“I haven’t come here to exchange pleasantries, Miss Tyrell.” About the Author Books by Susanne McCarthy Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

“I haven’t come here to exchange pleasantries, Miss Tyrell.”

Jon continued. “And I warn you now that you’ll be wasting your time trying to play off your tricks. My taste has never run to overendowed blondes, and even if it did, I’m a bit too awake to the time of day to be taken in by a cheap little gold digger like you.”

“How dare you speak to me like that?” Lacey protested.

Again that indifferent regard swept down over her. “I knew what you were before I came here, and nothing I’ve seen so far would make me revise that opinion,” he asserted with cool derision.

SUSANNE McCARTHY grew up in South London but she always wanted to live in the country, and shortly after her marriage she moved to Shropshire, England, with her husband. They live with lots of dogs and cats in a house on a hill. She loves to travel—but she loves to come home. As well as her writing, she still enjoys her career as a teacher in adult education, though she only works part-time now.

Books by Susanne McCarthy

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No Place for Love

Susanne McCarthy

CHAPTER ONE

‘ROSES?’ Hugo, sprawled in the threadbare armchair in his sister’s dressing-room, glanced up as Fred, the ageing major-domo who guarded the stage door as if it were the entrance to some sacred temple, appeared in the doorway with a huge cellophane-wrapped bouquet. ‘Red ones, too. Who’s your secret admirer, sis?’

Lacey laughed merrily, taking the bouquet and making Fred blush by reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. ‘No, it’s just Clive—to wish me luck,’ she responded, glancing at the card. ‘Bless him—how thoughtful.’

Hugo snorted in derision. ‘Just Clive, indeed! I’ll tell you what, if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself splashed all over the Sunday papers—“Government minister in affair with actress.” A married government minister at that. And a blonde actress, practically young enough to be his granddaughter. They’d just love it.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Lacey chided, her soft violet-blue eyes dancing as she smiled down at her handsome twin. ‘I’m not having an affair with him.’

‘I know that, and you know that,’ Hugo countered sagely. ‘But you can bet your sweet life the papers could make it look as though you were.’

‘Well, I’m not going to stop being friends with him just because some nasty reporters have got smutty minds,’ she declared forcefully. ‘He’s a very nice, very sweet man—I feel sorry for him. His wife hates living in London, and he has to be here while Parliament’s sitting. He gets lonely.’

‘Lonely my foot! He’s nothing but a dirty old man. You certainly do pick ’em!’

‘If you’re talking about Ted Gardiner, you know that wasn’t my fault,’ Lacey protested, moving aside some of the clutter of make-up on the dressing-table to make room to lay down the bouquet. ‘He seemed so nice—how was I supposed to know he was lying when he said he wasn’t married?’

‘That’s your trouble,’ her brother insisted. ‘You think everyone’s nice. If I weren’t around to watch out for you, I don’t know where you’d be.’

‘Yes, and your idea of taking care of me nearly lost me this part!’ she retorted indignantly. ‘You can’t speak to a producer like that.’

‘I can when he’s pestering my sister.’

‘He wasn’t pestering me—he just took me out to dinner a few times. And he was a perfect gentleman.’

‘Except that he was married,’ Hugo pointed out with a touch of asperity. ‘And don’t pretend that you don’t know what he was leading up to—even you’re not that naive.’

Lacey conceded a wry smile. ‘No—well, I suppose you’re right. But it isn’t the same thing at all with Clive. For one thing, he’s almost sixty! And besides, if you annoy him, he might stop backing the play, and it isn’t easy to find “angels” to put up the money these days.’

Hugo yawned, stretching lazily. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘Oh, there’s no harm in him,’ she averred, running her hairbrush through the bright golden curls that tumbled around her shoulders. ‘Besides, if he isn’t worried about the papers getting hold of it, why should I be?’

‘Because, my sweet, trusting little sister, you would be forever typecast thereafter as a career-wrecking, marriage-wrecking bimbo.’

Lacey gurgled with laughter. ‘Well, I’m typecast already,’ she pointed out without rancour, striking a pose in her stage costume—a low-cut, skin-tight red jersey and a black leather mini-skirt short enough to reveal an interesting inch of black stocking-top whenever she moved. ‘Blonde hair and big boobs equals dumb—period. I could have a fantastic career if I didn’t mind taking my clothes off in public.’

Hugo flashed her a wicked grin. ‘Lucky one of us doesn’t mind, then, isn’t it?’ he teased. ‘Someone has to pay the rent.’

‘I pay my share,’ she countered indignantly. ‘You don’t have to be a Sauvage if you don’t want to. Anyway, I thought you’d give it up once you’d got your degree.’

He shrugged wide, well-muscled shoulders, tanned to a deep, healthy bronze and shown off to striking effect by the sleeveless black T-shirt he was wearing. ‘Why should I?’ he queried laconically. ‘It’s great, getting paid to have hundreds of girls screaming for my body.’

‘Prancing around on stage wearing nothing but a couple of bits of leather and a few chains?’ she chided, shaking her head. ‘I do wish you’d get a proper job.’

‘Oh, I will, one day,’ he conceded with a yawn. ‘I told you, once I’ve saved up enough money to start my own business, I’ll—’

‘Two minutes to curtain, Miss Tyrell,’ the assistant stage manager called from the corridor.

‘Oh, lord! Do I look all right, Hughie?’ Lacey begged, casting an anxious glance at her reflection in the huge, brightly lit mirror over the dressing-table and dabbing her nose with a little more powder.

‘Well,’ he mused, surveying her with sardonic amusement, ‘it’s a good job you’re not planning to walk down the street in that outfit—you could cause a traffic accident.’

‘I know,’ she sighed wryly, wriggling to adjust the clinging jersey so that it didn’t skim quite so low over the lush curves of her breasts. ‘It was bought in for Vanessa, and she hasn’t got quite as much up top as me.’

‘Well, just be careful you don’t bend over too far in it,’ he advised. ‘You’re likely to pop out.’

Lacey giggled. ‘That’d make sure we got a full house for the rest of the week, wouldn’t it?’ she remarked, checking her appearance one last time before skipping out to take her place in the wings and await her cue.

She was under no illusions that understudying the role of French au pair in a rather weak comedy being produced in a converted West London bus station was going to prove her big break. She only had the part for a few days anyway, while the actress who was supposed to be playing it recovered from a bout of flu.

It wasn’t exactly a demanding role; it mostly required her to stand around looking alluring, and adjusting her suspenders, as the household of her employers disintegrated around her. The husband had most of the laughs—when they came. But it was better than resting, and serving behind the counter in the local fast-food emporium, as she had for the previous six months.

The house sounded even thinner than usual, and it was hard work to get as far as the interval. With a sigh of relief, Lacey hurried back down the passage to her dressing-room. Hugo was still draped across the armchair, reading the evening paper.

‘I thought you had a date tonight?’ she queried, slanting him a questioning look as she slipped behind the screen to change into her costume for the second act—a frivolous pink silk wrap, trimmed with a froth of swansdown.

Hugo yawned, casually tossing aside the paper. ‘There’s no rush,’ he drawled with all the arrogance of handsome youth. ‘It does ’em good to keep ‘em waiting.’

She frowned at him in stern reproach, but with little hope of being attended to. Much as she loved her twin brother, she couldn’t help disapproving of his behaviour sometimes. But then if his girlfriends were silly enough to put up with it... ! She knew she had been lucky to have had him around to put her wise to the dangers of falling for any smooth masculine lines as she was growing up—she could certainly never say she was unaware of the pitfalls!

‘What time will you be coming home?’ she asked, checking her stockings for runs as she took them across to the tiny washroom opposite her dressing-room to rinse them through ready for tomorrow—the company wasn’t large enough to afford more than one wardrobe mistress, and she had more than enough to do.

‘I don’t know,’ she heard him call back. ‘Don’t wait up for me.’

She chuckled with laughter, leaning over the sink to splash cold water over the pulse-points of her wrists and throat—she found it always cooled her down after the heat of the stage lights. ‘If I waited up for you every time you stayed out half the night, I’d never get any sleep!’ she chided him as she walked back into her dressing-room.

‘Is that so?’

She stopped abruptly. A total stranger was standing in the middle of the room, regarding her with insolent disdain; a tall stranger, with crisp dark hair, wearing an immaculately cut grey suit which moulded his wide shoulders to perfection.

‘Who the... ?’ She glanced around in confusion. ‘Where’s Hugo?’

‘If you mean the young Adonis with his hair in a ponytail, I just passed him in the corridor,’ the stranger responded. ‘Miss Tyrell?’ He allowed his dark gaze to slide down over her body, taking in every contour on the way. ‘Yes—you’re exactly the type I expected.’

Her eyes flashed in anger, and she glared back at him, uncomfortably aware that the loose wrap was displaying rather too much of the soft shadow between her breasts. ‘Really?’ she queried, discreetly easing the swansdown lapels a little more closely together. ‘And what type is that?’

‘I believe you know exactly what type I mean, so please don’t waste my time with that pretence of injured innocence,’ he countered with caustic contempt.

She stared up at him, startled by such unwarranted hostility. She had never met this man before in her life—she was quite certain that she would have remembered if she had; that hard-boned, arrogant face, with its faintly patrician nose and firm, level mouth wouldn’t be easy to forget.

‘I... I’m sorry,’ she managed, struggling to project a facade of cool dignity. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave—the public aren’t allowed backstage in the middle of a performance.’

‘Oh, I’m not the public,’ he responded, his voice menacingly soft. ‘You could call me a sort of friend of the family. Does the name Jon Parrish mean anything to you?’

She frowned. ‘Of course. He’s Clive Fielding’s...’ Realisation dawned with a bump. ‘You’re Jon Parrish?’

‘Correct,’ he confirmed tautly. ‘Sir Clive Fielding’s stepson.’

Lacey faltered, not quite knowing how to respond. Somehow they seemed to have got off on entirely the wrong foot, but it wasn’t too late to put it right. She tried a smile, though it was a bit of a wobbly effort. ‘Well, how do you do? I... I’m very pleased to meet you...’

‘I haven’t come here to exchange pleasantries, Miss Tyrell,’ he rapped tersely. ‘And I’ll warn you now that you’ll be wasting your time trying to play off your tricks on me. My taste has never run to well-stacked blondes—and even if it did I’m a bit too awake to the time of day to be taken in by a cheap little gold-digger like you.’

The stinging insult almost took her breath away. ‘You... What?’ she protested in furious indignation. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

Again that indifferent regard swept down over her, and she found herself wishing that she was wearing rather more than this flimsy wrap. With her curvaceous figure, she was accustomed to having men stare at her—drool over her, to be more accurate. But apparently the promise of her firm, ripe breasts, dainty waist and shapely derrière did nothing for him.

‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Miss Tyrell,’ he informed her in a voice of cold derision. ‘Apparently you specialise in rich men old enough to be your father. You had Ted Gardiner in your coils, beguiling him into giving you a part in his play—until you decided my stepfather was a better prospect. If I had my way, women like you would be horsewhipped.’

She glared at him, her palm itching to slap that arrogant face. ‘Get out of here,’ she demanded heatedly. ‘Or I’ll...’

‘You’ll what?’ he countered with biting mockery. ‘Have me thrown out? I doubt it—I’m a good friend of the producer, not to mention the stepson of one of your most important backers. I’ll go when I’m good and ready.’ He leaned back casually against the edge of her dressing-table, asserting his intention to stay as long as he pleased. ‘Nice roses,’ he remarked, casting them a sardonic glance. ‘From my stepfather? Or that macho hulk who was leaving as I arrived? No, he wasn’t the type to buy flowers.’

‘They’re from your stepfather,’ she retorted, returning him a defiant glare. It was more than apparent that losing her temper with him was going to get her nowhere—a more subtle approach was needed. Deliberately she picked up the flowers, sniffing delicately at their sweet fragrance. ‘Mmm, lovely—they must have cost a fortune, out of season like this.’

Those dark eyes kindled in momentary anger. ‘You little tramp,’ he grated. ‘I’m warning you, your affair with him is over.’

She blinked at him in shock, controlling with difficulty her boiling anger at his unwarranted assumption. ‘I’m afraid you’re under a misapprehension,’ she informed him coldly. ‘I’m not having an affair with Clive. He’s simply a friend.’

He laughed in chilling scorn. ‘You really can’t expect me to believe that,’ he sneered. ‘It may be less than flattering to your ego, but you’re just the latest in a very long line—mostly blonde, and mostly as... opulently endowed as you. His taste in mistresses is quite tiresomely predictable.’

She slid him a glittering glance from beneath her lashes. It was evident that he had come here without speaking to Clive first. Well, he deserved to be taught a sharp lesson about jumping to conclusions about people; three years in drama school had taught her plenty about improvising characterisations.

Strolling across the room, she disposed herself gracefully in the shabby armchair, crossing her slender legs and letting the wrap slip a little to display a few tempting inches of creamy thigh. Smiling with just a hint of coyness, she shook back her hair, lifting one hand to rub the nape of her neck, knowing how the movement would cause her firm, round breasts to rise beneath the soft silk of her wrap. She was pleased to note that he couldn’t help looking, though his dark eyes conveyed only mocking contempt.

‘You’re not a very dutiful stepson,’ she pouted, a husky laugh in her voice.

‘I have no particular reason to be—my stepfather has never done anything much to earn my respect. But you had better believe, Miss Tyrell, that I have no intention of allowing him be dragged into a scandal over a cheap little tart like you.’

She had to force herself to ignore that barb. ‘Why don’t you call me Lacey?’ she purred, her violet eyes peeping at him from beneath the silky fringe of her lashes. ‘Everyone does.’

‘I wouldn’t care to be that familiar, Miss Tyrell,’ he grated with deliberate emphasis. ‘Oh, and by the way, if you have any ideas about selling your sordid little kiss-and-tell story to the gutter Press, you can think again.’

She lifted one delicately arched eyebrow. ‘But I’m sure they’d be very interested,’ she demurred provocatively. ‘It’s just the sort of juicy little titbit they love. If I play my cards right, I could make a great deal of money.’

She had the satisfaction of knowing that she had driven him to the very edge of losing his temper; it was costing him a visible effort to regain his control. ‘It would be very dangerous for you to cross me, Miss Tyrell,’ he warned, his voice soft and sinister. ‘I have a great deal of power—rather more, in fact, than most politicians. You might discover that any money you make wouldn’t go very far if you were never to find another job—not even cleaning floors.’

Lacey felt a small chill scud down her spine; she was quite sure that he could—and would—carry out such a threat. She knew, from the things that Clive had said, that even he was slightly in awe of his stepson. She couldn’t quite remember what line of business he was in, but she knew he was highly successful at it. Now she had met him, she wasn’t at all surprised—he was completely ruthless.

He was watching her in silence, those hard eyes glinting. But she’d be damned if she’d let him intimidate her! She was quite enjoying playing out her role—by the time she had finished with him, he was going to owe her the biggest apology of all time!

‘Tell me,’ she queried, deliberately goading him, ‘what does your mother think about Clive’s...er—mistresses?’

But he had himself well in hand again now. ‘My mother gave up allowing herself to be concerned a very long time ago,’ he responded with cool restraint. ‘They came to an agreement to lead virtually separate lives. So long as he was discreet, she didn’t mind what he did—naturally a divorce could have been harmful to his career.’

‘How very civilised,’ she approved bitingly.

‘Perhaps. However, I will not have her subjected to public humiliation—she has been unwell recently, and I don’t want her to have to cope with that sort of strain.’ There was an unmistakable thread of steel in his voice. ‘I believe I have made myself clear, Miss Tyrell—and rest assured, these are no idle threats.’

‘Oh, no?’ It was time to call an end to this little game! Rising to her feet, she regarded him with frosty dignity. ‘Well, let me tell you something, Mr Super-Powerful Jon Parrish. If you had bothered to speak to Clive before you came round here throwing your weight around, he would have told you what I told you—we are not, repeat not, having an affair. We are simply friends—though I doubt if your smutty little mind can conceive of such a thing. Nor do I have any intention of speaking to the Press. Now will you kindly get out of my dressing-room? You’re polluting the atmosphere.’

He had listened to her speech with an air of sardonic amusement, and as she finished, he slowly clapped his hands in mocking applause. ‘Well done, Miss Tyrell,’ he taunted. ‘A magnificent performance—almost worthy of an Oscar.’

She stared at him in angry frustration. He hadn’t believed a word she had said! And then he stood up and came towards her, those dark eyes glinting with unmistakable menace. She stepped back in alarm, but in the small room there was nowhere to go.

With an abrupt movement he caught both her wrists, shackling them in steely fingers, and jerked her against him. ‘Maybe I can understand what my stepfather sees in you after all,’ he grated softly. ‘When your eyes flash like that, they add a certain spirit to your whole face.’

Before she had realised what he was going to do, he had tangled one hand in her hair, dragging her head sharply back, and as she gasped in shocked protest his mouth descended on hers in a kiss that was almost savage in its intensity.

She struggled to be free, but beneath that air of aloof urbanity he had portrayed was the hard-muscled strength of any primitive male, angry and aroused. And to her shame, she felt herself responding, succumbing helplessly to his fierce demand, melting in a honeyed tide of purely feminine submissiveness.

His lips were moving over hers, hot and enticing, as his tongue plundered deep into the sweet, defenceless valley of her mouth. Her head was dizzy from the racing of her blood, and she was clinging to him as his hand slid down the length of her spine to mould her supple body into his hard embrace.

His other hand had shifted to encompass the rounded fullness of her breast, cupping and caressing it with an insolent assumption of licence. But she couldn’t control the sudden flare of heat he had ignited inside her. Her tender nipple had ripened to an exquisitely sensitive bud beneath the delicious abrasion of his palm, the teasing touch of his fingers, as electric sparks of pleasure crackled along her nerve-fibres and pierced her brain.

And for one magical moment it seemed as though he too had been caught up in the same wild surge of desire; his kiss gentled to the most incredible tenderness, and their bodies seemed to melt together like two halves cast from the same mould.

She heard herself moaning softly, her head tipping back into the crook of his arm as his hot mouth roved over her trembling eyelids and down to the delicate shell of her ear, his hard teeth nibbling sensuously at her lobe and making her shiver with heat...

The voice of the assistant stage manager calling the end of the interval shattered the spell. Jon drew back, regarding her with acute distaste. ‘Well, that’s one thing you can’t cover up with acting,’ he sneered, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth as if to wipe away every last trace of her. ‘You really are nothing but a cheap little tart.’

With a sudden rush of shame, Lacey realised that the tie of her silk wrap had slipped loose, affording him much too generous a glimpse of the warm fullness of her breasts, somewhat inadequately contained in the delicate lacy cups of her bra. Her cheeks flamed scarlet, and she snatched at the wrap, tying it tightly around her waist, all too aware of the way it outlined every curve of her body.

‘Get out of here,’ she hissed.

‘Don’t worry—I’m going,’ he countered witheringly. ‘Forgive me if I can’t bring myself to sit through the second half of the play.’ He deliberately let his gaze drop to the rounded curve of her breasts, rising and falling in her heated agitation, the taut buds of her aroused nipples still faintly visible beneath the sheer fabric. ‘I think I’ve seen more than enough of your talents.’ And turning on his heel he strode out of the room, closing the door behind him with a controlled slam.

Lacey felt herself trembling inside. The humiliating memory of that kiss seemed to be burned on to her mouth like a physical scar—and she wasn’t sure that it would ever go away.

But she had no time to pull herself together—she was due back on stage. Pausing only to repair the worst ravages to her make-up, she hurried down the stairs, crossing her fingers that he had meant it about not staying for the second half; she didn’t like the idea of him sitting out there in the darkened auditorium, watching her, unseen...

Lacey sat at the kitchen table, idly toying with her breakfast. She had slept little, and now she seemed to have lost her appetite. Disturbing images of what had happened last night were still troubling her brain. How on earth could she have let him kiss her like that? It had been stupid of her to taunt him—like baiting a wild tiger.

The yellow gingham curtains at the window gave the illusion of bright sunlight streaming into the room, though in fact it was a dull November morning, drizzling with rain. The kitchen was spotless; it had been Hugo’s turn to clean it up yesterday, and he always tackled the chore with a thoroughness that amused her—it was just a pity he couldn’t be more tidy in between.

She glanced around, sighing a little wistfully as she let her chin rest in her cupped hand. Their mother would have been pleased to see that they were keeping the little flat the way she would have wanted it. She had always been very houseproud, though it hadn’t been easy for her, a widow with two children, working long hours in the kitchen at the local hospital.

It was almost three years now since she had died; Lacey often thought that Hugo had taken it harder than she had, though he didn’t say much. But every time she visited the neat little cemetery where their parents were buried side by side, there were fresh flowers on the grave, and she knew that he had been the one who had put them there.

‘Morning, sis.’ Hugo himself, clad in a pair of hip-hugging denim jeans, his magnificently muscled torso bronzed and bare, strolled into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing the back of his head with his hand. ‘What’s that you’re eating?’ he teased her cheerfully, looking askance at the contents of her cereal bowl. ‘It looks like wet cardboard.’

‘It’s muesli,’ she informed him with dignity. ‘You should try it—it’s good for you.’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t call that a proper breakfast,’ he insisted. ‘Let me see...’ He opened the fridge, scanning the contents. ‘It’s full of your damned live yoghurt! Haven’t we got any bacon?’

‘Bottom shelf.’

‘Oh, yes—thanks...’ He took the packet out, tossing it on to the worktop beside the cooker, and reached into the cupboard to find the frying pan. ‘Hope I didn’t wake you when I came in last night,’ he remarked. ‘It was pretty late.’

‘Oh... No, I was fast asleep,’ she lied a little selfconsciously. ‘Did you have a nice time?’

He shrugged. ‘So-so. I reckon I’m going to cool that one off a bit. She’s starting to get... Hey, you damned mutt! He’s got the bacon!’

He threw himself across the room, trying to rugby-tackle a spring-loaded bundle of yellow fur that darted nimbly out of his way and dashed off down the hall, triumphantly bearing his prize.

‘Khan! Bad dog—give me that!’ Lacey scolded, the effect of her stern words somewhat mitigated by the laughter in her voice. The overgrown pup peeped out from beneath his shaggy yellow fringe, weighing up his chances of escaping a second time as Hugo closed in on him.

The ensuing tussle had them all landing in a heap on the floor, Khan barking excitedly and trying to lick them both, his tail flailing wildly. Hugo pushed him off, struggling to sit up.

‘Damned animal! Look at that—three rashers, and he’s eaten the lot! Call him an Afghan? He’s a greedy pig, that’s what he is!’

‘Ah, don’t hurt his feelings!’ Lacey protested, hugging the dog and letting him shower slobbery kisses over her cheek. ‘He can’t help it—he had a disturbed childhood.’

Hugo laughed, pushing himself to his feet. ‘He saw you coming! You’re nothing but a soft touch for any waif and stray that crosses your path.’

‘Well, but I couldn’t let them have him put down, just because they couldn’t cope with him any more,’ she argued. ‘I know he’s a handful, but he’ll grow up one day, and then he’ll be beautiful.’

‘When?’ enquired Hugo with a touch of asperity. ‘I don’t see much sign of it so far. He doesn’t even look like an Afghan, with that silly fringe—in fact he’s the stupidest-looking dog I’ve ever seen.’

‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ Lacey advised the dog earnestly. ‘He’s only jealous ’cos you’re better-looking than he is. Want a cup of tea?’ she added to her brother. ‘I was just going to——’ A loud ring at the doorbell interrupted her. ‘Oh, it’s probably the postman—I’ll get it.’

The scuffle with the dog had loosened her dressing-gown a little, and she held it together with one hand as she went to open the door. Unfortunately Khan had come along to see who it was, and at that exact moment Mrs Potter, who lived in the flat opposite, came out with her little West Highland terrier on its lead.

Khan gave a bark of fury at spying his mortal enemy, and Lacey had to grab his collar swiftly to restrain him from his murderous intentions. Her dressing-gown fell open, revealing her softly curvaceous figure, clad only in the skimpy baby-doll nightdress she wore in bed. But it wasn’t the postman at the door—it was a photographer.

‘Hey!’ She gasped in shock as a flashbulb dazzled her eyes. ‘What the hell do you... ? Khan, get in!’ Wrestling with the dog prevented her from covering herself, and the photographer managed to get several more very revealing shots before she could do anything about it. By the time she had got the dog under control, the man was inside the door, along with another carrying a small tape-recorder.

‘Miss Tyrell? John Brennan, Sunday Beacon—this is my colleague, Roger Williams. We just want to ask you a few questions. Is it true that you’re a friend of Sir Clive Fielding, the MP? When did you meet him? How well do you know him?’

She stared at them in bewilderment. ‘Yes, I know him,’ she responded, managing at last to bundle Khan into the nearest room and shut the door on him—causing him to howl as if he had been cast out into the uttermost darkness. ‘But it’s none of your business...’

‘Did you know he was married, Miss Tyrell?’

Her violet-blue eyes flashed in icy indignation. ‘Yes, of course I knew—he told me so the first time we met. But there’s nothing wrong in it—we’re just friends... Hey, where do you think you’re going?’

The reporter had spied the bouquet of roses on the hall table—she hadn’t yet got around to putting them in a vase. Dodging past her, he snatched up the card that had come with them. ‘What’s this? “Wish I could be with you tonight. Fondest love. Clive”,’ he read in a mocking tone. ‘Just friends, eh?’

‘Give me that!’ she protested, lunging for the card, but he held it out of her reach.

‘We’re going to publish, Lacey,’ he taunted, his manner sneeringly over-familiar. ‘But you could be on to a nice little earner here if you’re a sensible girl. We’re willing to offer you fifty grand for the exclusive.’

Lacey almost exploded in fury. ‘How dare you come in here asking your filthy questions?’ she spat at him, a hectic flush colouring her cheeks as she realised her dressing-gown was still gaping open, revealing rather too many of her charms. She clutched it around her body, putting up her arm to shield her face as the photographer raised his camera again. ‘Get out of here.’

‘You want more money? Sure—sixty wouldn’t be too much.’

‘I’m not going to talk to you! Now get out of here, before I call the police.’

‘Lacey... ?’ Hugo appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking incongruously domesticated with an egg in one hand and the spatula in the other. ‘What the hell... ?’ He took one look at the reporters, and sized up the situation. ‘Get out,’ he growled. ‘Unless you want your legs broken.’

Since he looked perfectly capable of carrying out his threat—they weren’t to know what a complete pussycat he was—the two men retreated strategically towards the door. ‘This your boyfriend, is it, Lacey?’ the one with the tape-recorder enquired intrusively.

‘I’m not answering any more of your questions,’ she raged.

‘OK, OK—just one last picture, eh, Roger?’

The flashbulb exploded again—catching Lacey still clutching at her loose dressing-gown, Hugo’s arm protectively around her shoulders. Hugo bellowed in rage, and pounced after them, trying to grab the camera, but they were very nimble—no doubt through long practice—and were gone before he could catch them. He chased them down the steps, but they had a car waiting, and all that happened was that they got more pictures of him hurling the egg at the car and yelling wild threats as it swerved away.

He came back up to the flat to find Lacey in tears. He wrapped his arms around her comfortingly. ‘Hey, don’t let the bastards upset you, love,’ he coaxed as she sobbed her heart out against his chest. ‘It isn’t worth it.’

‘They made me feel so dirty, and I haven’t even done anything wrong,’ she protested brokenly. A sudden thought struck her. ‘Oh, my lord, I ought to ring Clive and warn him...’

‘I should imagine he knows all about it by now,’ Hugo advised her acidly. ‘And he’ll be thinking only of how to save his own skin—he won’t give a damn about you. Now come on, stop crying—you’ll make your eyes all red and puffy.’

Lacey sniffed, reaching for the roll of kitchen paper and tearing off a piece to wipe her eyes. ‘You were right,’ she admitted wryly. ‘I should have listened to you. But I never thought the papers would really be interested, even if they found out about us.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder how they did find out?’

Hugo shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t take much—politics is a very dirty game. A bit of rivalry inside the party, or someone out to take a dig at the government... They’re just using you, I’m afraid—you happened to be convenient.’

Lacey stared up at him, shocked. ‘Do you really think so? But that’s awful!’

He laughed, hugging her affectionately. ‘Dear old Lacey—how have you managed to live in this world for twenty-two years and remain so innocent? Most people would... Damn, what’s the matter with that stupid hound now?’

‘Oh, dear—I shut him in the bathroom. I was afraid he’d get out and chase Mrs Potter’s dog, and she’s already threatened to report him to the police as dangerous.’

She hurried to open the bathroom door. Four and a half stone of half-grown Afghan hound launched himself past her, scampering round in a circle in the middle of the hall and then diving into the living-room to leap on to the sofa, his brown eyes liquid and appealing, accusing her of the most ruthless cruelty for shutting him up for so long.

She couldn’t help laughing. ‘You rascal—you know you’re not supposed to be on there,’ she scolded him fondly.

From the bathroom came an angry roar. ‘That damned dog! He’s had my shaving-brush now! I swear one day I’ll strangle him!’

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER that unpleasant experience, Lacey would have liked nothing better than to be able to shut herself in her room and hide. But if there was one thing guaranteed to take her mind off her troubles, it was the youngsters at the day centre where she worked part-time as a drama therapist. All of them had been classified as having severe learning difficulties, but their enthusiasm for the Christmas play they were preparing was enormous.

‘It’s really coming on,’ remarked Hilary, the centre manager, watching as some of the cast earnestly rehearsed a scene. ‘And they really seem to be enjoying themselves.’

Lacey nodded. ‘They wrote most of the script themselves, by improvising,’ she explained quietly. ‘It’s about Jesus coming back in the present day, as one of the homeless in London.’

Hilary looked impressed. ‘Who thought of that?’

‘They did,’ Lacey responded proudly.

‘Very good. Let me know what you’re going to need in the way of props and scenery, and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks,’ Lacey whispered. ‘That was very good, Tom,’ she added, raising her voice to the characters on the makeshift stage. ‘Maria, I like the way you’re sitting, but could you just turn a little this way, so we can see your face properly?’

‘Was I really good, Lacey?’ Tom queried excitedly, his eyes alight with pride.

‘You were very good,’ she asserted with emphasis. ‘And you’ve learned your lines really well. Well done.’

‘I know my lines too, Lacey,’ Maria put in eagerly, coming over to take her hand.

Lacey smiled down at her with warm affection. ‘Do you? You have been working hard. We’ll come to your bit in a minute. I want you all to practise your song first, OK? Come on, gather round the piano.’

It made her feel warm inside to see all their bright, happy faces as they clustered around her. Sometimes it made her really angry that life seemed so unfair to them, but when she thought about the way that people who apparently had so much more could be so arrogant and rude, she was inclined to the conclusion that they were the ones to be envied.

The day centre was only a short distance from the flat she shared with Hugo, and with a speculative glance at the grey November sky she decided to walk home instead of waiting for the bus. It took her rather longer than she had expected—she had lived in this part of south London all her life, and it was inevitable that she would keep bumping into people she knew. By the time she had stopped to chat, nodding in sympathy at the story of someone’s recent spell in hospital, congratulating someone else on the birth of a new grandchild, it was beginning to rain.

She had to pop into the small supermarket on the corner to get a bottle of milk and some dog food for Khan, and then hurried the rest of the way home, struggling with her umbrella and her shopping, cursing mildly at a car that splashed her as she waited to cross the road.

As she turned the corner, she noticed with surprise that the same car was drawn into the kerb outside her block of flats. She frowned, puzzled. It was a sleek dark blue Aston Martin—who on earth could be visiting around here, driving a car like that? At least she could be fairly sure it wasn’t another reporter.

The driver was still at the wheel, and as she drew closer an uncomfortable suspicion began to dawn in her brain. A glimpse of a dark head and a pair of wide shoulders in an immaculately cut jacket confirmed it; it couldn’t be anyone else but Jon Parrish.

Well, he needn’t think she was going to stop and speak to him, after the way he had behaved last night! Ignoring him completely, she climbed the flight of steps to her front door on the first floor, irritated at her own uncharacteristic clumsiness as she struggled with her umbrella and her shopping and fumbled for her keys.

She heard him open the car door. ‘Miss Tyrell?’

Her umbrella was slipping, and instinctively she tried to catch it, succeeding only in dropping the bottle of milk. It smashed on the step, spilling broken glass and milk in the rain. ‘Oh...drat!’ she muttered, juggling with the tins of dog food as they too began to slip out of her hands.

He came quickly up the steps and took them from her before she dropped them.

‘Oh...Thank you,’ she responded, automatically polite, but instantly jumped back on to the defensive before he could think she was making any concessions. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ she demanded, glowering up at him in undisguised suspicion.

Those dark eyes glinted, warning that he hadn’t come to apologise. ‘We need to talk,’ he answered tersely.

‘We have nothing to talk about,’ she insisted, trying to reach the lock with her key while still holding on to all the things she was carrying.

‘Unfortunately we do,’ he ground out, taking the key from her. ‘As you may be aware, the newspapers have discovered your relationship with my stepfather.’

‘I told you last night, I don’t have a relationship with your... Look out!’

He didn’t heed her warning, and as he pushed the door open he found himself mobbed by an overexcited bundle of fur, not sure whether to attack him or try to lick his face.

‘Khan—down!’ Lacey instructed sharply, afraid that if her dog ran to meet her he would cut his paws on the broken glass. She hurriedly shooed him back inside, catching her open umbrella on the door and muttering more impatient curses.

Jon calmly took it from her, shaking off the raindrops and closing it down as he followed her into the passage. ‘Sit,’ he instructed Khan imperiously.

To Lacey’s absolute astonishment, the delinquent hound immediately responded by plopping his back end down on the floor, his front paws neatly together, his whole expression conveying smug pride in his own uncharacteristic obedience.

‘Good lord—how on earth did you get him to do that?’ she queried, forgetting all her wariness in her surprise.

Just for a moment; a smile flickered at the corners of his hard mouth, and Lacey felt her heart give an odd little flutter; that smile was quite startlingly attractive. But she couldn’t afford to let herself think like that, she reminded herself sharply.

‘Well, you’d better come in,’ she remarked, the inflection of sarcasm in her voice acknowledging that he had already done so.

‘Thank you.’ He closed the front door behind him. Khan, evidently deciding he was a friend, was fawning at his feet, his rump in the air, his curly tail wagging wildly. ‘What exactly is this?’ he enquired, restraining the exuberant hound as he reared up to seal their relationship with his floppy pink tongue.

‘He’s an Afghan hound,’ she informed him, dumping the dog food on the kitchen table.

‘Is that a fact?’ He followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’d have taken him for a mobile hearthrug.’

Lacey had to suppress ruthlessly the inclination to feel that anyone who could win Khan’s adoration so swiftly couldn’t be all bad—she could hardly rely on that brainless mutt as a judge of character, she reminded herself with a flash of wry humour.

She slanted him a wary glance from beneath her lashes. The memory of last night was still all too vivid in her mind, and although nothing in his manner now suggested that he was planning a repetition, she wasn’t at all sure she should have let him across the threshold. She was going to have to handle the situation very carefully, avoid doing anything that he might take as further confirmation of the conclusion he had leapt to so readily last night; at least having her own clothes on should give her a little more confidence.

‘Take a seat,’ she invited stiffly.

‘No, thank you,’ he responded in clipped tones. ‘I won’t be staying more than a few moments.’

Biting back a sharp retort, she shrugged her slender shoulders in a gesture of pure indifference. ‘Suit yourself,’ she returned breezily. ‘But first I’m going to have to go and clear up that mess outside, before someone hurts themselves.’

Without waiting for him to answer, she took the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink and, stepping briskly past him, went out to the step to sweep up the broken glass. The rain had already washed the milk away, and it was running down into the gutter in a long white stream. She was going to have to go out and get another bottle now, or there wouldn’t be enough for breakfast—thanks to that damned man.

But at least those few minutes had given her some valuable time to compose herself. When she went back inside, he was sitting at the kitchen table, and although she tried to ignore him she was conscious of those dark eyes following her as she carefully tipped the shards of glass into an empty cornflake packet so that the sharp edges wouldn’t be dangerous, before stowing them neatly in the dustbin, and putting the dustpan and brush away.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she offered, shrugging off her outdoor coat and tossing it across a chair.

He shook his head. ‘No, thank you.’

‘I could make you coffee instead?’ If he was going to be churlish, she would retaliate with an excess of good manners.

His eyes flickered with something that could almost have been amusement, and he conceded a terse nod. ‘Black, no sugar.’

She smiled sweetly, reflecting that he was fortunate she had no arsenic to put in it. She took her time about making the drinks, forcing herself to maintain that façade of cool indifference to his presence. It wasn’t easy; she was quite used to having the kitchen filled with handsome hunks of male—Hugo’s friends from the polytechnic, or the others in his all-male dance troupe. But there was something distinctly different about this man; he seemed to dominate his surroundings without any conscious effort.

The kettle boiled, and she made the drinks, bringing them over to the kitchen table, and sitting down opposite him. ‘So—what was it you wanted to talk about?’ she enquired, regarding him levelly across the table.

‘Have you spoken to any reporters from the Sunday Beacon?’ he demanded without preamble.

‘They’ve been here,’ she responded cautiously.

‘I see.’ His expression was grim. ‘And did you give them an interview?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

He eyed her with frank scepticism. ‘Did they offer you money?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact they did,’ she informed him loftily. ‘And I turned it down.’

That hard mouth curved into a faint sneer. ‘Not quite enough for you, was it?’ he taunted.

Her violet-blue eyes flashed with anger. ‘Just what do you think gives you the right to come round here insulting me?’ she exploded hotly. ‘Just because I’m not rich and powerful like you, that doesn’t mean you can treat me like a piece of dirt.’

‘You placed yourself in that position when you chose to begin an affair with my stepfather,’ he countered scathingly. ‘You can hardly expect me to treat you like a lady.’

She felt a sudden urgent desire to throw her hot tea in his face, and had to force herself to put down her cup, her hand shaking slightly. ‘Have you asked Clive about this so-called affair?’ she asked, her voice very controlled.

‘Naturally—and, like you, he denied it. Unfortunately, my stepfather’s denials tend to have a rather hollow ring after all these years. And if I had had any remaining trace of doubt,’ he added, letting his eyes drift down to the firm, round swell of her breasts and linger there with deliberate insolence, ‘it would have been very thoroughly eliminated last night.’

Lacey could feel her heart beating faster, and was uncomfortably aware that beneath her pale blue sweater her tender nipples were ripening to hard nubs, as if in some kind of instinctive response to his dominating male presence. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference what I’d done,’ she countered defensively. ‘You’d already made up your mind about me before you even came to the theatre.’

‘True,’ he conceded, a cynical twist to his mouth. ‘I’d already heard a great deal about you from Ted Gardiner’s wife—she happens to be my cousin. You really don’t care what sort of harm you do, so long as you get what you want, do you? I have to admit, you’re a very tempting baggage. But if you had any ideas of adding me to your list of conquests, I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment—the thought of touching you after Clive’s had his paws on you is rather more than I can stomach.’

‘Oh? You didn’t give that impression last night,’ she threw at him in ragged desperation.

He laughed without humour. ‘Put that down to... curiosity,’ he conceded. ‘I can assure you I had no intention of allowing it to go any further.’

‘Neither did I!’ she snapped.

‘No?’ he enquired, coolly mocking. ‘Well, we won’t debate that one. But I don’t imagine that a woman who could go to bed with a man old enough to be her grandfather can afford to possess a great deal of discrimination.’

‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ she demanded, her temper boiling over. ‘I was not having an affair with him! I’ve met him maybe half a dozen times. He came backstage at the theatre, he took me out for coffee once or twice, and bought me flowers—that’s all. What do I have to do to convince you?’

He leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes regarding her levelly across the table, and she found it impossible to read their expression. What was he thinking? Under that cool scrutiny she felt her cheeks flushing a hot pink, and had to look away from him. Why should she care whether he believed her anyway? He meant nothing to her; so far as she was concerned, she would be heartily glad if she never saw him again.

‘Actually, it really doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not,’ he pointed out with cool indifference. ‘My only concern is what the newspapers will be able to make of it. Once the Beacon breaks the story, the rest’ll be swarming all over this place, offering you the sort of money that’ll make the Beacon’s opening bid look like chicken-feed.’

‘Then I shall tell them exactly what I told the Beacon,’ she countered tautly. ‘That I have no intention of speaking to any of them.’

His hard mouth twisted into a cynical smile. ‘Oh, they can be pretty persuasive with their cheque , books—especially when they think they’ve caught a whiff of scandal in high places. I could really hardly blame you for being tempted. That’s why I don’t want you here where they can work on you—you’re going to have to disappear for a few weeks, until the heat dies down.’

She shook her head, her thoughts flying instantly to Tom and Maria, and the other young people at the day centre. ‘I can’t do that—I’m involved in a play.’

He waved her objection aside with a dismissive gesture. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to pull out of it—I doubt if they’ll have much trouble finding a replacement.’

She glared at him, infuriated by his high-handed arrogance. And of course he had believed she was talking about her magnificent role in that paltry comedy. Well, she wasn’t going to enlighten him—she was too angry with him, and she didn’t want to give him the chance to mock at something that was so important to her.

‘I don’t care,’ she asserted forcefully. ‘I’m not going. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, and I’m not running away.’

Those dark eyes glinted in sharp annoyance; clearly he wasn’t accustomed to having his commands disobeyed. ‘I thought I had made myself clear, Miss Tyrell. I don’t want you talking to the press—’

‘And I thought I had made myself clear, Mr, Parrish,’ she retorted, refusing to be intimidated by his high-handed manner. ‘I’m not budging from this flat, and there’s nothing you can do about it—unless you’re planning to have me... What’s the term they use in the security services? Taken out?’

He conceded a flicker of sardonic amusement. ‘I’m not connected with the security services, Miss Tyrell—nor was I proposing to use violence. If you insist on staying, I cannot prevent you. Although you could find yourself regretting your decision come Sunday,’ he cautioned drily. ‘You’re likely to find the gentlemen of the Press less than gentle in their attentions.’

She tilted up her chin in haughty defiance. ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,’ she declared, with a confidence she didn’t quite feel.

‘I don’t think I need to remind you of my warning,’ he remarked, his voice quite cordial but unmistakably laced with steel. ‘If I find that you’ve been playing games with me, I shall make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of trying to play games with you, Mr Parrish,’ she responded in saccharine tones. ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t feel that this sort of cheap publicity would be of any use to my career.’

He seemed to weigh up her words, his dark eyes regarding her in narrowed calculation, but apparently she had at least partially convinced him. ‘Very well,’ he conceded, finishing his coffee and rising easily to his feet. ‘If you should change your mind about my suggestion—’

‘I won’t.’

He took a small white business card from his pocket, and dropped it casually on to the table. ‘If you should change your mind,’ he reiterated with restrained impatience, ‘call me.’

She glanced at the card with studied lack of interest. ‘Even if I do decide to go away, I won’t come to you for help.’

That hard mouth curved into a taut smile. ‘Believe me, Miss Tyrell, your distaste for our brief acquaintance can hardly be stronger than my own; nothing would please me more than the assurance that we would never have to meet again. Unfortunately, however, I fear that things aren’t going to prove quite that simple.’

‘So far as I’m concerned they are,’ she returned with a snap. ‘I wish I’d never met you—or your stepfather.’

‘It’s a little late for regrets now.’

‘I never expected all this trouble to come out of it,’ she maintained crossly. ‘I just felt sorry for him—he seemed so lonely.’

‘No doubt he told you that his wife didn’t understand him?’

‘He told me she wasn’t interested in politics, and didn’t like living in London,’ she returned with dignity.

‘So you offered to comfort him?’

‘No! I just... I thought we could be friends, that’s all.’

He laughed without humour. ‘Spare me the protestations, Miss Tyrell. No one could be so naïve as to think a man of Clive’s age would be interested in mere friendship with such a nubile young thing as yourself. You knew full well what he was after.’

Lacy felt her cheeks flush a heated pink—she had been that naive. If Clive had been younger... But if the thought had even crossed her mind, she would have dismissed it as ludicrous.

‘At least you have the grace to blush,’ he taunted, taking her embarrassment as proof of her guilt. ‘And

I trust you’ll heed my warning—it would be very unfortunate if you should force me to take action against you. Good afternoon.’ He bid her farewell with a terse nod.

Khan, suddenly realising that he was leaving, scampered out into the hall after him, wistful brown eyes shamelessly imploring him to stay and play. He indulged him briefly with a tickle in just the right spot behind his floppy ear, leaving him besotted, gazing in abject despair at the front door as it closed.

‘Khan, don’t be stupid—come here,’ Lacey called, her voice shaking slightly.

The dog padded back to her, as miserable as if the bottom had fallen out of his whole world, and pressed his drooping head against her knee. ‘You daft mutt,’ she comforted him softly. ‘You really took to him, didn’t you? But he’s not a very nice person, I’m afraid. I thought dogs were supposed to have some kind of instinct about these things?’

The intelligent hound lifted his head, eyeing her rather doubtfully, and then slurped her cheek with his pink tongue.

‘Ugh! Get off!’ she protested, laughing as she pushed him away. ‘How many times do I have to tell you not to lick my face?’

But though she wouldn’t care to admit it, even to her four-legged confidant, she felt a strange sense of dejection herself. What was wrong with her? She had never met such an insufferably rude and arrogant man in her entire life. The very last thing she wanted was to be forced to have to see him again.

Vanessa was back in the role of French au pair by Saturday—however ill she might be feeling, she would never dream of allowing a mere understudy to take her place for the main performance of the week. So Lacy was relegated once again to helping out with the props and making coffee for the stage manager and the director. Which was probably just as well, she acknowledged wryly to herself—it would be difficult to cope with even such an unexacting role when she was fretting herself ragged with worry about what the Sunday papers were going to contain.

If only she could disappear! But where could she go? Apart from an elderly aunt who lived in Tooting, she and Hugo had no other relatives that they knew of. And she couldn’t impose on the hospitality of her friends—she had no idea how long this was going to last, and if the Press found out where she’d gone it could cause all sorts of problems.

Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she reared, she tried to reassure herself over and over. After all, they didn’t exactly have much of a story, based on the facts, and there were laws of libel to prevent them publishing outright lies—weren’t there?

The rest of the cast were going off to a party after the show, but she couldn’t bring herself to join them, pleading a headache. Ted, the producer, was there, waiting to convey them off in his Rolls-Royce, and he drew her to one side.

‘You do look a little pale,’ he agreed, a note of agitation in his voice. ‘Are you worrying about this thing with Clive getting into the papers?’

She nodded. ‘It’s probably stupid—there’s nothing they can make anything of.’

‘You didn’t tell them anything about me, did you?’ he asked anxiously.

She shook her head angrily, exasperated by his self-centredness. ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t tell them anything.’

He beamed in relief. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home and tuck you up in bed?’

‘No, thank you,’ she asserted quickly—she could all too readily guess that his idea of tucking her up was likely to include tucking himself up with her!

‘Well, see you next week then,’ he conceded, drifting off reluctantly with the others.

She smiled wanly to herself. She was quite sure that if things turned out as badly as she had feared he wouldn’t hesitate to dump her from the production. Well, it wouldn’t be much of a loss, she assured herself wryly—there had to be something better than playing understudy to French au pair!

The flat was in darkness when she got home—Hugo was performing with Les Sauvages at some nightclub in Croydon. She undressed, and went straight to bed, but she couldn’t sleep—there were too many unwelcome thoughts buzzing in her brain. After tossing and turning restlessly for several hours, she finally threw back the bedclothes and, reaching for her dressing-gown, padded out into the kitchen to make herself a mug of hot cocoa.

It was there that Hugo found her when he came in half an hour later—sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. ‘Hi, sis,’ he greeted her with a wry grin. He tossed a copy of the Sunday Beacon on to the table in front of her. ‘I picked it up on the way home,’ he explained. ‘You ain’t gonna like it.’

The banner headline screamed out at her: ‘Minister in Blackmail Plot.’ Beneath it was a picture of Clive in Downing Street, looking as kindly and respectable as a bishop, and one of herself taken the other morning, carefully cropped to make it look as if she had been a willing subject, posing provocatively in her underwear, displaying a more than generous amount of cleavage, pouting for the camera. A cold chill wrapped around her heart as she picked it up and read the story.

‘I don’t believe it!’ she gasped, stunned. ‘How can he have said this? It’s the most awful pack of lies I’ve ever heard! He’s told them that I approached him, that I kept pestering him, that he was only friendly with me because he felt sorry for me—and that I started demanding money from him, and threatened to claim we’d been having an affair if he didn’t pay up!’

‘It looks as if he’s decided to try and make a last-ditch attempt to save his own skin by throwing you to the wolves,’ Hugo remarked caustically. ‘I did warn you.’

‘Yes, but... this! How can a person be so... dishonest? And he seemed such a nice old man.’

Hugo laughed drily. ‘You’re such an innocent!’ he teased with gentle affection. ‘I don’t know how you manage it in this dirty old world, but you never seem to be able to think badly of anyone.’

Lacey’s soft mouth twisted into a wry smile. There was one person she thought badly of—but she had been doing her best to forget about Jon Parrish for the past few days. Not that it was easy; the unwelcome memory of their two brief encounters tended to flit back into her mind far too frequently for comfort.

Khan, sensing something was wrong, had heaved himself up from his beanbag in the corner and came over, laying his long nose in her lap and gazing up at her from beneath his yellow fringe with liquid brown eyes that held nothing but simple adoration. She stroked his tousled head absently.

‘Why can’t people be more like dogs?’ she questioned wistfully. ‘They’re so... uncomplicated. I’m sure the world would be a better place.’

Hugo snorted. ‘Not if they were all like that stupid mutt—he hasn’t an ounce of brain in his whole body. Do you know he got hold of a packet of cotton-wool while you were out yesterday afternoon, and ripped it up all over the sitting-room floor? It took me ages to pick it all up.’

‘Oh, is that where it went? You naughty dog!’ Khan accepted the compliment with delight, jumping up to lick her face and trying to climb on to her lap. ‘No—hey, you can’t do that! You’re much too big,’ she protested, laughing in spite of her distress. ‘Ow! Your claws are digging in me! Get down!’

‘Is that cocoa you’re drinking?’ Hugo enquired with a wide yawn. ‘I think I’ll have some too.’

She slanted him a teasing look, struggling to be brave. ‘Going to bed with a mug of hot cocoa? Whatever would all those girls who’ve been screaming all evening for your hunky body say if they knew?’

He chuckled with laughter. ‘It would ruin my image! I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t get out.’

Lacey cast a wry glance at the newspaper on the table. ‘A couple of days ago, I would have laughed at that,’ she mused with dejection. ‘But now...’ She picked up the paper again. ‘They’ve called you my “mystery lover” in this, and they’ve got a picture of you chasing those reporters down the steps. It’s a bit fuzzy, though—I don’t think anyone would recognise you. I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell them you’re my brother?’

He shook his head grimly. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Could I sue them for libel, do you suppose?’

He sat down opposite her, taking the paper from her and scanning the page. ‘I don’t know. It would be pretty difficult, with that old git having told them all this rubbish—it would be your word against his.’

‘And they’d be much more likely to believe him.’

‘Exactly. And it would cost a fortune.’ He put the paper down. ‘It doesn’t look as if there’s much you can do.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of.’

It was a couple of hours before Lacey could get to sleep, and it seemed as though she had barely closed her eyes when there was a knock on the door. ‘Who the... ?’ She groaned, rolling over to peer sleepily at the clock. It was a quarter to six. Who on earth... ?

There was another loud rap on the door, and the letterbox rattled. She sat up sharply. Khan had woken, and raced out into the hall, barking ferociously and scrabbling at the door. And that would have Mrs Potter complaining, she realised with weary resignation, dragging herself out of bed and putting on her dressing-gown.

She knew who was at the door. Reporters. No doubt all the other papers had picked up on the story, and now they would all be trying to get their oar in. Well, she had no intention of opening the door to them—she had learned that much at least during her short period of notoriety.

‘Lacey?’ Someone was calling through the letter box as she stumbled out into the hall. ‘Come on, love—we know you’re in there. Just let us in.’

‘No—go away,’ she protested, her voice choked with angry tears. ‘I’m not going to speak to you.’

‘Ah, come on—be a sensible girl. We’re not from the Beacon—that’s just a comic anyway, no one’s going to believe what they print. We’ll give you a chance to tell your side of the story. And we’ll pay you. Come on, what do you say?’

‘I said no,’ she reiterated raggedly. ‘Go away.’

‘How much did they offer you? Fifty thousand? Sixty? We’ll give you eighty. That’s eighty thousand quid, right in your hand. And you can tell us whatever you like.’

She didn’t even deign to answer, grasping hold of Khan by his collar and dragging him back to the kitchen.

‘A hundred thousand, Lacey,’ followed her as she walked away from the door.

Hugo had woken too, and came storming out into the hall, his temper close to snapping. ‘You get away from that door,’ he bellowed, ‘or I’ll come out there and really give you something to write about, you lying bastards!’

There was a muffled scuffle outside, and it seemed the reporters had decided that discretion was the better part of valour. But they didn’t retreat far. The next call was from downstairs, outside the window. ‘Lacey...? What are you afraid of? If you’ve got nothing to hide, you’ve got nothing to lose by coming out and talking to us.’

‘Oil What’s going on down there?’ Lacey sighed, and sank her head into her hands. Mrs Potter was awake, and not best pleased about it. ‘Go on, be off with you—waking decent people from their beds in the middle of the night. If my George—God rest him—was still alive, he’d give you a piece of his mind. Now get away with you, before I come down there with my broom!’

‘My lord! They don’t know what danger they’re in!’ chuckled Hugo, strolling into the kitchen and putting on the kettle. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to this, love—lord knows how long they’ll be camping out there. We might as well have a cup of tea.’

CHAPTER THREE

BY TEN o’clock in the morning, there were more than a dozen pressmen hanging around at the foot of the steps. A small crowd of neighbours had gathered, agape with blatant curiosity, and a couple of policemen had arrived to keep the peace. The telephone had been ringing all morning—there had even been calls from a couple of public relations people, offering to act as her agent; in the end they had had to unplug the telephone from the wall.

Besieged in the flat, Lacey was pacing up and down in restless agitation. ‘Oh, God, I can’t go on like this,’ she ground out. ‘How long are they going to stay out there? I’m not even going to be able to go to work tomorrow—I can’t have them trailing me down to the day centre and hanging about like this there!’

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