,' he returned. 'Surely there's no great hurry about your book, and you'll be gaining new impressions all the time.' He leaned towards her, a wheedling note coming into his voice, his clear actor's voice that had been trained to express so much even when he meant nothing. 'If I increase your salary will you consent to act as companion as well as secretary?'

'I couldn't take any more from you, Mr Raines, you've already been more than generous.'

'Independent, aren't you? Why don't you get all you can out of me? You know I'm rich enough to pay handsomely for my whims.'

'Because I'm not mercenary, though you may not believe it.'

Roberto's return cut short their conversation. He carried a huge bowl of fresh fruit for dessert. They had been served an Italian meal of soup, followed by lasagne, then slabs of veal in a savoury sauce. Chris was eyeing Clare appreciatively. The soft candlelight became her, giving her skin an alabaster sheen, making her eyes appear shadowed and mysterious. He noticed the length of her eyelashes and the delicacy of her profile cameo-clear against the sombre background of the room. Clare moved uneasily under his scrutiny, wondering if he were finding fault with her dress. Defensively she drew her shawl closer about her shoulders. She must present an unflattering contrast to the opulent and stylish Violetta with whom he had presumably dined the night before. He was actually comparing them, but decided that Clare possessed a grace and serenity that was entirely lacking in the Italian woman, who suffered from a restless boredom.

Clare's gaze wandered round the room seeking distraction from the self-consciousness Christopher's penetrating regard was beginning to cause her. Her attention was caught by a painting set between two of the long windows. Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the dim lighting, she could see it was a woman with red hair.

'Is that the Signora?' she asked.

It was the hovering Roberto who answered her.

'Si, si, signorina.'' He went to the wall and pressed a switch. A light came on above the picture so arranged to illuminate it. It was the head and shoulders of a girl in a white silk gown trimmed with lace; lace too covered her head from beneath which her gorgeous hair streamed down her back. Though it depicted a very youthful Violetta, the expression of the great brown eyes was world-weary, as if she had left her innocence far behind, and her beautiful mouth had a discontented droop.

'Bella,' said Roberto with reverence. Evidently he greatly admired his mistress. 'Ze old one ... ze dead maestro had it painted when zey marry.' .

'Verita,' Chris agreed absently, staring at the picture with fascination and, could it be, a faint repulsion.

Roberto withdrew, leaving the light on above the portrait. Chris continued to stare at it while he mechanically peeled a peach. Finding his abstraction oppressive, Clare said:

'She doesn't look very happy.'

'Would you be if you were married to a man old enoughto be your grandfather?' he demanded angrily. 'What she has become now is the result of that mismating.'

'What a barbarous custom!' Clare exclaimed. She knew that such arranged marriages were still contracted among the upper classes in that country, but this was the first time that she had come across an example. 'But she's free now?'

'Very much so,' Chris observed drily. 'Oh, Enzo wasn't a bad old stick, I knew him quite well, but no husband for a young girl.'

'And he rebuilt the castle?' Clare asked, realising that Chris must be an old friend of the Albanesi family.

'And installed plumbing and lighting; a wasted effort, because Violetta wants to sell it. It's a dead world up here now, all the young people are drifting to the towns; they see no fun in trying to scrape a living from barren soil. Most of those still left in the village work here in the castle. Roberto's got a wife and two kiddies there; he lives out, you know, and he knows better than to bring his offspring here.'

'Why?'

'Vio doesn't like children. Fortunately she didn't have any—Enzo was past it.'

'Oh!' Clare looked blank. She had always understood that Italians adored children. 'I love them,' she said simply.

Chris turned his gaze upon her; his sunny humour had vanished since Roberto had illuminated the portrait, as if some malignant influence had reached out from it to him.

'You'll change your tune when you've had some,' he said nastily.

'I'm sure I shan't! I wouldn't mind a dozen.'

'God, what an awful prospect!' His eyes narrowed to needle-points and his voice roughened. 'What are you going to do about it? You'll have to begin soon if you want so many. Perhaps you're ultra-modern and don't think a husband is necessary?'

She knew he was trying to bait her. Some reminder of Violetta had raised his ire and he was venting his ill temper upon her. If he hoped to shock her she would disappoint him; she was not going to allow herself to be provoked into any further display of emotion tonight. She returned equably:

'No. I believe in family life and I'd be content with a couple if ... if the right man comes along.' She did not look at him, suspecting he was sneering. 'I'm only twenty, so he probably will. You see, I'm very fond of my father and I wouldn't be without him. I would want my children to love and respect theirs.'

'So you admit men have their uses.' There was an edge to his voice and she remembered too late that this was a painful subject; he had never known his own father. 'I thought I detected in you a hint of militancy. I suspected you were an ardent supporter of Women's Lib, but perhaps I wronged you?'

She thought that by his own showing Violetta had been a victim of a system Women's Lib would deplore, but all she said was:

'I don't support it because it's against nature. Men and women aren't equals, they're different, and each has their right spheres. Men have a greater urge to prove themselves than women, but women have more patience and endurance to put up with them.'

'Quite an epigram. I shall look forward to reading your book.'

'Oh no!' The idea of Christopher's satirical eye scanning her pages caused her to shrink. 'I couldn't ever let you do that.'

'You can't stop me when it's in print.'

She sighed. 'If it ever is.'

'You've one of the most expressive faces I've ever met,' Chris exclaimed, abruptly changing the subject. 'It alters with your emotions. I can almost see your thoughts.'

'Oh lord, I hope not!' Clare ejaculated, horrified, for there was a great deal she wished to conceal from him. Possibly he expected her to fall in love with him; he must have an extensive following of fans, hysterical women who mobbed him on first nights, so that he was used to easy conquests, and what sort of a fight could a brown sparrow put up against his magnetic personality? He had set out to charm her in a careless casual way, believing she would immediately become his willing slave, anxious to flatter his ego. But even a sparrow had some pride, and she had no intention of pandering to his vanity by openly adoring him. She was too outspoken and already they had clashed, probably would again, and she was determined he should not discover how he affected her.

'Why, are your thoughts so unprintable?' he demanded with his impish grin. 'I'd never have thought it of you, Miss Puritan Underwood. I'd imagined your mind was as limpid and pure as a spring of fresh water.'

'You talk a great deal of nonsense,' she said severely. 'Now, if you'll excuse me I'd like to get back to Perfidious Passion, as you've dubbed my manuscript.'

'We haven't had our coffee yet,' he objected.

She said she would not wait for it and it might keep her awake.

'You're heartless, leaving me here alone.'

'You have the Signora.' She indicated the portrait.

He uttered an imprecation and striding up to the picture, switched off the light. Clare watched him with puzzled eyes, wondering if he had quarrelled with the beautiful Italian, but that seemed improbable since they were in her house. Perhaps Violetta had not been sufficiently impressed by the Radford legend and he was piqued.

'I'll have the coffee sent up to our sitting room,' he decided. 'I'll read while you work.'

'Oh, but ...' She knew she could not write a line if he were present to distract her thoughts.

'You can use my typewriter.'

'The noise would irritate you,' she protested, though the offer tempted her. She did riot possess one of her own and had used Monica's surreptitiously when that lady was out. She had been considering if she could manage to hire one to complete her script.

'I'm used to it, it won't worry me,' he told her.

Roberto came in with the coffee tray and was peremptorily ordered to carry it upstairs. He followed them to their sitting room, then after depositing his load on the table, he proceeded with much gesticulation to wish them buona notte, piacevole riposo e sogni dolci, with his small black eyes wandering from one bedroom door to the other with sly meaning. Finally he bowed himself out.

'Sorry, darling,' Chris said nonchalantly as he poured the coffee. 'I'm afraid by bringing you here I've fatally compromised you. Do you mind?'

'Not at all, but it might be awkward for you. After all, your doings are news, aren't they?'

'You mean Cedric Radford's are,' he corrected her. 'These good folk only know me as an acquaintance of the Albanesis, so I'm in no danger. That's nearly all milk, so it won't keep you awake.'

As he handed her the cup their fingers touched and a thrill ran up the nerves of her arm. 'Thank you,' she said breathlessly, and retreated to the furthest seat away from him.

He regarded her action quizzically. 'I'm not contagious,' he observed, 'but perhaps you're wise to keep your distance. You aren't really going to write, are you? You look tired.'

'I am a bit,' she admitted. 'I think I'll call it a day.'

'Sensible girl, and don't forget I'm just opposite if ... something goes bump in the night and you feel scared.'

'Thank you, Mr Raines, but I'm not easily scared.'

She wondered if he had raised the subject of ghosts to offer her an excuse to pay him a nocturnal visit, and a little shiver of excitement ran down her spine. She would not dream of being so brazen, but she had the sensation of really living at last, she wouldn't have to confess now that she had never been tempted and her virtue was preserved by necessity, not choice, she knew, or thought she knew, what would happen if she went to Christopher's room, and the prospect was both alluring and frightening, but naturally nothing would ever induce her to seek his arms.

'Hard luck on me,' he grinned while his eyes glinted wickedly. 'I hope you're not disturbed, because I want you to be at your best and brightest in the morning to deal with my dictation.'

Clare put her empty coffee cup on the tray and wished him goodnight. Once inside her room she hesitated whether to lock her door, but Chris would hear the click of the key and she could imagine his sarcastic smile. Upon investigation the problem was solved for her. There was no key. But once she was in bed in that strange haunted house, the knowledge of his proximity was comforting rather than alarming and she fell asleep at once.

Breakfast was brought to her room and defiantly she dressed in slacks and tank top, which seemed to her more suitable apparel for this country retreat. Chris was already in the sitting room when she went in, and gave her a brief glance, raising his eyebrows, but made no comment. He dictated to her at great speed, prowling round the room and she was hard put to it to keep up with him. But she found he interspersed his flow with long pauses while he collected his thoughts and she had an opportunity to check her notes. Then he would ask her to read back what she had written, often delete it and start again.

'You read intelligently,' he told her, 'and you've a pleasant voice. Dialogue is meant to be spoken and it comes alive when I hear it. I can tell then what's wrong with it.'

The play was a bright piece of nonsense about a young dramatist who needed an idea for a play to win a competition but was suffering from a mental block. Using an old formula brought from Delphi, he tried to invoke the Muse of Comedy to inspire him. He succeeded so well that Thalia materialised in human form and refused to leave his side until the work was finished, much to the annoyance of his fiancee. This gave rise to many evocative situations and misunderstandings, for no one would believe she was not human—the whole handled with brilliant wit and somewhat reminiscent of Blithe Spirit.

Chris worked until lunch time, the meal being brought upstairs to them. Then he said he was going for a ride in the hills and she could type out the contents of her notebook ready for him to correct upon his return.

'Did you say ride?' she asked, thinking she had misheard him.

'Yes, Violetta keeps a couple of nags here. Do you ride?'

She shook her head, the circumstances of her life had precluded any sport beyond the basketball she had played at school. She had not been good at it.

'I suppose you ride, swim and ski, all that sort of thing?' she asked a little wistfully, thinking the exercise accounted for his muscular fitness.

'Yes, and so does Violetta. She's an expert sportswoman.'

He went off, leaving her to reflect upon the inequalities of life. Violetta had beauty, and not only the opportunity but the ability to excel at sports. Clare had a mental vision of the redhead skimming down a piste in company with Chris, and the two of them galloping over the countryside together. Each careless revelation Chris made widened the gulf between her and her employer; they lived in different spheres, and that was something she would do well not to forget in the forced intimacy of this mountain retreat to which he had brought her.

The summer days flew past, following the same routine, except that as the days grew hotter they rose earlier and ceased work at noon, taking their lunch out in the courtyard, where Roberto erected sun umbrellas to give them shade and brought out canvas loungers on which they could recline throughout the early afternoon. Chris wore nothing except a pair of shorts and rapidly acquired a deep tan, but Clare obstinately clung to her slacks and top. It did not seem to her proper that she should over-expose herself in the presence of her employer. Roberto thought they were mad, a darkened room with the curtains barring out the sun as soon as it gained strength would be much cooler, but they ignored his hints. Clare had seen his cottage in the village where his plump wife and two bonny children had shyly welcomed her. They could not see much of Papa, for he was at the castello early and late and he never brought them within its precincts.

At four o'clock, they were brought a cup of tea, and then they worked indoors for a couple of hours before they showered and dressed for dinner which they continued to take in the salotto di pranzo, which, Chris pointed out, was much cooler than upstairs, so that Clare had yielded to his desire for her company, which was mainly because he wanted to discuss his play, in which he had become completely absorbed. Never again was Violetta's portrait illuminated, though Clare often fancied that her brown eyes were watching them.

There was no telephone at the castle, and mail was delivered daily, though it was often late. From the correspondence she dealt with, Clare realised that Olympian Intrusion, which was the provisional title of the play, was already bespoke, and a tentative cast was being assembled, though a theatre had not yet been found for it. Chris himself was to play the leading man.

The certainty that her days at the castello were numbered depressed Clare, and she felt she had been foolish to leave Mrs Cullingford's more permanent employment. Her own book was hanging fire, though she had plenty of leisure to work at it in the afternoons if she so wished, and again after dinner, she had no inclination to tackle it. For if Christopher was absorbed in his play, she was absorbed in him and was loth to lose any moment of his company. He had become the most important thing in her life and all her thoughts became centred in him. It was a consolation to know that she need never wholly lose touch with him, for since he was a public figure she would be able to see him act, read his plays and reviews, and also his short stories, for these he dashed off occasionally when the mood took him, long after she had ceased to work for him.

He was engaged upon a story now, saying he would let the play simmer for a while, a tale about Liguria and its. folklore which displayed a depth and imagination she found lacking in his dramas. He was a very versatile man.

At last came the day when Chris said he could not do anything more to Olympian Intrusion until it went into rehearsal, when there would be sure to be alterations to make. Unlike Noel Coward, who was reputed to be able to turn out a play in three days, he was a slow worker, meticulously selecting every word and re-writing over and over again.

'You know I'm entitled to a month's notice,' Clare reminded him, wondering if he would dispute this after the arbitrary way he had acted over Mrs Cullingford's rights.

He dropped the papers he was reading and stared at her.

'Of course you're staying with me. You don't think I'm going to dispense with your services just when I've got used to you? You can lodge in Bloomsbury or some such place and come to my flat every morning.'

Clare drew a long breath. She had not dared to hope that she might be retained to become part of his London life. But would she be capable of dealing with the agents, managers and awesome types that comprised his associates? She guessed that her duties would be far more exacting than anything she had done hitherto, while her relationship with Chris became far more formal. The easy companionship, more friends than employer and secretary, that they had slipped into would cease, and it might be better to break away from him before becoming involved in the worries and jealousies of his professional life. Here in isolation they had spent many pleasant hours together, her eager interest in his play stimulating his invention, and she had been careful never to criticise adversely. He had in fact become to a certain extent hers, while he had no one else to turn to. Back among his colleagues she would become merely a useful cypher to take his orders and be blamed for his mistakes; she rarely made any herself.

'I don't know that I can do that sort of work,' she said doubtfully.

'What sort of work? Don't be so modest, Sparrow. You know you can do anything you set your mind to.'

'But it'll all be so different from here, and London is so big and bustling, I'll be scared of it...'

'Not with me to protect you.'

'You'll have too much else to think about. Crowds of adoring fans...'

'Ah, so that's it, is it? You fear for your exclusive rights?' The amber eyes glinted mockingly. 'You mustn't be selfish, darling; an actor is dependent upon the adulation of his public. But you'll see me every day, or nearly every day, and you know I can't get along without you.'

Clare sighed, wishing that were true. Chris as usual was trying to coax her into doing what he wished. She supposed she would give in to him, she had little will to resist. The life he offered to her would broaden her experience, teach her sophistication, and she would welcome the opportunity if she were more indifferent to Chris. She did not usually lack courage to tackle any new task. She was no longer anxious to gain emotional experience, for she had felt its pain. Since coming to the castello she had learned that fundamentally she was not a career woman, nor had she any wish for cheap sensation. What she desired was her own home and a husband, and for that husband to be Christopher Raines, which was as likely of achievement as flying to Mars. Chris was a brilliant butterfly anxious to avoid being pinned down to any responsibility. He had told her that his grandfather had left him the old house in Sussex in which he had spent his boyhood and he had immediately sold it.

'Your family home?' she had asked, a little shocked.

'What of it? Who wants to be tied to an ancestral home nowadays unless to use it as a showplace? When I'm in Town I rent a service flat, when I'm abroad—castles.'

To her it seemed distressing that he had no roots, but he did not care; he wanted to be free to come and go as he pleased. Even Violetta had been unable to attach strings to him.

In the end she agreed to go to England with him, but although Olympian Intrusion was completed, Chris seemed in no hurry to leave Italy.

'We'll have a few days of leisure before facing the hurly- burly,' he decreed. 'I always feel a bit drained when I've completed a masterpiece.'

He glanced at her challengingly as if he expected her to query the worth of his play. So far she had evaded giving a direct opinion on it. To her it seemed a slight frothy piece and she preferred something nearer to a reflection of real life, but it would probably be a success, as the era of the kitchen sink drama was drawing to a close, and the chief part was tailored to fit Cedric Radford, whose name was always a draw.

'I'm sure you do,' she returned non-committally, not rising to the bait, and he looked disappointed as if he would have enjoyed a tussle with her, but she was not going to expose herself for his amusement.

She gained the impression that he was waiting for something to happen before he left Italy. He had an air of expectancy and he often looked at her searchingly as if about to reveal some secret, but he always thought better of it. Then one morning she thought she understood.

She was clearing up his papers, answering the few business communications that needed replies. Contrary to what she would have expected, he was meticulous about his commercial transactions and paid his bills promptly. Christopher was outside in the courtyard talking to Roberto; Clare could see them through the window. The Italian was as usual gesticulating wildly as he described some incident, and Chris was laughing. A character very similar to Roberto was depicted in his play. Clare watched him wistfully, noting how good-looking he appeared in white shirt and riding boots—he had been out on horseback—the bright sunlight picking out bronze lights in his dark hair, the mischievous amber eyes glinting.

The bonnet of a big car came through the gateway followed by the long length of the latest Ferrari model. Christopher's face changed as he saw it, the light died out of it, to be replaced by a certain wariness. Roberto uttered ecstatic cries and ran to open the car door.

An elegant figure descended from it wearing perfectly fitting fawn slacks and a matching tunic, a green scarf about her throat, a flimsy bit of tulle, and though she was wearing sun-glasses, there was no mistaking that red hair.

Violetta Albanesi had come in search of her truant lover.

CHAPTER SIX

CLARE stayed up in the suite throughout the long day and Christopher did not appear. He was, she presumed, with the Signora Albanesi, and since Violetta's apartments were in the opposite wing, no sound reached Clare. She watched the servants bring in the masses of luggage from the car, and her heart sank. The castle's mistress must be intending to make a long stay. Roberto drove the Ferrari round to the back where the outbuildings were, leaving the courtyard deserted. Nor did he put up the umbrellas and bring out the chairs; evidently Violetta, like himself, preferred the coolness of darkened chambers indoors. Darkened rooms with Chris beside her.

Emilia brought Clare's lunch to her on a tray. She was excited by the new arrival and deluged Clare with a flood of Italian of which she understood very little. She gathered that la signora was resting and il signore was with her. Then there was a lot about il pranzo, from which Clare deduced that her dinner also would be brought up to her. The secretary had been put firmly in her place, and Chris no longer needed her company.

She did all she could to his papers and the room looked unusually tidy when she had finished, for when Chris was there he scattered books, scripts and articles of clothing all over it. She collected a tie, a pair of socks which he had asked her to mend, and a pullover, and boldly carried them into his room. She had never entered it before and found it was a replica of hers, but with only one window, and including another ponderous armoire. Emilia had put Chris's clothes away when she made his bed, and there were no signs of his occupation; even his hairbrushes had been consigned to a drawer in the dresser. Of photographs or any clues to his personality there were none.

Clare withdrew with a sigh and going into her own room, took her manuscript out of the case where she concealed it and tried to concentrate upon it, but her efforts were unsuccessful. Her ears were strained to catch any sound from the other parts of the castle, and her thoughts wandered to Violetta. Did Chris intend to leave her entirely alone for the period of the Signora's visit, and how long did she mean to stay? He should be leaving for London, but he had lingered, hoping no doubt that she would come. Now she was here, he would give her priority. Once Clare would have welcomed a period of leisure, but now she was longing for Chris's presence and the prospect of being deprived of it indefinitely was bleak.

Abandoning all attempts to work upon her manuscript, she started a letter to her father. She had told her parents of her change of employment and had soon after her arrival described the castle to them, saying it belonged to friends of Mr Raines, implying that they were in occupation. In his reply Alf Underwood had said he hoped that she would not become above herself, mixing in such high society, as he hoped she would eventually return to work in a Manchester office.

'Mother and I miss you,' he wrote. 'We're not getting any younger. When you've had your fill of foreign parts we want you home again.'

Clare wondered what he would say when she told him her employer was Cedric Radford and she was contemplating plunging into the theatrical world. She could not inform him without Christopher's permission, and he must give it before she went to London, for her parents were entitled to know the whys and wherefores. She was afraid her father would take a dim view of the proceedings, for he was all for solid respectability and considered stage folk were riff-raff. She had not told him what Christopher wrote and he had gained the impression that he was a middle- aged author of serious books, which she had allowed him to go on thinking. She was not being deliberately deceitful, but she dared not be too explicit for fear her parents would worry. Though she insisted she had a right to choose what she did, she was too fond of them to want to cause them any anxiety.

She supposed she would eventually return to them, but she wanted to see a little life first. What she had not wanted to do was to fall seriously in love; she welcomed a little light flirtation, it made her feel feminine and desirable, but her feeling for Chris was unfortunately deepening the more she saw of him, and she was unable to regulate it.

She had begun to cherish wild impossible dreams, as foolish as any besotted teenager's; but the coming of Violetta Albanesi would soon put them to flight and teach her a salutory lesson. She might even be able to conquer her unruly heart. The spectacle of Chris in love should diminish him. No man is at his best when he is fatuously adoring ... someone else.

Since she would not be going downstairs, she did not bother to change but remained clad in the trousers and tank top which she had persisted in wearing in the daytime as being more suitable to her environment than the elegant garments Chris had chosen for her. Those dresses would serve well for her job in London—if she ever got there, which she often doubted.

She sat in her window watching the purple dusk creep over the mountains and fill the valleys with inky shade, feeling a little sorry for herself. There was nowhere she could go, no one to talk to unless she went to the village to play with Roberto's children, and it was too late for that. The air was heavy with the presage of a storm, and lightning flickered occasionally behind the mountains, illuminating their stark crags. It only wants a thunderstorm, she thought drearily, to make this place really awesome.

Quick footsteps sounded hurrying down the corridor and light bloomed in the adjacent sitting room. The imperious knocking on her door could only be Christopher, and her heart leaped. Without waiting for her to open it, he pushed i it ajar.

'All in the dark?' he exclaimed, and switched on the light. Clare rose from her seat by the window, cramped by her long reverie, and blinked in the sudden illumination.

'I believe you've been brooding,' he declared. 'Though the lord knows what you've got to brood about. You look like a drowsy owl. You'd better get cracking. We're dining an hour later tonight and I want you to put on that dress we bought in Nice, the copper-coloured silk.'

Astonished, Clare tried to collect her scattered wits.

'I'd rather stay up here,' she faltered.

'That you won't. I want you to meet Violetta. She's your hostess, isn't she? And I want you to look presentable.' He glared disparagingly at her slacks.

'But that dress isn't suitable,' she said earnestly. 'I'm not a guest, only your employee. If I must come down, it would be better if I wore one of my old dresses, the brown or the grey. It would be much less conspicuous.'

'Do you want to look a dowd?' he snapped. 'Vio'll think I dragged you out of an orphanage. Must I repeat I want you to do me credit? You'll do as I say.'

His day with Signora Albanesi did not seem to have improved his temper. Clare searched his face anxiously, wondering what devious purpose lay behind his order. It seemed strange that he wanted his secretary to dress up to - meet ... his mistress? He had told her Violetta was that, though she had not altogether believed him. His eyes were glittering with suppressed temper. Again she thought; they must have quarrelled. Was he using her as a stooge to make the other woman jealous? The other woman ... the necessary ingredient to a romance. She laughed and her eyes sparkled with sudden excitement. If he wanted her to play a part in his little drama, she was quite ready to oblige. It would be interesting to watch the reactions between these two, even if it proved a little painful. She was so ignorant about the nuances of love.

'Very well,' she agreed. 'How long have I got?'

He glanced at his wrist watch. 'Nearly an hour.' Some of the anger faded from his eyes and he smiled. 'I knew you wouldn't let me down.'

With which cryptic utterance he withdrew, leaving her still more puzzled. Why was it so important that she should look well?

Clare showered in the bathroom, aware from the sounds that Christopher was similarly employed in the one next to it. The copper-coloured dress fell in shimmering folds to her feet, leaving her neck and shoulders bare. She had never worn such a revealing gown before, and she decided they were rather nice. Wryly she recalled dressing for Monica's soirees. Then she had been forced to conceal what small attractions she possessed; tonight for some obscure reason Chris wanted her to display them. As a concession to her humble status, for it behoved her to be modest, she draped the beige shawl over her naked shoulders, but its wide crochet mesh only added to their provocation, showing as it did glimpses of her pearly flesh. She put on a gold cross and chain, which was not real gold, about her throat. It had been a confirmation present from her father, and she wished that she had a jewelled necklace to complement her dress. It looked as though it needed one.

Her toilet complete, she hesitated, suddenly shy at the prospect of going downstairs. She wondered whether Chris was still there and went through into their siting room. The door to his bedroom was ajar, and hearing her movements, he came through to join her. He was in waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, his jacket dangling from one hand. It was the suit she had seen him wearing in Nice and she noticed how the trim cut of the vest emphasised his supple waist.

'Help me on with this,' he held the jacket out to her. 'I must have put on weight since I've been here, the damn thing has got too tight.'

Clare took it from him and helped to ease it over his broad shoulders. It fitted without a crease. The little intimate action made her heart beat faster and brought colour into her pale cheeks.

Chris turned round and surveyed her.

'Very nice,' he complimented her. 'I must give you a necklace of topaz to give it a finishing touch.'

'I couldn't accept jewels from you, but it's a nice thought.'

'My Puritan Sparrow,' he scoffed, but his eyes were kind. 'Let's go down and face the interloper who has disturbed our peace.'

'She's hardly an interloper in her own house,' Clare objected as she preceded him out of the room.

'She is when she's leased it to me. Someone told her I'd got a woman here and she had to come and find out if it were true. Well, you'll give her something to think about, darling.'

So that was it! Chris resented Violetta's invasion of his privacy and this was his way of getting his own back. Violetta was to be shown that if she listened to rumours they were not without foundation. If the Signora really cared it was a cruel thing to do, nor did it reflect creditably upon her own position which was actually quite legitimate. Clare felt sympathy for the Italian woman and resentment on her own account. She made a movement towards her room, intending to tear off the misleading gown, but the dinner gong reverberated through the house, an old-fashioned summons which apparently the castle's mistress demanded, for Clare had not heard it before. Christopher seized her arm.

'Come along, you've no time to powder your nose and it doesn't need it. We mustn't keep Her Royal Highness waiting.'

They met Violetta Albanesi on the landing between the two branches of the stairs, descending at the same time that they were. She wore black chiffon that veiled but did not conceal her rounded limbs to which the underslip clung. Emeralds glittered on her neck and in her ears. Her big brown eyes were heavily mascaraed and had a sleepy, sexy look; her full mouth was like a scarlet flower. There was something decadent about her that marred her beauty, the aftermath of too much experience of nameless things. She was Lilith, the predecessor of Eve, who had no soul.

At the sight of Clare on Chris's arm, her eyes widened and lost their somnolent expression. Though the girl was only average height, the long dress made her look tall, emphasising her slenderness, and her youthful bloom caused the woman opposite her to appear middle-aged. Descending with Christopher's elegance beside her they were an attractive couple, suitably paired.

'So this is the secretary?' Violetta said insolently. She had a deep husky voice and she spoke English without any accent.

'Miss Underwood,' Chris introduced her. 'Clare, may I present Signora Violetta Albanesi, our hostess. Clare is a very efficient secretary, Vio.'

'She looks it,' Violetta sneered. 'In my youth secretaries were treated like upper servants and stayed with the governesses upstairs. Nor did they flaunt themselves in low dresses.'

'But these are democratic days,' Chris purred. 'One man or one woman is as good as the next. Of course if you prefer, Clare and I will eat upstairs while you're here.'

'Absurdo!' the Signora snapped. 'I have agreed that she shall dine with us to satisfy your socialist notions, so you should be satisfied. I try to move with the times, however offensive I find them.' The brown eyes flickered over Clare with reptilian malice. 'Cristofo must pay you very well, signorina, for you to be able to afford such expensive clothes.'

This rude remark, with all the hidden significance behind it, stiffened Clare, who had begun to wilt under Violetta's antagonism. She lifted her head and looked straight into the Italian's eyes.

'I fail to see that my financial standing is anything to do with you, signora.'

To her surprise, Violetta laughed.

'The girl has spirit,' she said to Chris. 'Bene, I have no use for doormats. Shall we proceed, or my good Roberto will be frantic that the food grows cold.' She moved towards them. 'Your arm, Cristofo, per piacere, to support my ageing footsteps. You, Clara ... was that your name? ... are young enough to be able to carry your own weight.'

Her heavily ringed hand closed possessively over Christopher's sleeve and as Clare followed them down the central stairway, she was seething with indignation at the Italian woman's insolence, but she had lost all awe of her. If Violetta tried to humiliate her during dinner she would give back as good as she got!

But Violetta didn't. Her earlier aggression forgotten, she laid herself out to be a charming and polite hostess, Clare might have been a welcome guest; but Clare was not deceived, she knew that Signora Albanesi disliked and despised her and was suspicious of her relations with Chris. She was reminded of a famous picture, 'Supper with the Borgias', where Cesare smilingly presents the poisoned cup to his shrinking guest. Violetta looked as though she could be a descendant of that murderous family and she would like to put poison in Clare's wine, for her eyes were inimical though her lips smiled. Involuntarily Clare glanced at the Chianti bottle, but they had all shared it, and she was being fanciful. The slightly sinister atmosphere of the room engendered such thoughts.

Violetta made no attempt to hide her infatuation with Chris. She sat at the head of the table with the other two on either side. Repeatedly her hand touched his sleeve possessively and her languid glance sought to meet his eyes. Once she touched her wineglass with her lips and handed it to him.

'Drink where I have drunk, it is a pledge, my friend.'

Pledge of what? Clare wondered. Chris looked embarrassed, but he obligingly drank the wine.

His feelings were not easy to gauge. He gave no sign of reciprocation, but being English he would try to conceal what he felt. Clare watched him closely across the table and occasionally he met her eyes with glinting amusement in his, almost as though he were diverted by his hostess's tactics. He did not appear to return Violetta's passion, but Clare knew he was a master of subterfuge.

The chatelaine began to tell them legends about the castle, including those relating to the supernatural. Its most persistent haunter was a young girl who had thrown herself out of a window to escape the evil intentions of the duke who had then owned the castle and brought her to it against her will.

'She was confined in the room which you now occupy,' Violetta fixed her eyes on Clare. 'You know there is a deep drop into the valley from one window. It was from there she threw herself. It is said that she returns on stormy nights and her face has been seen outside the window wailing to be let in.'

Clare wondered if her hostess's object was to frighten her, the air was heavy with coming storm tonight, but the story was too unoriginal to move her and Chris laughed with open scorn.

'The fallacy in your tale is that at the time the wicked Duca Rufino lived here there were no windows of any size, most of them being arrow slits, through which it would have been difficult to fall.'

'Bene, perhaps the tale has become distorted and it was from the battlements above that she hurled herself,' Violetta admitted. 'But it is generally accepted that she did exist and people swear that they have seen her ghost.'

'Your superstitious peasants would see anything,' Chris said contemptuously. 'Clare, for whose benefit I imagine you've dug up this tale, is of a different calibre. Personally I find it difficult to believe any denizen of your village hovels could prefer death to the comforts of the castle, which though rudimentary according to our standards must have been a vast improvement upon what she was used to. Presumably the wicked duke rewarded favours bestowed upon him, even if only to the extent of satisfying meals.'

A cynicism characteristic of Christopher's philosophy, Clare thought ruefully, while Violetta sighed.

'Ah, amico mio, you are of a mind so material! In the days of chivalry maidens preferred death to dishonour, or were supposed to do. But nowadays,' she shrugged her beautiful shoulders, 'honour is despised.'

She fixed her malicious gaze upon Clare, who to her annoyance felt herself blush. Signora Albanesi evidently believed that she was there to serve Chris in more ways than one.

The vast gloomy room was the right setting for ghosts. The electricity which was generated by the castle's own plant was erratic and tonight the light was poor, and the candles seemed to burn less brightly in the oppressive atmosphere, casting strange shadows. Chris's white-clad figure seated opposite to Clare looked grey, merging with the obscurity behind him. Only the buttons on his waistcoat and his cuff-links gleamed in the candlelight, which also picked out the jewels Violetta wore with points of fire. Her hair looked black and together with her dress was part of her background; only her face showed palely lit by her great malevolent eyes above the green sparkle of the gems at her throat. The wine in their glasses might have been dark blood, but by some trick of the uncertain illumination, Clare's silk dress glimmered with a golden sheen and the cross on her white neck stood out.

'You wear a talisman against the evil eye,' Violetta observed, noticing it. 'A wise precaution in this evil place.'

'The home of your ancestors,' Chris reminded her. 'Were they all so wicked?'

She set her elbow on the table and resting her chin upon her hand, stared at him.

'Incredibly so.' Her deep husky voice drew out the word. 'The men were murderers and robbers, the women wanton. Enzo should have let it crumble into dust instead of preserving it.'

'That would have been a waste.' Christopher was unimpressed by Violetta's histrionics, neither did he seem to be affected by the ominous atmosphere, which was causing Clare to feel vaguely apprehensive, as if something unpleasant was about to occur. 'He made a summer palace out of it,' he went on. 'And its situation is superb. But couldn't you get main electricity installed? Your generators are always letting you down.'

'It is too far to come.' Violetta's expression was almost comical. Chris was spoiling her drama by his practical comments. 'Roberto will look at the batteries tomorrow, they must need attention.' She turned her gaze back to Clare, who she sensed was more impressionable. 'Do you fear the dark?'

'Not in the least,' Chris answered for her, but Clare shivered. She thought Violetta was right, the miasma of past wickedness lingered over the vault-like structure of these lower rooms. It is said deeds of violence leave an impress in the air and that is the origin of apparitions. The castello was not a pleasant place to be in in the dark with a storm brewing.

Chris noticed her unease. 'You're too sensitive to suggestion,' he said to her. 'But don't let our good hostess get you down. Violetta revels in the macabre. Think what a fine scene this would make in your novel.'

Clare gave him credit for wanting to distract her, but his method was unpleasing to her. There was no need for him to have revealed her literary endeavours to this strange woman so that she could mock her. It showed how lightly he considered them—a child's ploy—but to her they were important. Giving him a reproachful glance, she said coldly:

'I don't aspire to write a melodrama.'

Violetta's sultry regard became fixed upon her curiously.

'So you too are a word-spinner—you and Cristofo must have much in common. What a bambino you could create between you, genius on both sides!'

Clare's face flamed at this extraordinary remark and she hoped the dim light concealed her embarrassment. Signora Albanesi's eyes shifted in time to note the expression of extreme distaste that crossed Christopher's face as one of the candles wavered and flared, and her own registered satisfaction.

He said lightly: 'What a thought! But genius dies in a generation. The children of gifted progenitors are rarely remarkable.'

'And you, amico mio, want no little torches to carry on your flame?' Violetta asked eagerly.

'I can't see myself as a family man.'

'Si.' This was the confession that she in her torturous way had been seeking to extract. 'Me, I am of your mind, which is fortunato, for I am told I cannot have little ones.' She put her hand over his where it lay on the table. 'We are very simpatico, are we not? To you I can confide my closest thoughts. This summer palace, as you call it, that you so admire, it can be yours if you say the word.'

Clare turned cold. Violetta was ignoring her as if she and Christopher were alone, for after using her to extract the information that Chris did not want children, which Italian husbands considered the purpose of marriage, she regarded her as a piece of furniture. There could not have been a clearer declaration of intent. Violetta wanted to assert her claims. Though Clare had suspected a liaison between the two of them she had begun to hope it was over. Christopher had left Nice because Violetta had come between him and his work, and he had not seemed very pleased by her unexpected arrival at the castle. The Italian had come to clinch the matter and oust her supposed rival. She was too subtle to insist upon Clare's instant dismissal, instead she had fallen in with Christopher's wishes regarding her. But if the upstart was to dine at her table, she would make the meal as unpleasant as possible for her and show her her place without actually denouncing her. The mention of phantoms had been an attempt to frighten her. Her talk of her brutal ancestors a hint of what she might expect if she were foolish enough to remain; her possessive attitude towards Chris an indication that he was her property. Was the Italian capable of violence, if she thought Clare was trying to thwart her? Clare pushed the sick fancy away from her. Tomorrow she would talk seriously to Chris. If Signora Albanesi intended to stay at the castle, she would ask to be sent home; she could not stay there under such circumstances.

The entrance of Roberto with the coffee saved Chris from the necessity of having to reply to Violetta's offer of the castle, and presumably her hand in marriage. Clare could see that his face wore the bland enigmatical expression that it always did when he did not want to betray himself. Was he tempted? she wondered. The castle might appear forbidding, but it was a fine property and he liked » it, and Violetta was a beautiful woman.

When the man had gone, Violetta's mood switched, or perhaps she had belatedly decided that Clare's presence was a deterrent and was holding her fire until she could get Chris alone again. She chattered lightly about mutual acquaintances in Nice, ignoring Clare, much to the girl's relief.

When they finally rose from the table, she said to Chris:

'You will come with me, si?'

'Not tonight,' Chris said firmly. 'I must work. My directors have set a deadline for my play and I've still corrections to make. Come, Clare, you'd better discard your glad rags and get busy.'

Clare saw Violetta's eyes glow red and if she could have slain her, she knew she would gladly do so. But with Christopher beside her she dared not even abuse her verbally, since she did not want to antagonise him. In silence they mounted the stairs, while Violetta swallowed her rage, Chris looked amused, and Clare felt relief to be released from the oppression of the dining room. Never again, she vowed silently, would she be persuaded to endure another meal there.

Where their ways parted, Violetta paused and looked at Chris.

'Later, amore mio?'

'No, it'll be much too late.' His face was like stone.

Signora Albanesi gave him one swift glance, then with a muttered, 'Buona notte,' swept up the branch of the stairway to her apartments. Clare and Chris went up to their gwn corridor which seemed a haven of refuge.

'I thought you'd finished your play,' Clare said tentatively as they strolled down the dim length of the passage.

'Of course I have, but I had to make some excuse,' he returned. 'What devilish caprice prompted her to come after me here? I had to spend all day walking in the hills to keep out of her way.'

A surge of joy swept through Clare, lightening her heart. He had not been with Violetta, as she supposed!

'I wish you'd told me, I'd have come too,' she said, recalling her solitary day.

'Too hard going for you, Sparrow, though I'd have liked your company—besides, there was no way of letting you know.' He sighed. 'We were so comfortable until she came.'

'Weren't you rather unwise to accept her hospitality?' Clare ventured to suggest.

He ran his fingers through his hair. 'I like this place and I thought she was involved in other distractions,' he explained. 'Apparently the other fellow wouldn't play ball.'

Clare felt profound relief. Not only was Christopher no longer enamoured of the beautiful Italian, but he was not even jealous of his supplanter. Recalling the lady's venomous glances, however, she felt they were in an awkward situation to say the least of it. Chris did not seem to be perturbed, though he must know he was the target of Violetta's desires and she would not let up easily. Clare hoped he would decide to move on on the morrow.

They reached their rooms and as Chris opened the sitting room door, the light responded feebly to the switch. A brilliant sheet of lightning flared outside the uncurtained window, filling the room with lurid light. Chris went to a cupboard and brought out a box of candles and several boxes of matches.

'The electricity will probably fail altogether,' he observed, glancing at the dimming bulb. 'Knowing this place I came prepared.'

Meeting her questioning glance he grinned.

'I used to stay here often when Enzo was alive. No, though I sympathised with Violetta I never tried to cuckold him. I have some morals.'

You waited until he was dead, was her unspoken thought. She could not rid herself of the conviction that there had been something between him and Violetta, whatever he said now. She recalled her first sight of the two of them together in Nice. They had looked like lovers then.

Clare took the two candles he offered her together with a box of matches, and even in the feeble light her pallor was noticeable.

'I'm afraid you had a trying evening,' Chris said kindly, 'but I needed your chaperonage.'

'The duties of a secretary are manifold,' she observed wryly. 'But Signora Albanesi didn't seem to recognise my role.'

'She's shameless,' he declared. 'The things she said!' He grimaced. 'Imagine being tied to such a man-eater!'

She hesitated, then asked anxiously, 'Shall we be leaving tomorrow?'

His mouth set in a firm line. 'I'm not going to let her drive me out, we'll go when I'm ready. After all, I'm the tenant.'

He pulled off his jacket and moved towards his door. Another brilliant flash illuminated every object in the room in its hellish glare, and he turned back to say:

'Not nervous of storms, are you? We're in for a stinker.'

Clare shook her head. Normally she was not, but in her present grim environment the prospect of a bad storm was not very pleasant, though she was not going to admit that to Chris.

'Well, you know where I am, wake me if you're scared.'

He disappeared whistling cheerfully, his mercurial spirits recovered from the oppressive scene downstairs, nor did he seem to be worried about the embarrassing presence of Violetta. He never did face up to any situation until actually confronted by it, and the problem posed by Signora Albanesi could wait. Clare envied him the easy way in which he could shrug off any difficulty, assuming it would resolve itself. But Violetta was a force he would have to reckon with, unless he decided to run away. She hoped fervently that he would not disappear as he had done all day, leaving her behind to pack up and follow him. She did not put it past him.

She went reluctantly into her bedroom and drew the thick curtains over her windows to shut out the menacing storm, then got into bed by the light of one of the candles. She would like to have left it burning, but knew it would not last long and she might need both her candles later on. She lay awake for some time, but the rumble of the thunder seemed to be receding; they had escaped the storm after all. Gradually her tired limbs relaxed and she fell into troubled sleep, dreaming vividly and horribly. Nightmare visions assailed her ... Violetta turned vampire, avid lips against Christopher's throat ... a white spectral form knocking at her window ... and finally a crashing crack of thunder brought her wide awake.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WITH shaking hands Clare struck match after match in her endeavours to light the candle, still enmeshed in the evil miasma of her dreams. Eventually she succeeded and looking at her watch saw it was just after four o'clock, the dead hour when vitality is at its lowest ebb. The thunder was booming and crashing overhead almost without pause, for the high altitude of the castle immersed it in its clouds. She could see the continual flash of lightning through the chinks in the curtains. She had wakened from nightmare into a nightmare world and she was badly scared, longing for human contact, and she wished that Chris would knock upon her door. But the great house seemed empty as a tomb —probably Was, for most of the servants slept in their village homes, except for Violetta at the further end of the building and Christopher. He had told Clare to waken him if she were frightened and surely he could not be sleeping through the racket overhead? She would go into the sitting room and hope that he might come to her.

She slid out of bed and pulled her dressing gown on over her flimsy pyjamas. It was a plain flannel garment that had seen much wear. Some day, she had promised herself, she would buy something more glamorous -with Christopher's princely salary, but there were no shops in the vicinity. She knotted the cord about her waist, thinking that at least it was unrevealing; she was more modestly covered than in the controversial evening dress. She would not want to appear before Chris in a provocative negligee.

The curtain was still undrawn in the further room, and the continuous lightning filled it with an eerie glare. She stood for a moment blinking at it, the candle flickering in her hand. Was it her fancy or was there a white shape outside the window? Clare gave a muffled cry, dropped the candle which instantly went out, and ran to Christopher's door, bursting in without knocking.

He was not asleep. He was standing at the window, which he had thrown open so that the room was full of rushing wind. He wore only his pyjama trousers, his naked torso exposed to die storm, and he was laughing with wild exultation at its fury. He looked as primeval as the elements, a creature far removed from his normal elegant self, an embodiment of natural virile force. The lightning flickered over his bare tanned body, playing on the rippling muscles and the fine down upon his chest, while the wind whipped his hair into wild disorder.

Clare paused transfixed just within the doorway, believing he must be another fantasy created by her over-stimulated imagination. This was Pan or Bacchus, a nature god from the realms of myth and legend. Sensing her presence, he turned his head and saw her.

'Ah, Sparrow, isn't this a magnificent sight?' he cried gleefully. 'Come and enjoy it.'

He swooped towards her, throwing a sinewy bare arm about her waist, propelling her to the window. Holding her clamped to his side, he turned his face to the storm. Through the cloud wrack she could discern the black humped shapes of the mountains, and every detail in the courtyard was revealed in the lightning flashes, the geraniums being tossed unmercifully, the few bushes by the wall tormented bundles of swaying leaves.

She was conscious in every tingling nerve of Chris's body pressing against hers, the constricting arm circling her waist,, and her heart beat so loud and fast she was sure he must hear it above the war gongs of the thunder. Abruptly he turned towards her, bringing up his other arm to enfold her in a close embrace. It was so fierce and tight she thought her ribs would crack. His mouth came down on hers, hot and searing. The elemental forces surging round them, the man's passionate' urgency awoke something primitive in Clare also. She did not shrink this time from being embraced. Her arms went up to enclose his neck, the loose sleeves falling away from them so that she could feel his cool smooth flesh. Impatiently he pushed the gown off her shoulders and now she was crushed against him with only the thin stuff of her pyjama tunic between their chests; she could feel the fast beat of his heart thudding above her own as if a single pulse throbbed through them both. Then for the first time she knew desire, a dark flood submerging her, but not yet located. She wanted him to go on kissing her for ever and her being to be submerged in his.

'So the icicle has melted at last,' he murmured hoarsely in her ear. 'There's only one thing to do now, little one.'

He picked her up as if she were a feather, strode across the room and dropped her on his tumbled bed. Indescribable sensations sent tremors through her limbs. Sheets of rain were coming down outside and the lightning was less continuous. He left her to close the window and impatient tug at-the curtains, then he turned back to her, leaving them half drawn.

Whether Clare would have actually allowed him to carry out his very obvious purpose, or whether she would have been shocked back into sanity when she realised her predicament, she was never to know. Excited as Chris was he would never attempt to force her, so the decision was hers. She did not have to make it.

A beam of light flooded the room from a powerful torch, catching Christopher's figure as he moved away from the window. A dark form was standing in the still open doorway, and with a thrill of horror Clare realised who it must be. She slid off the bed, her emotion ebbing away, dragging her dressing gown back over her shoulders. She retreated to the furthest corner of the room with the faint hope that the shadow of the armoire would conceal her if she stood beside it. It did not occur to her to defy the intruder, who had no more right there than herself, and she had a legitimate excuse in her fear of the storm. She was so appalled at being caught in such a compromising situation, and by her hostess of all people, that her wits deserted her.

For the moment all Violetta's attenuon was concentrated on Chris, whom she held transfixed in the light of the torch like a butterfly upon a pin. He folded his arms over his bare chest and demanded with something like a snarl :

'Can I have no privacy in this house?'

'It is a very bad storm,' Violetta returned coolly. 'My wing of the house has been struck. I came to see that all is well with you, caro.'

She too had her excuse for her intrusion.

'I'm perfectly okay,' Christopher told her. 'You know a good storm always excites me. Shall I come and inspect the damage in your wing?'

He had moved in front of Violetta, who still stood just within the doorway, blocking her view of the room and at the same time snatching up his brocade robe which he had flung on a chair and shrugging his arms into it. The torch played on its rich sheen of black and gold.

'That would be very good of you, Cristofo. It is a terrifying thing to happen when one is all alone.' There was „ reproach in the husky, sexy voice. She had been alone because he had not come to her.

'After you, Vio,' Christopher said, and gently pushed her through the door.

Though the storm was passing away, lightning still flared at intervals; a particularly bright blaze lit up the room through the half-drawn curtains eclipsing the light from the torch. For a split second the trio were revealed in every detail, Chris tying the cord of his dressing gown about his waist, Violetta's pale face as she glanced back at him over her shoulder, whitened by the ghastly glare, her eyes enormous dark pits, and Clare standing beside the armoire, staring at her with anxious eyes. The room darkened, the thunder rolled, no longer cracking above their heads as it moved towards the sea. Violetta stepped back into the room and switched the beam of her torch on to Clare's shrinking figure.

'Mamma mia, so that is why you would not come to me!' she exclaimed furiously. She continued to play the beam of the torch over Clare, and the girl drew herself up proudly. She would not let herself be intimidated.

Chris started to speak, but Signora Albanesi cut him short with a stream of abuse, which since it was in Italian Clare could not understand, though its purport was obvious.

'Basta!' Chris thundered. He snatched the torch from Violetta's hand, snapping it off so that the room was plunged into darkness.

'I did not lease you the castello to provide you with a refuge for your amours!' Violetta accused him.

'You offered me accommodation here to do my writing,' Chris spoke quietly but firmly, 'while you embarked upon a cruise with Giorgio Gambetta, and you agreed I should bring my secretary. What your relations were with him was not my business, and when you arrived yesterday you told me he had let you down. But that was no excuse to come snooping up here without advising me of your intention and spoiling my concentration.'

'On her?' Violetta sneered.

'On my work, which is important.'

Outside the sky was turning grey as the clouds lifted and the summer dawn broke through. Clare could just distinguish their two dark shapes. Christopher was with difficulty containing his anger, but Violetta made no attempt to restrain hers.

'Naturally I supposed the secretary was a man, you mentioned a Mr Perry. Instead you have the effrontery-to bring your paramour.'

'Clare is nothing of the sort, she's a respectable, hardworking girl,' Chris declared. 'Mr Perry wasn't suitable, she's far more efficient, but my private arrangements aren't anything to do with you, Violetta.'

'What takes place under my roof is,' she retorted.

'Nothing has taken place to which you could possibly object,' he told her smoothly. Ironically it was Signora Albanesi's intervention that had prevented that, and Clare felt a wave of shame and humiliation as the other woman's words found their mark. Could she really have so far forgotten herself as to welcome Chris's advances?

'Clare came to me tonight because she was frightened of the storm,' Chris went on. 'You must admit it was enough to terrify anyone.'

'Dio mio, do you think I am a fool?' Violetta stormed. 'You do not treat her as an impiegata. You use her first name, you demand that she eats with us ... in that dress ... and there is the way you look at her. I will not be insulted by her presence. You will send her away in the morning. She is a …' Violetta relapsed into her own tongue, spitting out a string of abusive names.

Clare put her hands over her ears, to shut out her raucous voice which rage made hoarse. Worn out by the succession of emotions she had experienced that day, she wanted to creep away and hide. Her dismissal was certain. Chris could not keep her at the castle in defiance of the owner's displeasure, nor did she want to stay. The camaraderie that had been between them was irretrievably broken by the night's events; he would come to despise her as she was beginning to despise herself.

She became aware that Violetta's flood of invective had been checked and Christopher was speaking.

'... keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak of the woman I intend to make my wife.'

Clare's hand dropped and she strained her eyes to see his face in the faint light. Violetta had become rigid with astonishment, then she laughed shrilly.

'Your wife? That nondescript creature! Your chivalry does you credit, caro, but you do not deceive me. You, a famous man in your own country, who could make an advantageous match, to wed a nobody! You cannot expect me to take you seriously.'

It was she, Clare Underwood, they were talking about, and Chris had adopted this ruse in an endeavour to protect her. She felt a rush of gratitude towards him, but Violetta was right, he could not be serious.

'Oh, but I am,' he insisted. He moved towards Clare and put a firm arm around her shoulders. 'We're simpatico and I find tier indispensable. Above all she is quiet and restful. A famous man, as you graciously call me, doesn't want an outstanding wife, he wants to hog all the limelight for himself.'

The last sentence was typical of Chris, and Clare knew he was hitting at Violetta, who would definitely not allow herself to be eclipsed by her husband.

'The poor little thing needs a masculine shoulder to lean upon,' Chris went on blithely, now beginning to enjoy himself. 'She rouses all my protective instincts. When she fled to me tonight I... er ... proposed. You'll be the first to congratulate us, Vio.'

Clare could sense Violetta's doubt and spite seeping through the dim room. Chris squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. He was aware of it too.

'You will advertise it when you leave here in the morning?' Violetta asked with honeyed venom. 'As is the custom, is it not?'

'I intend to send an announcement to the English papers as soon as we reach civilisation,' Christopher told her.

'Bene, I will look out for it, but if you do not, I shall send a piece to the British press myself. "Secret Love Nest of Actor-Dramatist Revealed." You see I know your journalese jargon.'

'I doubt if my affairs are as much news as you imagine,' Chris told her. 'But I admire your ingenuity. It won't be necessary to stretch your invention that far. The announcement will be made.'

Clare thought he would keep his word ... and wriggle out of it as a future date. Meanwhile she leaned against him, thankful for his shielding presence. There was something primitive about Violetta's rage and she would not have put it past her to assault her. It matched the atmosphere of past violence that hung over the castle and the deeds perpetrated there had been done by her ancestors. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, the poet had said. But Clare was puzzled why Chris had repudiated his loving mistress, if she were his mistress, unless he was annoyed by her intrigue with Giorgio Gambetta, whoever he might be. That might have been the cause of a quarrel, and she had followed him seeking a reconciliation, as she had formerly suspected. They had had all day to effect it, but Chris's unwise insistence upon her own appearance at dinner had inflamed the woman's jealousy so much that finding Clare in his room she had exploded without regard to pride or dignity. Clare felt vaguely sorry for her.

'You will leave my house,' Violetta decreed. 'I cannot have you here after this... revelation!'

'We've no wish to stay where we're unwelcome,' Chris returned.

' The plural pronoun pricked Violetta afresh.

'Vada ... fuori... pronto!' she spat at them.

'In this rain?' Chris protested. 'Vio, have a heart.'

The Signora calmed herself with an effort. 'Then go immediately after prima collazione. It shall not be said Violetta Albanesi turned even a dog out into the rain, even one such as you are. My torch, please.'

Violetta's dramatic exit was spoilt because Chris had dropped the torch and though the daylight was growing it was not sufficient to enable him to locate it. He went to the bedside table and struck a match. The candle he lit shone on the Signora's rich crimson robe, her plaits of red hair hanging down her back, finding a reflection in her dark passionate eyes. She is quite magnificent, Clare thought involuntarily, and marvelled that Christopher could withstand her.

He picked up the torch and handed it to her with a little bow.

'Thank you for your consideration, Violetta.'

'Pah!' She swept out of the room, and they heard the door into the corridor bang behind her.

'Charming!' Christopher observed sarcastically. 'A fine exhibition of primitive Italian! Violetta ought to be on the stage.' He turned to pull back the drawn curtains over the window and admit more of the wan light. Rain was streaming down the outside of the panes. 'There'll be no more fireworks tonight, Sparrow, either inside or out. You'd better go and get what sleep you can.'

'But Chris...' Clare's mind was seething with questions. 'Where can we go, and ... and ...'

She did not know how to put it, but surely he could not intend to continue with the masquerade he had presented to Signora Albanesi? If he did not, was there any danger in her threat? Violetta knew Christopher Raines was Cedric Radford, but could disclosures about his private life really harm him? Were not amorous episodes expected of people connected with the stage?

Chris passed his hand wearily across his brow.

'Go to bed, Clare, We'll sort things out tomorrow. If I'd any idea she wasn't yachting in the Med, I wouldn't have come here.'

Clare went from the room which was impregnated with the strong scent Violetta used so that her baleful presence still seemed to linger there. The thunder was only a distant roll, the lightning faded and barely perceptible in the strengthening dawn of a new day. Regaining her own room, she opened the window on the precipice side to admit the smell of new-washed earth, cool and refreshing after the heat.

She leaned on the sill staring down into the gulf filled with white mist into which the legend said a girl had hurled herself to escape dishonour. Then the enormity of what had nearly happened hit her like a blow. The Underwoods came of old Puritan stock and had brought her up to observe a strict morality. Though as she reached maturity she had kicked against it, for her colleagues at school had called it old-fashioned, she was still influenced by it, in spite of her desire to gain experience. She had never intended to go very far with her experiments, and she was innocently unaware of the strength of sexual desire, or had been until tonight. To her naive thinking that could only be justified if one loved and was beloved, and there had been no great love between her and Chris to excuse her conduct. Her feelings towards him were confused and contradictory. She loved him for his gaiety and generosity, but she deplored his frivolity and what seemed to her his easy morals. The events of the night had shocked her too badly to accept the whole man, finding his faults as endearing as his virtues, as was the case with true love, while as for Christopher, he did not love her at all.

He had only recently tired of his Italian inamorata, which was the conclusion to be drawn from the scene she had just witnessed, and how could she dream he would be any more faithful to her? She suspected Chris took women where and when they presented themselves if he were in the mood, as he had been that night. The hard truth was that she had offered a temporary distraction at a moment when he was excited by the storm and he had seen no reason to deny himself gratification as she had been apparently willing. He might even have thought that she had used the storm as an excuse to run to him in response to the hints he had given her. The thought made her writhe with shame.

As for his subsequent declaration that they were engaged, that had been a generous impulse to protect her from Violetta's calumny. It meant nothing. Once they had escaped from the Signora's proximity, he would make a jest of it and find some other means of silencing Violetta's slanderous tongue. But it was a cruel jest for Clare, for with all his imperfections it was borne in upon her with passionate urgency that she could ask nothing more of life than to be Christopher Raines' wife.

She turned from the window and crept into her tumbled bed. There, overcome by conflicting emotions, she wept bitterly until exhausted, she slept.

Clare awoke to bright sunshine pouring in through the window at which she had left the curtains undrawn. She sprang out of bed and gazed out at the tranquil morning. The sky was a deep blue and the air so clear she could see right down to the valley floor; the gulf no longer looked ominous. She crossed to the other window where the battered flowers were reviving in the warm air. The tempest of the previous night had passed away, leaving no trace like a bad dream. The events that had occurred also seemed like an evil dream. Violetta had evicted them, but Clare, ye stored to her usual sane and sensible self, thought she would probably revoke her decision. Chris would go to her and persuade her to change her mind, but she might make it a condition that the secretary was sent away.

Someone knocked on the door to the passage, and in response to her 'Avanti!' Emilia came in carrying a tray of coffee and rolls.

'E tardi,' she said, and went on to explain, mixing her few English words with Italian, that everyone had been kept awake by la tempesta terrificante and so were stillasleep, except herself and Roberta. La signorina need not„ hasten.

Clare sat down on the edge of her bed and drank her coffee. The storm had been no dream, though in retrospect the whole bizarre evening commencing with that weird dinner seemed a phantasm conjured up by it. Surely the three of them could not have actually done and said what she recalled? Signora Albanesi, so stately and dignified, ranting like a fishwife, herself fleeing into Christopher's room inviting seduction, and Chris ... only he had acted in character, arrogant, teasing, in control of the situation, making both the women seem ridiculous with his offer of reparation for something that had not occurred to gull the unfortunate Violetta and fool herself, who knew it could not be genuine.

Clare sighed as, unbidden, Christopher's image came before her mind's eye as he had stood like a Greek hero exulting in the storm, Ajax, wasn't it, who defied the lightning? He had everything—physical perfection, fame, success and the adulation of beautiful women while she was what he called her, a sparrow of a girl whom fate had brought within his orbit and it had pleased him to tease.

Sounds from the next room brought her out of her reverie, and she ran to the connecting door, opening it a chink. Roberto was inside collecting Christopher's possessions. Going to the window that looked on to the courtyard, Clare saw his car drawn up before the front door with the boot open. He had taken Violetta at her word and was leaving without attempting a reconciliation. Clare showered and dressed in frantic haste, obsessed by the quite unjustifiable idea that he might leave her behind. She decided to wear one of her 'business' dresses and the silk coat, since they were leaving the country ... or were they? She resolved that she would not allow Chris to persuade her to accompany him to any more rustic retreats.

Emilia came in to fetch her cases, thus allaying her unreasonable fear of desertion. Together they packed her belongings and when she would have stuffed the evening dress into its box, the girl took it out of her hands and folded it reverently.

'Bella,' she said.

Only the knowledge that she had not yet repaid Christopher for its purchase kept Clare from making her a present of it, though what use Emilia could have for a stylish evening dress that would not fit her ample proportions did not occur to her. She only knew she would never see it without recalling that uncomfortable dinner and what had followed.

Emilia departed loaded with her luggage, but Clare lingered over putting on her hat, suddenly shy of meeting Chris. The mirror showed that she was looking pale and washed out, with dark marks under her eyes. She had no time to fiddle with elaborate make-up, and taking the sunglasses which she never dared to wear in Christopher's presence out of her handbag, she put them on, feeling they offered some sort of a disguise. She did not know what to expect from him; he might be resentful that she was the innocent cause of their eviction, or he might tease her about their supposed engagement. He had a cruel tongue and she would find that hard to bear. He would not be pleased if she kept him waiting, and postponement of their meeting would only aggravate her embarrassment. Squaring her shoulders, she traversed the long corridor for the last time, descended the stairs and went out into the sunshine.

Chris was standing by the car when she appeared, beating an impatient tattoo with his fingers on its bonnet. He was informally dressed in tee-shirt and levis, but as always immaculately shaved. He was scowling. Roberto was packing Clare's cases in the boot.

'What an unconscionable time you've been,' Chris grumbled. 'I can't wait to get away from this dump.'

His feelings towards the castello seemed to have undergone a sea change, or perhaps he had appealed to Violetta and been rejected.

Oddly enough his ill-humour restored Clare's confidence. She paused, looking round for Emilia.

'Come on,' Chris commanded. 'What are you loitering for?'

'I want to say goodbye to Emilia.'

'She's gone about her duties. Here, Roberto,' he held out a bundle of notes. The man had closed the boot and approached him expectantly. 'That's for your trouble, and give Emilia her share with the Signorina's addios. Get in, Clare.' He wrenched the car door open on the passenger side. 'And take those damned glasses off your nose. You look like a broody owl!'

Clare snatched the offending glasses off and entered the car. She was not afraid of Chris in this mood.

'Didn't you get any sleep?' she asked sweetly.

He glowered at her. 'There wasn't much night left, was there?'

She seated herself, arranging her skirt demurely, as he closed the door and went round to take his place beside her. An imp of mischief caused her to say:

'For a fiance yours was scarcely a lover-like greeting.'

He shot her an inimical glance as he started the engine.

'We'll discuss all that another time when we're rested,' he declared, and drove out of the gate.

'Where are we going?'

'Home.'

She wondered what place represented home to him. England, she supposed, and London. Her own home was there, she might be wise to seek its shelter. Chris decided to be more forthcoming.

'We'll drive through the Alps and across France. This is a powerful car, we should be able to do the journey in a couple of days. Can you navigate? I mean, read a map?'

'I've never tried.'

'Then you won't be any use.'

He relapsed into silence as he negotiated the zig-zag road that led down from the castle. Clare turned in her seat to look back at its honey-coloured walls glowing in the early sunlight against the dark background of mountains. She half expected to see a redhaired figure beckoning to them to return, but no human form disturbed its remote serenity. Roberto had gone in.

Her gaze travelled to Chris's grim profile beside her. His lips were compressed, his brows drawn over hooded eyes —his falcon look, she had often termed it in fancy. She did not know if Violetta were needling him, or her enforced company. She could relieve him of that. They would pass through towns where there were trains and aeroplanes. She would suggest that he put her off somewhere suitable and she made her way to England alone. After all that had happened he could not be desirous of her society and she would be safer out of his. Mournfully she decided that the sooner their unfortunate connection was severed the better for them both.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ONCE they were out of sight of the castello and had reached the busy north-bound highway, Christopher recovered his temper. Clare knew he never stayed ill-humoured for long. He ceased to frown, and presently he began to sing in an untuneful baritone:

'He sipped no sup and he craved no crumb, For he sighed for the love of a lady.'

'Most inappropriate,' Clare told him, for his rudeness still rankled. She was aware that she was not looking her best, but to be likened to a broody owl was going a bit too far, especially as she feared the description was apt. 'You'd never sigh for the love of any woman.'

'The song was sung by one Jack Point who had more heart than sense, and doesn't apply to me,' he parried. 'But even the most hardened cynic has been known to succumb to the tender passion. Isn't that a favourite theme among you romantic writers? The mere male subjugated by sheer weight of femininity?' He glanced at her slyly, but she did not deign to reply to this flippancy, and failing to get a rise, he asked conventionally: 'Did you manage to get some sleep in the end?'

'Yes,' thank you,' she answered coldly; she did not want to be reminded about last night.

He shot her another quick enquiring glance and drove for a while in silence, then he said:

'I seem to have offended you, and I must apologise for what happened. I go a bit crazy during a good storm, drunk on thunder and lightning, you might say, and I'm sorry I forgot myself, but ...' he smiled winningly, 'there was no harm done.'

His casual way of referring to the incident stung her. Didn't he realise that he had nearly seduced her? Perhaps he did not; he had been, as he said, drunk with excitement, and in that case she could pretend to be equally hazy.

'Actually I'm not very clear about what did happen,' she lied. 'I know I came to you because I was petrified by the storm and I think you were trying to comfort me, I was all confused, when Signora Albanesi came in and misinterpreted what she saw.'

'In fact all hell was let loose, damn her,' he said cheerfully. 'Excitable creature, Violetta.' He slowed down on a straight piece of road, and gave her a long searching look. 'That's all you want to recall?'

'That's all I do recall,' she said firmly. 'Watch where you're going.'

He turned his attention to the road. 'You're not angry with me?'

'No, should I be?' She was deliberately offhand.

He carefully negotiated passing a bus, then observed:

'From what I remember we ended up engaged.'

'You did say so to stop Signora Albanesi abusing me,' Clare admitted. 'It was very noble of you, Chris, but of course I shan't hold you to it. Can't we forget all that happened?'

'Is that what you wish?' He seemed oddly disappointed.

'Yes, please.'

'I'm afraid it isn't quite so simple. There may be ... repercussions, but as I said, we'll discuss the situation at journey's end. At the moment I need all my concentration for the road and we've a long gruelling trek in front of us.'Clare sighed. She did not want the subject to be re-„ opened at any time, that unpleasant scene was better forgotten. She did not believe that Christopher really feared retribution from the angry Italian woman. The popular press had far more juicy scandals to report than the minor indiscretion of an actor, however well known. His promoters might even consider it had publicity value. Nor could she rid herself of the suspicion that Chris would come to regret his break with Violetta and seek a reunion. Their association was evidently of long standing and he was attached to the castello. At the moment he was absorbed in the production of his play and had resented Violetta's intrusion, been galled by her possessiveness. Later when the play was successfully launched-and his new part began to pall, he might want her back again. Clare was very susceptible to good looks and Signora Albanesi had made a deep if not very pleasant impression upon her. She could not believe that Christopher would be able to put her out of his mind altogether, but if when he was ready to discuss the matter he was going to ask her to placate the outraged lady with some sort of an apology, he would find her adamant. There were limits to what she would do for him.

Christopher reverted to the all-important subject of his play, remarking that he must phone from the first town en route to advise various interested people that he was on his way back to London and would be at their disposal as soon as possible. Clare noticed he took it for granted that she would still be working for him and even asked her to make a note of this and that. So much for their supposed engagement which she had thought from the start was phoney, but she did not intend to continue as his secretary. She could not trust herself if he took it into his head to make another pass at her, and her self-respect would not permit her to be taken up and discarded at his pleasure. As regards her earnings, her father would have to manage until she could find another job, and he had said he wanted her to go home. Manchester was where she belonged, not Cedric Radford's tinsel sphere where she would feel an alien.

When they stopped for Chris to do his telephoning and to have some coffee, she began to enquire what towns they would come to next, and put forward her suggestion of returning by other transport.

'Why?' he demanded quickly. 'Do you get car-sick?'

'Oh no, but I thought it would be better.'

He gave her another long searching look; he seemed to be always studying her as if he expected a revelation that did not come.

'You don't trust me, do you, Sparrow?'

Clare laughed shakily. 'There might be another thunderstorm.'

'I never repeat myself,' he returned. 'It's bad theatre. But you're a bit of a hypocrite, aren't you, darling? You do remember ... everything, and I've sinned against your Puritan conscience.'

'Need we discuss it?' she asked stiffly.

'We've got to sort out a number of matters, including that of our engagement, but we'll call a truce while we're travelling. I've got to reserve my energies for the long, long road to the Channel ports. As for your absurd suggestion of going by train or plane, don't you know it's expensive? Two can go for the cost of one, in a car. Why throw away good money out of pique or whatever is motivating you? I promise I'll be. a good boy, I'll be too exhausted to be anything else.'

The question of expense settled it. She had not enough money with her to pay her fares without his assistance, her month's salary being due, and she doubted if he would give it to her even if she could bring herself to ask for it. He did not like being opposed. Also she had glimpsed the ranges of the Alps in the distance and was eager to continue their journey, for she was unlikely to come this way again and she wanted to see all she could.

Chris noticed her wistful glance towards the mountains and laughed:

'Go on, Sparrow, you know you're longing to travel on. I promised you you'd find life with me exciting, and we haven't done so badly up to date. Who knows what further adventures await us over the hills and far away?' His expression changed as he noticed how tired she was looking. 'It won't be too much for you?'

'Despite the company?' He grinned. 'You can forget I'm there, I'll be too engaged in coping with the traffic to bother you with conversation.'

They continued their journey through the lovely valley of Aosta with the snow-capped mountains all around them and passed into France through the Mont Blanc tunnel, the longest road tunnel in the world. Chris drove fast but was not reckless and made occasional brief comments on the scenery. They rested in an Alpine valley through the hottest part of the day. He wanted to get to Dijon where he proposed to spend the night, but it was still far distant. They had come over two hundred miles and had as far to go again.

He was known to the family who ran the guest-house where they stopped, who gave them a good meal, a warm welcome and curious glances at Clare. Monsieur was perhaps at last engaged?

'Yes,' Chris replied without blinking, and Clare blushed.

She had to endure congratulations and her health being drunk, though she could sense the good people were puzzled to know what Chris saw in her.

'Peut-etre elle a un bon dot,' she heard their hostess murmur -tcf her daughter who was waiting upon them. Alas, Clare had no dowry.

The lounge was empty, all the visitors being out upon various expeditions, and Chris immediately fell asleep after drinking his coffee. Clare's brain was seething with impressions of mountain vistas, shimmering lakes and speeding traffic, so it was some time before she dozed. Almost at once, it seemed, Chris was shaking her shoulder, saying it was time to take to the road again, and she stumbled half- dazed to the powder room to bathe her tired eyes.

They travelled on through varied scenery and heavy traffic. From time to time they passed huge juggernauts hauling goods on the long run from Northern France or Belgium to Italy. Some had come from as far away as Britain.

'If ever I give up drama I'd like that job,' Chris told her.

'Driving lorries?' she was incredulous.

'Yes. I'm incurably restless, but I'd prefer Australia where they travel for thousands of miles.'

Could any woman ever persuade him to settle down?

It was very late when they eventually reached Dijon and Clare had difficulty in concealing her weariness. She did » not want Chris to think she was failing. She wanted very much to complete the journey with him now, in spite of the embarrassment she had felt at the guest-house. It was, as he had told her, an adventure.

As it was the holiday season and they had no reservation they had difficulty in finding accommodation for the night. After many fruitless enquiries, they finally found a hotel which had one double room available.

'You'd better have it,' Chris said to Clare. 'I'll sleep in the car.'

She glanced at his face, drawn with fatigue, and knew she could not sleep in comfort while he tried to do so in the car.

'The chauffeur must have the room,' she said firmly. 'You need rest more than I do. I'll manage on the back seat.'

'I couldn't possibly allow that, Clare,' he said shortly.

They were in the vestibule of the hotel and the reception clerk looked at them in perplexity.

'It is a good room,' he urged, 'two beds, a bathroom. Monsieur will find nothing better.'

Clare drew a deep breath. 'Book it, Chris, before someone else does,' she said urgently. 'We'll share it.'

His eyebrows went up. 'You don't mind?'

'I ... I'm not a prude, and you must have a good sleep in a proper bed. We'll manage somehow.'

Christopher's lips twitched. 'Bravo, Sparrow,' he said.

He made the reservation. The clerk made no comments on their passports and tactfully addressed Clare as 'Madame'. The hotel had a perpetual influx of various types all day and every day and he was not interested in their relationships.

They took what they needed for the night from their cases, and went up to the room. It contained a double and a single bed, and was connected with a small bathroom fitted with a shower. Chris looked round it approvingly.

'I could take that thing,' he pointed to the quilt on the bigger bed, 'and sleep in the bathroom if you'd feel happier,' he suggested.

'Oh, don't be absurd,' Clare exclaimed crossly, disturbed by the intimacy of their surroundings. 'You'll sleep in the double bed. Bathroom indeed, what would I do when I wanted to wash?'

'As Madame says!' He inclined his head mockingly. 'But we must have some food, the restaurant is still open.'

He was looking at her oddly. and she preceded him downstairs wondering if she had been too rash, but surely he must be far too exhausted to feel erotic?

The place was full of tourists 'doing' France in all sorts of garb, so that they were quite unremarkable. A late supper was being served to visitors back from a long all-day trip. Clare was too tired to eat much in spite of Chris's urgings, but she drank thirstily of the iced lemonade, refusing anything stronger, and the coffee when it came.

'Will you go up first, or shall I?' Chris asked, stifling a yawn.

'You'd better, or you'll fall asleep over the table,' she replied, wondering which would be the more embarrassing —to find him in bed or he to find her, but his yawns decided her.

He stood up. 'I'll be in bed and asleep in a couple of shakes of a cow's tail,' he assured her. 'Bless you, Sparrow, you're most forgiving ... and trusting.'

His words left her with a warm glow, as she watched him thread his way out of the dining room. She wondered why he was pushing himself so hard—surely there was no need? Perhaps when he rang London he had been urged to hurry, but he was naturally impatient and when his mind was set on a project he could not linger.

She waited ten minutes, then followed him, timidly tapping on the bedroom door before she went in. He was as he had promised sound asleep with the bedside light turned on beside him, his clothes dropped anyhow on the floor. Clare picked them up and folded them, feeling like a mother with a small boy, throwing anxious glances towards the bed, but Chris never stirred. She went into the bath- j room, undressed, showered, and swathed herself in her dressing gown. Returning, she went to his bed and stood looking down at him. The bed was covered by a quilt, the original of the now fashionable duvets, and it had slipped off his bronzed shoulders. Very gently she drew it up again to cover him. Relaxed, the lines of tiredness smoothed out, his face appeared much younger, almost boyish with the I vulnerability of sleep.

Tenderly Clare brooded over him, her own fatigue forgotten; in sleep he was all hers. She loved him, she knew that now, and there would never be anyone else for her, and it was much, much more than mere sexual attraction. She had come to understand his quicksilver temperament. He ran from any threat to curtail his freedom, that was why he had left Violetta, who was becoming too possessive. He took things as they came, enjoying each fleeting sensation, discarding it when it began to bore him and passed on to the next experience. He found her useful, even had a sort of careless affection for her, but would forget her when he reached London and the production of his play absorbed him.

As if he sensed her presence, he moved in his sleep, his eyes half opened and she drew back hastily.

'Take a note, Clare,' he murmured. 'Opening of Act Two ... delete ...' He turned over and sank into deeper slumber.

Clare smiled wryly, and switching off the light, climbed into her own bed. It took the frenzy of a thunderstorm to make Chris aware of her femininity. Normally all she was to him was a machine. She lay in the dark listening to his quiet breathing. She would never be so near him again, for tomorrow they would make the Channel coast and cross to England, but he was quite oblivious of her proximity, lost in the artificial world of the theatre that paradoxically was the only real thing in his life.

When she woke in the morning he had gone down to breakfast and she again had to hurry through her toilet not to keep him waiting.

Christopher's rate of travel was so exhausting that Clare found she was incapable of taking in any fresh impressions by the time they reached the sea, much less contend with the problem of her future. When she closed her eyes the unending road continued to unwind before her inner vision, but she derived a sweet contentment from sitting beside Christopher hour after hour watching his expert handling of the car and his keen hawk's profile intent upon his driving. They did not speak much, only to comment upon places of interest they passed, or Chris would address less competent drivers below his breath in uncomplimentary terms. She came to recognise them all, the over-cautious ones who hugged the crown of the road at a snail's pace, but were unwilling to be passed, the reckless young men who cut in when they should not, risking life and limb in their haste, the speeding coaches with their loads of sightseers, also unwilling to give way, and of course the juggernauts that Chris wanted to drive. She wished they could go on for ever and avoid the inevitable parting at the end.

They reached the coast in the prescribed two days, but were too late to embark. Clare was accommodated at a pension for ladies only. What happened to Chris she did not know. Most of the people staying in the pension were elderly, some of them English, and anxious to talk to a compatriot ... about themselves. Clare saw in them herself forty years on and felt depressed. Her adventures were over and her future work would be in an office. With Chris she had blossomed into brief and stirring life, but now she would sink back into her former colourless existence.

She had yet to tell him that she was leaving his employment. She hoped he would express a little regret, but with his production filling his mind she feared he would spare her scant thought.

They boarded the ferry at noon and with the car safely bestowed went up on deck. It was a chilly squally day and most of the passengers preferred the crowded but warmer saloons and bar, so they had it to themselves. Clare wore her trousers and an anorak which she had unearthed from her cases with a scarf tied over her head and felt the reverse of chic. Chris also wore an anorak and was bare-headed, looking very different from the well-tailored figure she associated with Violetta. Sky and sea were grey as they stood side by side at the stern rail watching the coast of France disappear. Soon the familiar white cliffs of Dover would come into view on the other side, and to Clare after her sojourn in the South of France the Straits looked cold and bleak, matching her present mood.

'You'll be driving straight up to London?' she enquired. 'When we've landed.'

'Such was my intention. Nothing to wait for, is there?'

'No. If you'll drop me at some place convenient to you when we get there, I'll get a taxi to Euston and I should be home by night. I ... I've decided I'd better go back there, Chris.'

She kept her eyes on the sea and waited tensely for him to question her, make some protest, try to persuade her to stay perhaps, but all he did was to agree unconcernedly:

'Yes, perhaps that would be best.'

Clare felt that she could have hit him; he was willing to let her go without making the slightest effort to deter her. It showed he valued her services not at all.

'What will you do?' he asked. 'Get another job? I can't see you spending your days in idleness.'

'I can't afford to,' she snapped. He owed her some salary, but she could not bring herself to ask for it.

'Oh well, I daresay I can arrange some compensation for you,' he announced casually, and as she started to protest, interrupted with, 'I'm much in your debt and shall be more so.'

'You won't, I shan't be working for you.'

'No, that would be rather infra dig; I'll have to get me another secretary, worse luck.'

She glanced up at him, puzzled; his eyes were fixed on the sea and he seemed miles away from her.

'Infra dig?' she queried.

He brought his gaze back to her, the amber eyes critical. 'I don't much like that thing round your head, but I suppose it's practical on a day like this. Yes, well, I've been thinking. Olympian Intrusion is to have a try-out in Manchester and I'll be coming up in about six weeks' time. Prior to that we'll be rehearsing hard and I shan't have any time for personal affairs. Meanwhile you can break the news to your parents and get them accustomed to the idea of our engagement, then you can present me to them when I arrive.'

Clare stared at him blankly, aware of mounting consternation.

'But, Chris, surely we aren't going on with this ... this charade? I mean, it was only what you might call an emergency measure. I ... I thought you'd forgotten all about it.'

He met her wide gaze with a curious intensity in his that she could not decipher, then he turned his head away.

'You credit me with a very short memory,' he told her curtly. 'Perhaps it had slipped yours?' He relaxed suddenly and laughter crept into his voice. 'Don't you think that after the last few days during which we've actually slept together, I should be a heel if I didn't make an honest woman of you?'

'But... but that would mean getting married.'

'We might even have to go as far as that,' he said lightly. 'But marriage is a knot easily untied nowadays. Of course it would be ... what do they call it... a marriage in name only, another stock situation in your romantic fiction. I wouldn't want to spoil you for your real husband, the man who is going to give you those children you want ... you see, I do remember quite a lot of what you've told me.'

The wind blowing up the Channel seemed suddenly icy and Clare gripped the rail in front of her with nervous fingers, as she slowly assimilated Christopher's preposterous proposal A marriage that was no marriage when she wanted him with all her being—could any situation be more cruel? And for what? To save her good name? Nobody knew she had been away alone with Chris, even her parents thought she had been staying with a family; besides, was it so important in this permissive age? But there was one person who knew and had threatened to expose them, to the detriment not of her reputation but of Cedric Radford's.

'Is it because of Signora Albanesi that you've thought this up?' she demanded. 'Will anybody care what she says or believe her?'

'They might. That woman is a menace to my peace of mind,' Chris returned. He laid his hand over hers on the rail. 'Darling, don't let me down, I really do need your help. Once the play is reviewed and she finds there's no mention of Cedric Radford's engagement she'll make enquiries and discover little Miss Underwood has vanished into the mists of Manchester and I'm still a free man. She's a very determined woman and if she comes to London, as she will, she'll pursue me relentlessly, and I need all my concentration for my part. She's even capable of putting it about that she's engaged to me, and a lot of people will believe her, including her relatives, of which she's got a shoal. Sparrow, have a heart! Just let us be engaged until she gives up or preferably marries someone else. It won't hurt you to do that, and I'll see you have a good time, and of course a ring—we'll get that in London—which I want you to keep ... in memory of a feckless play-actor whom you befriended.'

This long speech, so utterly egotistical in its content, should have repelled her, but she was conscious of an undercurrent, as if he were not stating his real reasons; only the piece about the ring rang true. She should have met it with an instantaneous refusal, but he was standing beside her, his hand over hers, his coaxing vibrant voice, the instrument of his trade, mesmeric in its quality. She felt like an indulgent mother with a beloved but spoilt child, unable to refuse him. But she desired some clarification about his attitude towards Violetta, for wasn't he still half under her spell and that was why he feared her?

'You derogate the Signora now, but Chris, didn't you love her once?'

His eyelids flickered. 'Well ... er ... we were a bit matey,' he admitted slightly shamefacedly. 'But she wants to marry me! You know I'm not a marrying man, Sparrow, marriage wouldn't be good for my career.'

'Yes, I do know.' Clare fought to keep bitterness out of her voice: He had just offered a form of marriage to her, which he did not consider binding. 'But she does offer considerable inducements.'

He snapped his fingers. 'What? Wealth? I can earn all I need and more. The castello? I couldn't live there permanently. Beauty? She's already beginning to fade, she's a good five years older than I am, and she doesn't want children, says she can't have any, and seems to think that's a further inducement, as you call it. If ever I am fool enough to embark seriously upon matrimony, I'd want a family. It's the only reason for marriage.'

'I couldn't agree more,' Clare said fervently.

'Yes, you want children. Is that why you want to leave me? You've got your eye on someone up North who's been waiting for you all this while, you sly puss, and you think it's time you got on with it?'

'Maybe,' she did not deny it. 'Not all men shun domesticity and I'd make a good wife.'

'The very best, to the right man, which I'm not.'

He need not flog the point, she thought, she was well aware of his sentiments.

'You're the last man I'd ever consider as a husband,' she declared, and thus having salved her pride by another he, she stared bleakly out to sea while tears pricked her eyelids.

Perversely her statement did not seem to please him.

'Charming!' he exclaimed, and moved away from her. That knocked his vanity, she thought with dreary satisfaction.

'We'll part when we get to London,' she said decisively. 'And I'll go home, unattached.'

That brought him back. 'No, please, darling Sparrow, don't say that.' He seemed really distressed. 'Once my play has started its run, if it runs, I'll have more time to give to you. You must come back to London and we'll have a register office wedding just to show Violetta we meant business, and when it suits you, we'll have it annulled.' She made a movement of distaste. 'Don't let that worry you, theatrical unions are rarely permanent, and you'll have all the fun of dressing up and everyone will fete you ...'

'I suppose it hasn't occurred to you that what you call fun doesn't appeal to me at all,' she interrupted. 'Nor does pretence. You're making a mock of holy things.'

'Oh, my God!' Chris tore at his hair distractedly. 'You're more of a Puritan than I feared.'

He strode a few paces down the deck while Clare watched him from under her eyelashes. So irresponsible and yet so dear. If she agreed to this fantastic proposition she would be in close contact with him until ... until he decided to put her out of his life for ever.

He came back and stood beside her and she longed to throw herself into his arms. What would he do then? Tell her not to make a fool of herself and send her packing, while he found some other stooge to carry out his purpose? The thought was unbearable.

'Clare darling, I appeal to your kind heart,' he began half-humorously. 'Don't let me be sucked dry by that vampire.'

Clare suddenly remembered her dream and shuddered, » but she asked calmly:

'Have you ever made the Signora any promises that have given her ... expectations?'

'Never,' he declared. 'Oh, I sympathised with her at first; it was cruel to bind her to an old man when she so obviously needed a young husband, but I never, never,' he emphasised the word and his voice held the ring of truth, 'offered myself as a substitute. I liked Enzo, he wasn't a bad old stick, but Violetta insists that she fell in love with me and was sure I was only waiting for him to die. I told her when I saw her in Nice that it was no go, and I thought all was well when she took up with Gambetta, but unfortunately he got cold feet or she took a dislike to him, so she came raring after me again and your presence added fuel to the flame. Darling, you must continue with the good work and give me your protection.'

'As if you couldn't cope!' Clare declared energetically.

'But I can't. She'll catch me in a weak moment and it'll be all up with me.' Clare flinched. Was the night of the thunderstorm one of his weak moments? 'Then there are her kinsmen, they're capable of sticking a knife into me if they imagine I've insulted her. Your family are much more reasonable, aren't they?'

Clare smiled wryly. She could not imagine Alf Underwood avenging her honour with a stiletto. He would have to know about this pseudo-engagement if she agreed to it, but would be highly relieved if it were broken off. He would consider Christopher Raines, alias Cedric Radford, was far ephemeral a being to make his daughter happy. She could not believe that Chris really feared Signora Albanesi or her relations, and was at a loss to account for his insistence that he needed her 'protection' as he called it, but could think of no motive for piling on the drama.

'Besides,' Chris began, and now he sounded more serious, 'when she finds out our engagement was phoney, she's quite capable of going to your so respectable parents and spinning them a lurid yarn about your goings-on in Italy, if only out of sheer spite. It would be much more pleasant to be known as my wife-to-be than something much less polite.'

Clare wilted. She would hate her parents to learn all that had happened from Violetta, and she had put herself in a vulnerable position by her rash action when she originally went away with Chris. Everything came back to the Borgia lady, and the poison she distilled was word of mouth, not poison in a cup. Even at this distance and in this colder clime some violent emanation seemed to touch her from the castello. When Christopher's play was produced he would be in the limelight and his love affairs under scrutiny. Violetta would be a goldmine to the gossip columnists, and a damaged reputation would not help her to find a good job.

Chris was watching her expressive face closely; though his own was inscrutable, his amber eyes had the intentness of a hovering hawk's. He told her:

'You're as much in need of protection as I am, my darling. Won't you agree to at least an engagement for our mutual benefit?'

'I wish you wouldn't call me your darling,' she said peevishly, seeking to vent her nervous irritation on this minor issue. 'It's the last thing I am.'

'You'll have to get used to it, if I'm to pose as your adoring lover,' he pointed out airily. 'Anyway, in my profession everyone calls everybody darling. It doesn't mean anything. 'That's why I don't like it.'

'You put a premium on sincerity, don't you?' he mocked. 'But I'm an actor and used to make-believe.' She must never forget that, Clare reflected. 'Sometimes a little whitewash does a lot to oil the wheels. Oh dear, what a mixed metaphor, I must be slipping!'

He was silent for a while and a cruise ship appeared in the distance, the white superstructure standing out against the grey sea, music from her afterdeck coming faintly to their ears borne on the breeze.

'She's off to the sun,' Chris said regretfully. 'Italy perhaps, and from the look of the sky, it'll be raining in London.' Then he dropped his voice and added earnestly, almost as if he were confessing a sin, 'I mean darling when I'm addressing you, and you're the only woman I could ever endure to live with permanently.'

The glance that accompanied the words was half eager and half questioning, but Clare steeled herself against it. She did not believe him and wished desperately that she could.

'You needn't perjure yourself,' she retorted. 'I'll do what you want ... temporarily, so you don't have to bribe me with soft soap. No woman could ever catch you, you're as slippery as an eel.'

Chris moved away abruptly, leaning over the rail staring at the vanishing cruise ship, and she wondered for one swift moment if she had misjudged him. But no, she knew Chris, who had admitted he was versed in make-believe. He had only been trying to beguile her to get his own way.

He turned back to her with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

'Even eels can be caught,' he said lightly, 'however much they squirm, but I don't like your simile. I don't try to wriggle out of serious commitments.' He drew her arm through his in a brotherly manner. 'It's chilly up here, let's go below and drink to ... our continued good relations.'

CHAPTER NINE

CLARE sat in the dress circle watching the motley collection of people filing into the stalls and pit below her. Some were in the full regalia of evening dress, but the majority, like herself, had either come straight from their place of business or had travelled some distance by bus and wore their day clothes. A few arty-crafty rebels against the establishment flaunted slacks and sweaters. Clare had taken off her coat and was dressed in one of the dresses Chris had chosen for her in Nice. She did not normally wear them for work in Manchester, considering a blouse and skirt more suitable, but tonight was an occasion, and her expectancy exceeded that of the audience who had come full of anticipation to see Cedric Radford in his latest play.

For it was six weeks since Christopher had put her on the train at Euston with a hastily purchased ring on the third finger of her left hand. Six weeks since she had come home and told her parents that she was engaged to a theatre man—actor and dramatist. They had been a little dismayed. Her father feared she was moving into a circle where she would find herself an outsider, her mother said frankly that stage folk were 'kittle-cattle' and undependable. Neither had ever seen Cedric Radford act. They did not care for television plays in which Clare knew he had sometimes appeared, always preferring alternative programmes, so she did not disclose his theatrical pseudonym, though the advent of the opening of his play was splashed about in the provincial press.

He wrote to her frequently, and all about his play and the problems that had to be surmounted. Being familiar with it she was able to reply knowledgeably on the same subject. She had found an office job and spent her evenings re-writing her novel, for which her recent experience had given her stimulus. It followed the lines of her own romance and the hero became modelled on Chris, though he would never have recognised a resemblance, especially as he cared deeply for the heroine and would in the last chapter marry her. So different from what would happen to her, for if she ever got as far as a wedding it would be no love match but entered into on his part with the determination to end it as soon as he found it expedient to do so.

In retrospect she found his reasons for insisting upon their engagement a little thin, and came to the conclusion that it was not only Violetta he wanted to keep at bay but other forward females who considered an actor their natural prey. A complacent wife in the background would preserve him from the consequences of his follies and act as a brake upon their importunities. She admitted she had been weak to allow herself to be persuaded into considering a marriage of convenience, but unfortunately she was so besotted she could not bear to relinquish the tenuous link between them. While it existed she would still have contact with him, once it was broken he would pass out of her ken. So she collected what crumbs he offered to her and treasured them, and these during the past weeks had been in the form of his letters, which were always witty and amusing, sometimes even affectionate, but not love letters.

He had seen to it that she received a couple of tickets for his premiere, and had written saying he would see her after the first night. The two days he would be in Manchester beforehand would be spent rehearsing and he would be too rushed to arrange a meeting.

'And,' he wrote, 'I'm not fit company before an opening. I'd probably bite your head off. Actor's nerves!'

He would be staying at the Midland and he hoped she and her parents would lunch with him there when he could fix a date. Clare thought they would find that a little embarrassing, and she would suggest somewhere less ostentatious when she saw him.

She had exchanged the second ticket for a seat in the stalls and given it to an office colleague. She wanted to be alone while she watched Christopher's play and the people on either side of her were complete strangers who would not notice her reactions.

The house was packed, though she knew a lot of it was 'paper'. She was becoming familiar with theatrical terms, and she prayed that it would be a success.

She waited with growing tension for the rise of the curtain, while the mechanical apparatus that had superseded an orchestra blared out popular tunes. Then came the breathless moment when it faded and the house lights dimmed, the tabs rose and Olympian Intrusion was launched.

Chris was on stage at the opening, being bullied by his fiancee to produce a masterpiece that would win the prize and enable them to set up house. He was represented as the heir to a decaying mansion crippled by taxes, and the set owed something to Chris's sojourn at the castello. It was designed with the same Gothic architecture and atmosphere of gloom, a good foil to the lightness of the play, and it brought back nostalgic memories to Clare. She had been happy there until Violetta intervened.

Christopher—Cedric Radford on the programme—was an example of type-casting, being very much himself, debonair, perfectly tailored, parrying his beloved's importunities with barbed wit. Familiar with the lines as she was, Clare was surprised at how well they came over and how different they sounded in actual performance. She watched Chris with yearning eyes. It seemed impossible that she had ever been intimate with this remote being who rocked the house with laughter at his audacities.

The arrival of 'Thalia' caused her an unreasoning jealousy. She was played by a well-known actress and was so lovely and ethereal that Clare, losing herself in the play, had every sympathy with the outraged fiancee, who might have been herself. How could Chris be in daily contact with such a delightful creature and remain uninfluenced by her? He had mentioned her in his letters saying that if the play succeeded it would be in part due to Valerie. She had an irresistible charm which came over well. Certainly the audience loved her, her innocent air, her sublime concentration on the job she had come to do ... to help the hero create his play ... blandly indifferent to the emotional storms raging around her, was most effective. -When at the end of the play Chris brought her before the curtain to repeated calls, they were both laughing as they made their bows, and Clare thought there was significance in the glances they gave each other. 'Thalia' took a rosebud from the bouquet with which she had been presented and put it in his buttonhole, and old theatrical trick, but to Clare full of meaning.

When the fights went up and the audience began to stampede towards the exits, the woman sitting next to Clare remarked:

'What a treat after all the dreary muck we have served up to us in the name of art!'

Her friend beside her said: 'Pure nonsense, of course, but most amusing, and the young couple were delightful. I always enjoy Cedric Radford's performances, and I shouldn't be surprised if he's in love with his leading lady. I could sense something between them, couldn't you?'

Words that stabbed Clare. She remained in her seat wondering if Christopher expected her to go to his dressing room. He had said he would see her after the show and as he had not mentioned a meeting place she supposed he did. She had never been backstage and it would be something of an ordeal. She did not know there was a pass door and when eventually she summoned up her courage and went outside and along to the stage door she was surprised at the size of the crowd waiting for the principals to come out. Timidly she pushed her way through and approached the doorkeeper. She could see beyond him women in evening dress walking down the passage to the dressing rooms and was very conscious that she was not wearing it. Chris, she now felt sure, would expect it.

'Could I speak to Mr Radford?' she asked the grim- looking guardian of the gate. 'I'm ...' The words stuck in her throat. How could she, plain and ordinary as she must appear, claim to be Christopher's fiancee? He would think she was making it up.

'What name, miss?'

Before she could reply a high-pitched voice echoed down the passage.

'What a crush, but I must see darling Ceddie, he's expecting me.'

Clare's courage evaporated.

'It doesn't matter,' she said, and went back into the street.

The play opened on a Wednesday and the next day Clare went to work feeling flat. Her colleagues in the office knew she was engaged to a mysterious person who was always away. She was too honest to say he was in the Services, which would have accounted for his absence, and she hoped she would never have to introduce him to the office personnel. They were inclined to think he was a myth. Plain girls had been known to wear rings and pretend they were engaged to save their face. She was depressed that morning, for he did not seem to be going to contact her, and every time the phone rang she looked up hopefully, but it was never he.

The office where she worked was on the top floor of a building behind Market Street, and the firm manufactured wallpapers. The manager's office and the typists' room were partitioned off one end of the showroom, the entrance to which was guarded by a counter inside the outer door on which was a bell to summon attention.

About mid-morning this was rung with prolonged impatience, and the junior whose job it was to answer it languidly got up from her chair to obey its summons.

'I'm not going to hurry myself for some guy who's forgotten his manners,' she remarked as she strolled away.

She came back much faster than she had gone.

'Miss Underwood, someone wants to speak to you.'

Clare rose from before her machine, mechanically smoothing her hair, expecting it was some client who knew her by name. She went out into the showroom and beheld ... Chris.

He had come round the counter and was glaring at the wallpaper sample as if they were obnoxious reptiles. An attendant salesman was hovering, but he ignored him.

'So there you are!' he greeted Clare. 'Fine hunt I've had for you. Your mother ...' he grimaced, '... said I'd find you here. Where the devil did you get to last night?'

'I ... I didn't like ...' Clare was beginning, conscious that all the office staff were watching them. The manager, Mr Robinson, aware something unusual was happening, had come out of his office.

'Miss Underwood, it's not permitted—' he began, staring at Chris, and then being an ardent theatregoer he recognised him. 'Can I be mistaken? Aren't you Cedric Radford?'

'That's my stage name,' Chris admitted.

'I saw your performance last night. It was splendid, haven't enjoyed anything so much for a long while, but...' He glanced from Christopher's immaculate figure—he was wearing a dark pinstripe suit—to Clare. 'Can I do anything for you?' he asked doubtfully.

'Yes, you can lend me my fiancee for half an hour,' Chris told him with a sunny smile. 'She walked out on me last night and I've come for an explanation.'

'Ah, a lovers' tiff!' Mr Robinson exclaimed facetiously, rubbing his hands together. He continued to stare at Clare with a puzzled expression. She was neatly dressed in a blouse and skirt, her brown hair well brushed but only a suspicion of make-up. He did not consider she was especially pretty, and certainly not sufficiently remarkable to attract the attention of a handsome ... well, they used to be called matinee idols, but he. did not know what the moderns termed them. 'Miss Underwood is a dark horse,' he went on. 'we'd no idea she had such distinguished ... er ... connections.'

Clare felt ill at ease. That Chris should come and claim her was flattering, and she knew her prestige with her colleagues would soar, but she wished he had not done so, because theirs was not a real engagement and they were accepting him under false pretences. What had induced Chris to search for her she could not conceive; his letters had never betrayed any great impatience for their reunion. She could well imagine her mother's face when he had introduced himself. No wonder Chris had grimaced! She had expected he would send a note, since they were not on the phone, or call her at her office to make a date, but not to go racing round the town after her as if he really was an impetuous lover.

'Miss Underwood has many surprising qualities,' Chris averred solemnly, though his eyes held a mischievous glint. 'They're not apparent at first glance, but when I got to know her, I fell for her.'

Oh no, Clare thought desperately, not that sort of talk here and now! Never had she felt his teasing tongue was more misplaced.

'We're not very busy this morning,' Mr Robinson told him with a benign smile, 'so Miss Underwood may take the rest of it off.'

'Er ... thank you,' said Chris, who had taken it for granted Clare could accompany him.

Clare went to collect her bag and jacket.

'My poor Sparrow,' Chris said contritely while they waited for the lift. 'To what have I brought you? You were better off with dear Madame Monique.'

'Not really,' she returned. 'I have all my evenings free and my parents wanted me at home. I've made great strides with the book ...' She prattled on, feeling shy of this elegant stranger who seemed different from the Chris she had known in Italy, Cedric Radford in fact in his warpaint. 'I'm sorry, though, that you came barging into the office. Now they'll all know ... about us, and it'll be so much harder if ... when we break it off.

'The lift came up and as they stepped inside it, he asked gently:

'You'll find it hard?'

She shrank from the keen glance that accompanied the words. She wanted to conceal from him the state of her heart; it might please his vanity to know that she had become infatuated with him, but she was too proud to want to betray that she had joined the queue of his many adorers.

'No one likes to be jilted,' she said casually.

'You can say you jilted me.'

'Who'd believe that?'

'You flatter me, but you can always point out that you discovered I'm not a very moral character. Seriously though, Clare, I don't like you being in an office.'

'I had to do something. Did you expect me to sit at home waiting for you to break the engagement?'

'How you do harp on that,' he complained as they stepped out into the street. 'I'm in no hurry to dissociate myself from you, Sparrow, and I thought we'd decided to get married.'

'Do you still need protection?' she asked a little scornfully, as he drew her arm possessively through his.

'Oh, I do ... protection from the sling and arrows of misfortune ... Am I misquoting? I've missed your funny face around, Sparrow.'

'Not you. You've been absorbed in Intrusion. Your letters were full of it.'

'It didn't give me much time for anything else, I'll admit. Let's go and have a coffee somewhere, we can't discuss our future in the street.'

His bantering manner was so familiar, and Clare could not repress the joy that welled up in her to be with him again. She noticed too the glances he attracted, admiration from the women, envy from the men. Christopher was oblivious to them, he was used to it.

They found a cafe in Deansgate and after they were served, he said sternly:

'You haven't given me the welcome I expected, and you didn't come round last night. I suppose you did see the play?'

'I did, and enjoyed every minute of it. I meant to come round, but ... but... Well, I wasn't dressed up and there were so many grand people looking for you. I ... I'm not used to the back of theatres.'

His face softened. 'Poor little girl, I should have arranged an escort, but you've always seemed so confident and capable, I didn't think of it. I'd rather have had your congratulations than all the insincere flattery of those painted hussies who came to compliment me, who'd only one thought in their lacquered heads, bed.'

Clare felt her colour rise. Did he believe she was sexless? Just a good pal? He couldn't, not after that night of the storm. She said shyly:

'May I offer them now? You were wonderful.'

'And the play?'

'I heard a woman say it was a treat after all the dreary muck she'd seen.'

'But you didn't really like it, did you, darling? You consider it superficial? You prefer something serious.'

'Candidly I like something with more meat in it,' she admitted. 'But it was very amusing and it was a splendid vehicle for your talent.'

She was proud of the last phrase, which sounded quite professional, but Christopher's face clouded. Oh dear, she thought, I've offended him again, why can't I pour out praise like the others do even if I don't really mean it?

'Exactly suited to a lightweight like me?' he suggested. 'You believe I'm a frivolous, casual fellow, incapable of deep feeling?'

She shrugged helplessly. 'I didn't say that.'

'No, but you think it,' he persisted. 'Well, perhaps I am. The only way to contend with human folly is to laugh at it. Otherwise one would drown in tears.'

She touched his hand across the table.

'We need our jesters,' she said.

He grinned impishly. 'You've got me taped. But clowns can have human feelings. Remember Pagliacci... on with the motley though your heart is breaking, and all that?' He stirred his coffee, drank it and putting down his cup seemed to find something interesting in the dregs. Clare gazed at his bent head, wondering what he was getting at. Was he in love with Valerie Hall and she had turned him down? It seemed so unlike him, he always treated romance with levity.

'When are we getting married?' he said suddenly, still with his eyes on his cup.

'What?' she gasped.

'You heard.'

'I hoped it wouldn't be necessary.'

'You hoped?'

His glance flickered up at her, and noticing the consternation in her face, fell away again.

'I think it is, if only to get you out of that office and that slum where you live.'

'Of course, you've seen it. But I'm used to it. It's my background, Chris, and I'm not ashamed of it.'

'Why should you be? You do it credit. I'm not a snob, darling, only I feel you deserve better things. I want to give them to you, but you won't accept them unless I marry you.'

She laughed a little tremulously. 'I've always known you were recklessly generous, but that's the weirdest reason for getting wed I've ever heard.' She began to fidget with her teaspoon. 'Have you heard from Signora Albanesi?'

'Not recently.'

'Then she's stopped pursuing you?'

'I really couldn't say. Vio's unpredictable.' He looked at Clare mischievously. 'She may turn up at any moment, especially if she reads my notices. She collects celebrities.'

Clare sighed. She was perfectly certain that Christopher was capable of dealing with the Italian woman, and wondered why she had ever been so credulous as to believe he was not, but she had not really; she had been overcome by his persistence and her desire to keep in touch with him, and now as then, she was puzzled by his attitude. That he could really feel any responsibility towards her was right out of character. True, he had been instrumental in terminating her position with Mrs Cullingford, and her work with him ironically had been ended by this absurd engagement, but she was in no need of his help—she was in perfect health, good employment and not a breath of scandal had followed her from Italy. She had no desire for luxuries, though she could see that her home would compare unfavourably with her quarters at the castello in his eyes, but he did not have to marry her to get her out of it. Perhaps her surmise about Valerie was right, the lady was being coy, and he was continuing with his engagement to her to show her he did not care. That was much more like Chris. She said inconsequently:

'She's very lovely, the girl who played Thalia.'

His face lit up. 'Valerie Hall? She's a charming person. Still quite unspoilt—reminds me a little of you.'

'Me?' she gasped incredulously.

'She can be incredibly naive upon occasion, a sweet innocent.'

'Oh, really!' Clare thought she had become quite sophisticated since her sojourn in Italy, and to be called naive and innocent needled her. 'We don't look the least alike.'

'No, darling, only very superficially, but then you're unique.'

'Oh, don't tease me,' she cried fretfully.

'I mean it. I've never met anyone else quite like you.'

She said nothing; possibly he had not. Though she was sure she was nothing extraordinary she was not the sort of girl he would encounter in his profession.

He continued to regard her quizzically, then in a different tone, almost serious, he went on:

'The play should have a good run, judging by its reception last night and the notices ... have you seen any, by the way?'

Clare shook her head. It had not occurred to her to look for them. Her family took a picture paper and Alf Underwood read the sports news assiduously every night. She rarely glanced at it, keeping abreast of current news on the television.

'You'll need educating as a playwright's wife,' Chris told her. 'Don't you know how we grab the papers after a first night, disagree with everything the critics say, swear we'll never read another review, and rush for them just the same next time? But to continue with what I was saying, we open in London the week after next. I'd like you to be there.' He looked at her questioningly, but she did not speak. A desperate resolve was forming in her mind. The theatre world with its artificial values and glamour was foreign country to her, she could never belong to it.

'There'll be a break at Christmas,' he went on. 'The theatre is booked for pantomime, but if the box office warrants it, we'll transfer to another one. That would be a good time to get married, give us a few days to ourselves. Agreeable?'

'No.' She pulled his ring from her finger and stood up. 'I can't go on with this ... this farce, Chris. If you want for some obscure reason a stand-in for a wife, get someone else. Perhaps Valerie Hall would oblige, but I'm finished.'

She turned, intending to run out of the cafe, but he caught her wrist in a grip of steel.

'Sit down,' he said more forcibly than she had ever heard him speak. 'I've enough drama on the stage without presenting a free performance for the benefit of the man in the street. Pick up your ring and tell me sensibly what's upset you.'

Clare became aware that her hasty action had been noticed by the occupants of adjacent tables, some of whom were grinning broadly. Blushing fierily, she sat down meekly, rubbing her wrist which turned scarlet where Chris had held it, but she did not pick up the ring. It lay between them like the gage thrown down by two adversaries in a duel. For once there was no laughter in Christopher's eyes, they were hard as topaz and his mouth was set in a grim line.

'Well?' the syllable cut like a lash.

'I haven't seen you for six weeks ...' she began.

'I'm sorry, I should have tried to visit you, but you know ... no, of course you don't know what it's like when a play is being rushed into production and one has not only written it but is playing the chief part.'

'I wasn't reproaching you,' she said quickly. 'What I'm trying to say is, I haven't seen you for six weeks and you're , like a stranger. Last night I saw Cedric Radford—he's the real you, isn't he? A man I don't know at all.'

'Don't be absurd. The part I played is merely a creation of my imagination. You might as well say the heroine of your Perfidious Passion is like you—your real self.'

'She's developing quite like me, and you haven't any idea of what my book's about. That's just it, Chris, we're complete strangers and we live in different worlds.'

'We won't be when we live together. We got on very well at the castello.''

'I was your secretary,' she pointed out.

'Did I treat you like an employee?'

'The circumstances were unusual.'

'You're hedging. Will you please tell me why you've suddenly turned against me?'

There was an angry glitter in his amber eyes, he looked menacing, and Clare remembered how when first she had seen him she had likened him to a tiger. But his accusation hurt her.

'Oh, I haven't turned against you,' she cried in distress. 'But I can't face a bogus marriage.'

'Need it be bogus, as you call it?'

She stared at him. What new development was this? Christopher taking marriage seriously? He who had always derided matrimonial bliss and said he hated domesticity? Who had fled from the gorgeous Violetta, who, if he wanted a wife, a real wife, could have picked someone like the lovely Valerie Hall?

Christopher met her gaze with bland assurance, concealing a repressed eagerness. Clare knew how he disliked opposition and it occurred to her that because she was stalling he was determined to overrule her even to the extent of pretending an emotion he did not feel. That was his job, wasn't it? Expressing artificial emotions that belonged to fictitious characters? When he had wanted to take her from Mrs Cullingford he had resorted to a somewhat questionable subterfuge, he had claimed her as his fiancee to frustrate Violetta. She could only guess at some devious purpose this marriage was to fulfil, but she would submit to no more pretence. Better to end their association while her integrity was still intact so that she could remould her life without his disturbing presence in the background.

'I don't know what you're getting at now, Chris,' she told him with forced lightness. 'You're always too subtle for me, but I did tell you you were the last man I'd ever think of marrying. For a permanent partner I'd require someone a little more stable. I've played along with you because I felt somewhat in your debt, but I've gone far enough. We'll end it here and now.'

He dropped his gaze from hers and in the short silence that followed she felt as if she had received a mortal wound, but she knew she had done the only possible thing. He was so used to dramatic situations in plays, he carried them over into his real life. As she had told him once, love and marriage were to her sacred things and she would mock them no more with false pretences.

'Is that what you really want?' he asked at length.

It was not, but what she really wanted was impossible of attainment. Christopher had never indicated that he could possibly love her.

'Yes,' she said firmly.

'Then so be it.' He flashed her an impish smile. 'I'll have to stand on my own feet from now on, won't I! No busy little Sparrow fluttering round to point out my sins of omission and commission. I didn't believe you could be so hard-hearted, darling, but you're wise. Actors make unsatisfactory partners.'

This was the Chris she knew, flippant, bantering, never serious.

'Oh, you'll manage very well without me,' she returned. 'You did before you met me.'

'I often wonder how I did.'

'You've been on your own for the past six weeks.'

'So I have. Don't worry, darling, nobody is indispensable.' He picked up the ring. 'You'd better wear this a little longer or those office morons will peck you to death.'

Clare was about to refuse, she wanted to be done with the whole miserable affair, but he was putting it back on her finger and she knew she would have to face a storm of questions upon her return to the office, it would be worse still if she had to admit that her engagement had ceased as soon as her fiancee appeared.

'I daresay you can think up a face-saver later on,' he went on lightly. 'But keep the ring even if you don't wear it, as I said before, I'd like you to have it as a memento of our adventures together.' He was such an odd mixture of thoughtfulness and selfishness.

'I owe you some salary, I believe,' he continued. 'I'll arrange for a cheque to be sent to you. Sorry I've been so dilatory, but you weren't around to remind me of my obligations.'

She could not speak. She threw him one agonised glance and walked blindly out of the cafe, while he waited to pay for the coffee. She walked not noticing where she was going, through St Anne's Square, Albert Square, along Piccadilly instinctively avoiding the traffic she did not see. Nobody noticed her, an ordinary-looking girl apparently bent upon some unimportant errand. The only things she did see were the posters advertising Olympian Intrusion, some of which showed Cedric Radford's pictured face. By her own act she had deliberately alienated Christopher for ever, and she would never see him in the flesh again, except possibly upon a stage. But that would not be Chris, it would be Cedric Radford, who represented the great division that lay between them.

CHAPTER TEN

CLARE returned to her office late, but nobody reprimanded her, and mercifully there was no time to talk. She knew from the covert glances she received from the whole staff —the office employed four clerical workers, a manager and three salesmen—that they had all been informed that she was a well-known actor's fiancee, and not one of them would have believed it if he had not told them so himself. Not that Christopher had the same rating as a pop singer in their estimation, but he was actually appearing in Manchester and was on view, so to speak, to anyone who cared to pay for a seat to see him. They thought she was late back because Chris had taken her out to lunch, and she, who had had no lunch at all, did not undeceive them. When she said she was staying on late to finish her neglected work, the junior gaped.

'Aren't you going out with lover-boy?'

Clare said steadily, inwardly wincing, 'You forget actors work in the evening.'

'My, I shouldn't like that,' the junior exclaimed, reversing her opinion of the desirability of actors. 'You mean you can't go dancing, nor nothing?'

'Exactly.'

Clare had forgotten that Chris- had been to Newton Heath, until upon her arrival home her mother said:

'Well, did your fancy man find you in the end? Gave me a shock, he did and all. I thought he was the man to read the meter, and there was me, still with me curlers in and a dirty apron,'

'It didn't matter.'

Had circumstances been otherwise, it would have done, for Chris, fastidious himself, detested slovenliness, but now, as she had said, it did not matter if her mother had given a bad impression. She had never been very close to her. Annie Underwood was a querulous woman with a grouch against life, who had resented her daughter's efforts to better herself, and she had never quite forgiven her for going abroad. Her father was different, and he saw immediately he came in and noticed her white strained face that something was very wrong. He said nothing while they ate their meal, and Annie was present, but as soon as she had cleared away and gone to the kitchen after grumbling at Clare for pecking at her food, he demanded:

'What's up, lass?'

Clare could fend off her mother, but she could not mislead her father, so she told him briefly that her engagement was off.

'We found we weren't suited.'

'You mean he gave you the push?' Alf began to bristle. 'By gum, lass, if he's hurt you, I'll give him what for if he were the Prince of Wales himself!'

Clare laughed shakily, finding his championship balm to her sore heart.

'No, Dad, it's nothing like that. Actually it was I who broke it off. You know you've always feared I wouldn't fit into his life, and now I've realised it. But I'm very fond of him ...' Her voice broke.

'Look, lass, if he's done wrong ...'

'No, no, Dad ... Oh, I can't explain, it's all so complicated.'

How could her father ever understand the sequence of events that had led up to the forming and breaking of her engagement? It would mean telling him about Signora Albanesi, the castello and her journey across France, and though she would have liked to confide the whole story to him, she did not think she could make it sound anything but crazy. He had not noticed that she was still wearing her ring and she surreptitiously changed it to her other hand. She decided then that she must look for another job.

'I'd like to go right away,' she told him. 'You've got a job now,' for Alf had found employment. 'I wouldn't go so far that I couldn't get back for weekends sometimes.'

He looked at her with understanding.

'Ay, lass, happen you're wise, but you don't want to go abroad again?'

'No, Dad. I've had enough of travel.'

Friday passed, then Saturday, while Clare was very conscious that only a short distance away Christopher was appearing before the Manchester public. For the price of a ticket she could see him if she wished, but she resisted the temptation. The sight of him would only deepen her wound. She would be relieved when he had left the North, for though she tried to push him out of her thoughts he refused to be banished. On both evenings her father anxiously watched her wan face and muttered imprecations against 'that young swine', for he was convinced that Chris was to blame for her barely concealed misery. But on Saturday he seemed to forget about him, and went to a football match.

On Sunday Clare decided to go for a day into the country. It was fine autumn weather and she enjoyed rambling. She would go to Alderley Edge where the trees would be beautiful in their tinted foliage. She expected her father would offer to go with her, but he did not, only insisting upon knowing where she intended to go.

She wandered rather aimlessly over the Edge, which she had known since childhood. The trees dropped scarlet and gold at her feet, the distant hills were mauve outlines against a blue sky. Alderley Edge is a long spine of hilly country protruding on to the Cheshire plain, the last rampart surrounding the Peak. It was steep in places with outcrops of rock and old mine workings.

Clare sat on a sloping bank of fir needles under the tree that had shed them, gazing down on to the level ground below her, where fields divided by hedges were laid out like a chequerboard, and cows grazed. There were few people about, the summer rush being over, and she had her eyrie to herself. She had a packet of sandwiches with her, but as usual of late, felt disinclined to eat. It was very still and peaceful, without any wind, the sunlight filtering through the tinted foliage in shafts of gold. She saw a couple of walkers coming through the woods towards her and watched them idly—a young man and a girl in anoraks and trousers. Then suddenly as they drew nearer she tensed, recognising Christopher Raines and Valerie Hall. Anxious to avoid a meeting, she jumped to her feet, hoping to find cover in the undergrowth before they noticed her, but the bank gave way beneath her, sending her sprawling. When she tried to get up, a sharp pain in her ankle warned her she had damaged it. She must have cried out when she fell, for the two distant figures came running towards her. She was sitting up feeling her ankle anxiously when Christopher reached her.

'Devil take me, if it isn't Sparrow!' he exclaimed, but she had an inexplicable impression that he was not really surprised to see her at all. 'What have you done to yourself, darling?'

'Oh, just twisted my foot, it's nothing,' she said hurriedly, and tried to stand up. Her leg gave way and she dropped ignominiously at his feet. He squatted down beside her.

'Here, let me see.'

He pushed up the cuff of her trousers and tenderly touched the swelling.

'Looks like a sprain to me,' said a cool voice behind him, a light musical voice that Clare had last heard On stage. 'She ought to have a cold compress put on it. Can you help her back to the house, Chris, and we'll attend to it.'

'Oh no,' Clare protested. 'I can walk, if you'll find me a stick.' The last thing she wanted to do was to accept Valerie's hospitality.

'Don't be stupid, darling,' Chris told her. 'Sparrows with broken wings can't fly. Val's people live on the Edge and their house is only a few yards away. I'll carry you there.'

Heedless of her further protests, he picked her up, saying casually: 'Oh, by the way, this is Valerie Hall, you saw her in the play. Val, my ex-secretary, Clare Underwood.'

'I'm very glad to meet you,' Valerie declared, smiling. 'I've heard such a lot about you.'

What? Clare wondered, surprised that Chris should have mentioned her to this beautiful girl, and Valerie was even lovelier off stage, with a pretty colour in her cheeks, no make-up and her fair hair loose about her shoulders. Slim and graceful, she was enough to arouse any man's admiration ... and love.

Clare had no option but to go where she was carried, and she felt a wild thrill of happiness to be in Christopher's arms. He held her easily, finding her slight weight no embarrassment as he trod surely along the winding path through the wood. They came out on to a main road, which they crossed and plunged into the woods again.

The Halls' house was built in a clearing, a relic from the days when the cotton kings erected mansions all over the Edge before their wealth melted in the slump and trade never recovered again. It was of red brick with large windows and surrounded by lawns, mellowed by time. Chris carried Clare through a french window which Valerie opened for them and put her down carefully on a wide settee. The big room was well furnished but slightly shabby, which added to its homely look. A small log fire burned in the grate, for the days were becoming chilly. A spaniel approached them wagging its tail, and tried to join Clare on the settee.

'Down, Buster,' Valerie ordered. 'You know that's not allowed.'

Clare was to discover subsequently that Mr Hall farmed some land and painted as a hobby. Several of his pictures were hung on the walls, his wife wrote books; they were an artistic family.

Valerie knelt beside the settee and removed Clare's shoe.

'We'll get Hannah to attend to this,' she said, 'she knows a bit about first aid. Hannah was my nurse,' she went on to explain, 'but when I grew up, she stayed on. She's invaluable. Then we'll have some lunch. You'll stay, won't you, Clare? I may call you Clare?'

'Of course, but..

'You haven't any choice, Sparrow,' Chris told her with a grin. 'You can't run away with that foot.'

Recalling their last painful interview, Clare marvelled at his easy manner. He seemed quite pleased to see her, but for him the encounter had no emotional overtones; he was involved with the lovely Valerie and she was just an echo from the past.

Hannah, homely and aged but still agile, bandaged Clare's foot with a cold compress. Food was brought in, not a formal meal, it was put on tables and the company helped themselves. Valerie waited upon Clare with pretty attentiveness. Mrs Hall joined them, a vague woman, physically very like her daughter. Mr Hall was out on the farm. They all talked and laughed a lot, Chris in his usual light bantering manner. The atmosphere was friendly and cheerful, and Clare tried hard to respond to it, but her heart was heavy. Christopher fitted so well into this family who obviously thought a lot of him. She felt a complete outsider. Inevitably they discussed the play.

'How you managed to cope with Chris while he was writing it I can't imagine,' Valerie declared. 'He's awful when he's gestating—pregnant mothers aren't in it! You must be a very patient woman.'

'She is,' Chris corroborated. 'Nothing ruffles Clare, even thunderstorms.'

His eyes met hers with a wicked gleam and Clare blushed. Why did he have to refer to that incident? She noticed he was studying her intently while he was chaffing with Valerie and surmised he was comparing her unfavourably with the other girl.

Chris and Valerie were spending the day at Alderley with her. parents, and they arranged that they would take Clare back with them when they returned to Manchester. Since she knew she could not hobble as far as the station, Clare made no demur, though she wished she could leave at once.

After clearing away the debris of the meal, Hannah insisted that Clare must rest, more because she looked so white than because of her foot. Mrs Hall wandered away and the two younger people went out into the garden. Clare could hear their gay laughter from where she lay until it faded into silence. She lay very still, wishing she were far away, for the sight of their happiness together was hurting her. She was thankful that she had released him before he decided to break the engagement off himself, as she was sure now he would have done when he returned to London.

A shadow fell across the entrance to the garden, and Chris came into the room, walking behind the settee, where he stood, looking down at her, resting his hands upon its back. Clare turned so that she could see his face.

'I'm sorry about this, Chris,' she said. 'I wouldn't have intruded upon you for anything.'

He ignored her apology. 'You look ill, Sparrow. Can it be that you're fretting?'

'Fretting? Me? Why should I?' she returned defiantly. 'I'm perfectly okay. I'm naturally pale.'

'But not so pale, you're positively ashen.' He straightened himself, slipped his hands into his pockets and remarked casually, 'I saw your father on Friday night.'

'You what?'

In her astonishment, Clare sat bolt upright, and a spasm of pain crossed her face as her ankle gave a twinge.

'You'd better take it quietly,' Christopher cautioned her. 'Grand old boy, your dad. He'd no inhibitions about coming backstage. Came barging in like an angry bull before I'd got my paint off.'

Clare's eyes widened in bewilderment. 'But why?'

'He accused me of breaking your heart.'

'Oh, no!' Clare was horrorstruck.

'Your appearance bears him out, my love. You look a bit heartbroken.' He came round the settee and carefully moved her legs to make room for himself to sit down facing her. 'Why did you do it, darling? Were you just being perverse? Why was it necessary to hurt us both?'

'Hurt you?' she was scornful. 'You don't care.'

He said very simply, looking her straight in the eyes, 'But I do.' Clare gave a little gasp and he went on, 'My darling Sparrow, I can't do without you. You don't know how I've missed you, but you snubbed me so unmercifully. The last man you'd ever marry, I believe you said. Oh, I'm no good at the romantic approach, I leave that to you and Madame Monique. I told you during the crossing from France that you were the only woman I could bear to marry, or words to that effect, and you went off about eels, loathsome creatures. When I came up to Manchester I meant to blow the gaff about a convenience marriage, which was only a subterfuge anyway, but you threw your ring at me in the cafe before I could explain and I thought you'd no use for a poor jester.'

Clare was so bewildered by this complete reversal of his former attitudes that she could only stare at him and stammer:

'You're saying you want ... a real marriage ... with children?'

'If we're blessed with them, but I'd rather limit our family to a couple, if you don't mind.'

She said half laughing, half crying: 'I never know when you re serious.

'I'm very serious; marriage is a serious business. It's taken me a long time to make up my mind. I got engaged to you to keep you on a string while we ... tested our reactions. Yours weren't very favourable, but I kept on hoping until you gave me the final knock out.'

'And consoled yourself with Valerie.'

'Val?' he looked astonished. 'She's only a pal. She's got a string of suitors a mile along, and I hate queues ...' His voice deepened and a glow came into his eyes. 'Sparrow, you little nitwit, stop questioning and prevaricating and let yourself feel.'

His arms came round her, lifting her against his chest, and Clare, her injured foot forgotten, clung to him. Their lips met in a long satisfying kiss. The light had begun to fade as Valerie came running into the room.

'How about some tea before we start back? Oh!' She stared at the couple entwined upon the settee and her face broke into a lovely smile. 'So you've settled it? May I be bridesmaid?'

Clare disengaged herself from Christopher's arms, flushed and laughing.

'Of course, if you wish. What a bit of luck I met you on the Edge.'

Valerie and Christopher exchanged glances.

'It wasn't exactly luck,' said Valerie. 'We went to your home on the way here and your father told us where you'd gone. We were looking for you when you sprained your ankle.' She looked curiously at Clare. 'You've worked something of a miracle. We despaired of any woman being able to nobble Chris.'

'On the contrary,' Chris hastened to inform her, smoothing his rumpled hair, 'I did the nobbling, as you call it; it started with ... er ... blackmail, but it took a phenomenal thunderstorm to bring her to my arms, and then she escaped, she's a most elusive bird.' He threw a glinting glance at Clare. 'But this time I've caught her in the noose of matrimony and she'll flutter no more.'

'You're incorrigible, Chris,' Clare declared, laughing. 'But there's no one like you.'

'I should hope not.' He preened himself. 'I'm glad you appreciate my originality.'

When later Valerie went out to see about the tea, Clare asked wistfully:

'Do you love me, Chris? You haven't said so.'

'My Sparrow, I Suppose this funny feeling I have for you must be love. I've never experienced it before, but you must teach me how to put it into words. You're the expert on romance.'

'I don't think I'll ever write another word,' she sighed.

'Of course you will and so shall I, thousands of them. We're both what Vio called us, word-spinners.'

The mention of Violetta caused Clare's face to cloud.

'Was she really your mistress? You said so once.'

'Did I? I've said a great many foolish things, my darling. I probably hoped to impress you. I'll admit there was a time when it nearly happened, but her possessiveness put me off, and I certainly was not going to allow her to throw stones at my Sparrow, who is worth a dozen of her.'

'She's very beautiful,' Clare sighed.

'So is a volcano in eruption, and such temperaments are far too uncomfortable to live with. What drew me to you was your sweet serenity.' An uncharacteristic look of humility came into his eyes. 'I'm not exactly easy myself, Sparrow, as you know by now. Are you sure you can bear with me? For always?'

'I'll do my best,' Clare promised, dimpling. 'Because one thing I am sure about, I couldn't bear to live without you.'

Table of Contents

THE QUESTING HEART

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN