No Strings Attached

NO STRINGS ATTACHED Annabel Murray

She loved a man she knew nothing about Vita Raven loved her life: a career in travel and a whirlwind of parties at home in London. No man had ever tempted her to give up any of it--until she met Craig Stonier. Dubbed the "Rock" by her friends, he was a man with no apparent soft edges who offered no commitments. Vita had to make a Choice. If she compromised her principles for desire, she couldn't live with herself. But if she continued to refuse Craig she'd have to live without the mysterious, seductive loner--a prospect she couldn't face.

FOR MY SISTER-IN-LAW MARGARET WHO LIVES ON A LIGHT STATION, OFF BRITISH COLUMBIA

CHAPTER ONE 'BUT, Vita, don't you ever get bored with your way of life?' Gail Sampson watched her sister getting ready to go out for the third time in succession that week. 'Bored?' Victoria Raven—Vita to her family and friends—scoffed at the idea. 'I don't have time to be bored.' 'And that's another thing,' Gail complained, 'you're always on the move. We rarely see you. And you've a lovely home of your own, yet you're hardly ever there. Don't you resent that?' 'Of course not, silly!' Vita's mouth, that even in repose had a smiling curve to it, widened into genuine amusement. 'I'm sorry I don't see more of you and Barry, of course, but as to the other— time enough to sit in my own armchair when I'm old and doddery. While I'm young I aim to see every corner of the world.' Vita had more or less achieved that already. Gail mused, as she studied her glamorous younger sister. It was a never-ending source of wonder to her that however far or fast Vita travelled, her cool, blonde good looks remained impeccably groomed, her high, serene brow untroubled. 'Surely you'll want to settle down before then? Get married, I mean? Or do you plan to postpone that until you retire?' Gail had been joking but her sister took the question seriously. 'You married women are all alike.' Vita's green eyes echoed her smile. 'You think everyone should have the same aim in life.' 'I can thoroughly recommend marriage,' Gail retorted; she adored her doctor husband.

'And you're a very good advertisement for it,' her sister agreed, 'but you won't tempt me to follow suit. I value my freedom too much. "He travels fastest who travels alone," ' she quoted. 'You say that now,' Gail argued, 'but you wait until some gorgeous hunk of a man comes along and knocks you sideways.' 'Quite a few have tried,' was the calm reply. 'I think I'm pretty well immune.' And that was the simple truth, Vita thought as her sister turned away with a despairing shrug. She'd had her fair share of dates and her own good looks had drawn many attractive men to her, but not one of them had ever attracted her sufficiently to lure her away from her chosen course. 'So where are you off to tonight?' Gail called over her shoulder as she descended the stairs. 'A party. At Laura Somebody-or-other's.' Vita was rarely in town long enough to make lasting friendships or to learn the second names of those in the set with which she mingled. It was made up of a shifting population, jet-setting impermanents like herself. 'Another party?' Gail watched her sister come downstairs, wistfully admiring the tall, svelte figure, so unlike her own small, plump stature. 'Don't you ever get sick of parties, standing around all night balancing a drink in one hand and a plate in the other? How you keep so slim I'll never know.' She sighed as her affectionately envious eyes took in the simple figure-hugging tunic and straight mid-calf skirt in glowing turquoise silk. 'Simple!' Vita told her. 'I never do more than sip the same drink for as long as possible and hold on to the same plate. In any case I don't go for the food and drink. I enjoy the socialising. People fascinate me.'

People might fascinate Vita, Gail thought sadly, but no one had ever held her interest for long. Her sister was by no means a shallow person, yet she discarded acquaintances with the same lack of regret she showed in leaving one place for another, more alluring, prospect. Probably only Gail, her sole living relative, held a permanent place in her affections. 'And when do you expect to be off on your travels again?' 'In another three weeks, thank the Lord. That's quite long enough to have been stuck in the office.' A note of enthusiasm deepened Vita's husky voice still further. 'Where to this time?' 'The Caribbean. Travelway are looking at a new chain of hotels that opened up there this year. I'm doing the usual tour of inspection.' All her life Vita Raven had wanted to travels and knew the only way to afford to was to find work in that field. A polytechnic course in tourism management had been the first step in achieving her ambition. Now at twenty-five, earning a five-figure salary, she was a planning executive with a travel firm, creating and marketing holidays, many of them exotic. Even after three years the thrill was undiminished. The bustling atmosphere of an airport, the sound of a flight announcement, still pumped a heady shot of adrenalin into her bloodstream. Half her time was spent visiting overseas hotels, airlines, car- hire firms, the rest in English resorts. A pub lunch in Somerset, dinner on the Riviera were the contrasts which, for her, raised life above the mundane. The periods of time she spent in Travelway's London office were as brief as possible. Holidays she rarely took. After all, her work was all holidays she would point out to an aggrieved Gail.

As a taxi whisked her younger sister away to the latest in a succession of fashionable parties, Gail Sampson closed her front door and leant against it for a moment, her face drawn into lines of concern. She worried too much about Vita, her husband Barry often told her, about what she saw as the glossy unreality of her sister's life. He came out of the living-room now and one glance assessed his wife's state of mind. 'Vita gadding about again? For heaven's sake, Gail, she's a big girl now, and an intelligent one. Look where her brains have got her already!' 'I know, 1 know.' Gail moved towards him and wound her arms around his waist. 'But I worry all the same. I only want her to be happy, Barry, as 1 am.' 'She is happy. She's doing what she wants to do. Just because you had no desire to be a career woman, for which fact I'm very grateful . . .' 'But these people she mixes with! She'll never meet anyone good enough for her.' 'As I understand it, your sister doesn't want to meet anyone who's going to tie her down—not yet. But she's not daft, Gail, she recognises how empty-headed the people are that she mixes with, but they're only a stop-gap and they don't represent any danger to her freedom.' Gail sighed. Wrapped in domesticity herself, she wanted nothing so much as to see Vita established in a secure, loving marriage, but she was beginning to despair of such an eventuality. She told her husband so.

'She'll slow down one day, love, meet the right man for her. I'm sure of it. Give her another year or so to get this wanderlust out of her system. Even travel can pall eventually, you know. Then you'll find her wanting to put down roots somewhere.'

Gail's thoughts might be with her sister, speeding through the London traffic, but already Vita's agile brain was running ahead, not so much towards her present destination, which, as her brotherin-law had shrewdly surmised, meant nothing more than a diversion between tours, but towards her next assignment. Much depended on its successful outcome—perhaps even a partnership? It would mean a couple of weeks in the Caribbean, island-hopping, a few hours to inspect each hotel's facilities, to decide if it would sell on the British market, then a contract to be drawn up, signed there and then. Such high-level dealing called for an unusual degree of competence, the ability to establish a rapport with management, so that they were willing to offer substantial discounts to her firm. Business prospects were temporarily set aside as her taxi desposited her outside a Georgian riverside house, where already, despite the January weather, the party was spilling over on to the pavement, elegantly dressed men and women coming and going. Very few people stayed at the same party all night, not if it were possible to fit in two or three. 'Darling!' Her hostess, Laura Somebody-or- other, greeted everyone with the same safe anonymity. 'Come in. Grab a drink. Introduce yourself to people.' Vita's poise carried her easily over this hurdle and, she moved with graceful aplomb from group to group, joining in a topic of

conversation here, instigating another there. She was welcome everywhere, her appearance alone a passport in any company, especially where men gathered. 'Still travelling to foreign parts?' asked a young man whose face she vaguely remembered from similar occasions. He wasn't expecting a detailed answer and he didn't receive one. Vita had long since accepted that these party people didn't mix business with pleasure. She didn't despise them for it, but occasionally she felt sorry for them, because while these social gatherings were mere incidents to her, for some of these butterfly folk it was their total way of life. Amoeba-like, the party altered its shape, increasing, decreasing in numbers until only a few diehards remained, most of them female. 'Coffee, anyone?' Laura drawled, 'or another drink?' Most people opted for the coffee. This was the time of night, the stage in a party, where the few remaining settled down to a serious conversation—not serious in the intellectual sense or in its content, but in its intense concentration upon the lifeblood of such gatherings. gossip. They discussed those who had left, those who had not turned up, sometimes a little maliciously, sometimes avidly, as in the case of one particular non-attender. 'What happened to the Ivory Tower tonight, Laura?' a tightly curled redhead asked their hostess. Her question was answered by a casual lift of the shoulders. 'Who knows? He's a law unto himself, that one.' 'A real loner!' put in another girl.

'The cat who walks by himself!' If the descriptions of the absentee were varied, most were comprehensible. 'But why Ivory Tower?' Vita was intrigued. 'Unassailable, darling,' an angular brunette said, almost viciously, Vita thought, as though she had personal cause to be disgruntled with the unknown. 'None of us has ever made it with him.' 'Not that we know of!' another put in. 'Does he have a name?' Vita enquired idly. It was as good a topic of conversation as any that had passed for social interchange this evening. 'God knows!' said the redhead. 'I think I once heard somebody call him Rock, but I don't think that's his name either, more of a joke. Where did you find him, Laura? He's not really one of us, is he?' 'He just drifted in one night, darling, with some girl.' Laura lit a cigarette as she spoke. 'As to not being our sort, that's part of his allure, I suppose. The reason why half of you are so crazy about him.' Vita felt a mild stab of curiosity. This Rock, or whatever his name was, must be very different to cause a rustle in this dove-cote of ennui. 'Talk of the devil!' It was the angular brunette again, acidly. 'Look who's here and look at what he's brought with him this time.' No further prompting was needed. There was a sudden feminine fluttering, a tense quickening of interest as all eyes were

concentrated upon the doorway and the couple who had entered. As Laura strolled across to do her duty by the late arrivals, voices were lowered in discussion, in speculation. 'That dress must've cost her a pretty penny.' 'What there is of it!' 'That's the type of undress he likes.' 'Have you noticed how his taste always seems to run to blondes?' 'Who is she?' 'No idea. He changes his women like most men change their socks.' 'He's a real heartbreaker, loves 'em and moves on!' 'Sounds just my type!' Laughingly, Vita put in her contribution. 'I can't bear possessive men.' 'I'd be careful, Vita, if I were you,' the redhead advised in all seriousness. 'You think you're not the settling-down type either. But a lot of women have changed their minds once they've met the Ivory Tower.' 'He'd have to be one helluva man to change mine,' Vita said cynically. But nevertheless her interest was piqued. Most men had a tendency to go completely overboard for the combination of coolness and the promise of an unawakened sensuality they sensed in her. Many men had tried to persuade her to indulge in an affair, as many had wanted marriage, but she'd resisted them all. It would be a change, a challenge, to cross swords with a man who had withstood the battery of so many determined females.

As he spoke to his hostess, introducing the sultry platinum beauty who accompanied him, Vita's shrewd green eyes were assessing him. She thought she could see where the nickname Rock had originated. His tall, broad frame had a rugged strength, his square features might have been hewn from some granite block. But apparently he had none of that mineral's insensitivity, for he turned sharply as though suddenly aware of her scrutiny and for a breathless moment Vita was subjected to the piercing thrust of deep-set eyes, their colour at this distance indiscernible. Unexpectedly, she felt herself blushing, as though she'd been found guilty of some social solecism, and she turned away addressing a remark—afterwards she couldn't remember what—to the girl at her side. 'Careful, dear,' this girl warned. 'Our mystery man's spotted you. If he runs true to form, Laura'll be bringing him over here any minute.' Never before in her life, never at any social or business function, had Vita panicked. But now she felt something very akin to that sensation strike her. Rapid eye movements assessed her opulent surroundings for a means of escape, but the man was between her and the room's only exit and he was advancing, leaving his platinum- haired companion pouting petulantly. 'You know everyone here except Vita.' Laura was saying. 'Vita, meet Craig.' As usual, surname^ were unknown or ignored. A half-nod acknowledged the presence of the other women, but his eyes—she saw now they were a steely grey—never left Vita's face. He held out his hand and reluctantly she surrendered cool, slim fingers.

It was as if she'd been burnt. Shockwaves from the warmth of strong, calloused fingers seemed to shoot the entire length of her arm and it was only the fact that no one commented on it that assured her the room was not spinning about her. But the warning flutter served to steady her and she concentrated her mind on the recent derisive utterings of those around her. This man had an allegedly dangerous reputation with women, but she, Vita, was not so easily swayed. Even so, she told herself, she must be careful. She repeated this advice to herself when, with an assured dexterity, Craig had managed to monopolise her, skilfully excluding everyone else from their exchanges. At close quarters, Vita was all too aware of the differences between him and the type of male that normally frequented these parties. He was no lounge-lizard, but neither did he subscribe to any extremes of fashion. He was simply all male, from his dark, crisp hair to his impossibly long legs. By themselves his opennecked, checked shirt and hip-hugging jeans would have made him stand out in this tailored gathering, but it wasn't just his clothing that riveted Vita's attention. No effete socialite this, with his hard square face and almost belligerent chin. The grey eyes beneath thick, black brows had crinkle lines at their corners, as though from a concentrated effort of eyesight. But he certainly wasn't short-sighted: Vita knew he'd taken in every detail of her appearance before he'd even crossed the room. And strangely enough, she didn't think he was the outdoor type either, despite the hands that had obviously known hard work. His complexion had more of an indoor pallor about it. 'Who and what are you, Vita?' His deep voice was slightly accented. American? Canadian? But cultured. Another surprise. His manner of dressing had led Vita to suspect the opposite.

'People aren't usually interested in what I do.' Her reply was less than sparkling, Vita thought, annoyed with herself. Normally articulate, she felt almost tongue-tied, overawed by the power of his potent attraction. She was supremely conscious, too, of the inventory he was taking of her feminine assets, the way the turquoise silk clung to slender hips, accentuated the full curves of her breasts. She felt a ridiculous need, which she suppressed, to put her hand to her neckline, to assure herself that not too much cleavage was revealed to his male inquisitiveness. 'But I'm very interested in everything about you, Vita.' The husky sincerity of his voice quickened her pulse. She could almost believe him. But he was reputedly an accomplished line- shooter, she reminded herself, his interest in only one thing. Seeking for a return to the sanity that had never before escaped her, she looked around for his erstwhile companion. 'You're neglecting your girlfriend,' she pointed out, and reflected with wry amusement that this must be the first time she'd ever tried to deflect a man's gaze to another woman—and the attempt failed anyway. 'Sophie knows the score! I'm not her exclusive property—and anyway, I'd rather talk to you.' His rather large, mobile mouth lifted at the corners, just as if he recognised her inner discomposure, her ploy to get rid of him. The smile transformed the severe planes of his face almost to sweetness, concentrating her attention on his lips and unexpectedly, wild speculation as to their expertise in lovemaking ran rampant through her system. 'I'm afraid I was just leaving,' she said, suddenly craven. 'Another time perhaps?' It was an empty platitude. She didn't want to bump

into this Craig again. What had happened to all her self-assurance, when just a few moments in his company had her running scared? And it wasn't just what she'd heard about him from the other women. Those were mere words. The trouble was that their descriptions hadn't been graphic enough. They hadn't described this jittering of the nerves at the sheer sexual force he emitted. 'I'll walk you home.' His reply had her gasping incredulously. He certainly was a fast worker. He'd known her all of five minutes. 'I'm taking a taxi,' she said repressively, dismissively, moving round him, in search of Laura, to make her farewells. 'OK. So I'll share your taxi.' For a long instant grey eyes dominated green, and Vita swallowed convulsively. 'B-but you've no idea where I'm going. It might not be . . .' 'Wherever you're going is where I want to be.' 'I . . .' She was shaking inside as he ignored her further attempts at protest and, grasping her elbow, steered her towards the door. 'Really, Mr . . .!' 'Craig will do.' He turned in a half-circle, a salute acknowledging the chorus of farewells and Vita recognised the avid curiosity in other women's eyes, curiosity and envy. 'I suppose those harpies have been warning you against me?' he said as they stepped out on to a rainswept pavement. There was a note of amusement in his voice. 'They said,' she had to force the words out, striving for lightness, 'that you change your women like most men change their socks.'

'Oh, more often!' he said with mock seriousness. 'In my line socks have a very low priority.' 'And just what is your line—apart from shooting one?' 'Oh, no! You wouldn't tell me what you do.' He had hailed a taxi and now he thrust her inside, following her, settling himself uncomfortably close, an arm flung casually about her shoulders. 'Where to?' The usually decisive Vita hesitated, caught off balance. She planned to return to her own flat tonight, having already spent three days at her brother-in-law's home. It might be a lot safer, she reflected, to give Gail's and Barry's address. Safer, but not nearly as interesting, a small inner demon prompted. Why not call this man's bluff? If he lived up to what was said of him, he'd disappear fast enough if he thought she was taking him seriously. She leant forward and spoke to the driver. 'Classy area!' her companion commented. 'Whatever you do, it must pay well?' She ignored the hint. 'I think you ought to know,' she told him instead. 'that unlike some of your other female acquaintances, I'm not a pushover. So don't get any ideas, just because I'm letting you see me home.' Letting him see her home! She jeered inwardly at her own choice of words. She'd never had any option. Craig was obviously adept at getting his own way and somehow she didn't think she'd be saying goodbye to him on the doorstep either. Did she even want to be rid of him? This uncertainty had Vita wavering between relief and regret when the taxi ride ended. Relief at escaping the proximity the vehicle

afforded— of which, to her surprise, he hadn't taken advantage— regret because now she had a whole new minefield to negotiate. 'I'll take you up on your offer of a coffee,' Craig said before she had even spoken. 'What makes you think I even intended offering you one?' she retorted tartly. 'I guessed you might not.' His chuckle was as attractive as his accent, as the rest of him. 'So I pre-empted the situation.' Adroit herself at getting her own way in many fields, Vita had to admire his sheer audacity, and without further protest she preceded him across the lobby of her block of flats, exchanging a greeting with the night porter. 'You can come up for as long as it takes you to drink that coffee,' she told Craig firmly. He didn't argue, but then neither did he agree to her stipulation, and his study of her in the close confines of the lift, only a hand's width separating them, made her alarmingly conscious once more of his maleness. She tensed her stomach muscles in an instinctive rejection of the sensations she felt there. She'd expected him to flop into a chair, allowing her to wait on him—most men did. Instead, he showed a lively interest in his surroundings, following her from living-room to kitchen, where he took over the coffee-making, and would, she feared, have been similarly uninhibited about entering her bedroom, for which reason she sedulously avoided it. 'You've travelled a lot by the look of things,' he commented, 'or your boyfriends do?'

She winced as he picked up one or two of her more precious souvenirs, but his large hands were surprisingly deft and careful. 'I do the travelling,' she told him, as she lowered herself gracefully into an armchair. She had deliberately avoided the roomy leather chesterfield. To sit there might have looked as though she expected him to join her. Her tactics failed as he perched on one arm of her chair, an action that seemed even more intimate. 'Rich, are you?' His grey eyes were taking in the decor, the good pieces of furniture. 'I work for my living!' She said it sharply, feeling disappointed in him. Was he that despicable type of man, the fortune hunter, working his way through a succession of girlfriends, looking for a wealthy wife? 'Good. So do I,' he drawled. At his words irrational relief flooded her. After all, she asked herself, what did it matter to her what kind of man he was? 'I take it the travel is connected with your work?' 'Yes. Nine-tenths of the time I'm away from home,' she exaggerated a little. Let him see she wasn't the readily available sort. 'This is a pied a terre.'' 'More than that, surely?' Again his gaze swept the room, discerning evidences of her personal taste, the feminine touches. 'I guess you have home-making instincts?' 'As I said, I'm away a lot. I have a career. But, yes, I like to be comfortable when I am here. I can clean and cook and perform other 'domestic skills'. I haven't met the man yet who could tempt me to domesticity full time. A couple of weeks and I'm ready for a change of scenery.'

She thought an expression of relief crossed his rugged features and she knew she was right, when he said, 'So you won't go in for long-term relationships either? Neither do I. We're two of a kind, you and I, Vita. I thought I couldn't be wrong about you.' 'What do you mean?' She was intrigued, but nervous again at his reference to a 'relationship'. He stood up, stood over her, and at once his virility seemed to swamp the room and her with it. Vita could have sworn her heart actually stopped beating for an instant. 'I'm not going to pretend to you, Vita. I like the company of beautiful women. Occasionally I like to make love to them—and at the moment I want to make love to you—but no strings attached, huh?' She swallowed. For the life of her she couldn't think of an answer, of a retort that would deter him from what he so obviously had in mind, that would express her rejection of his standards. The grey eyes were fixed upon her mouth now and a shudder raced through her. She should never have allowed this man to come near her. She had been too certain of her own invulnerability. But what choice had she had? She'd been taken over by an irresistible force and, she was just discovering, she was not immovable, only human after all. She tensed, as slowly, lazily, he reached out a hand towards her, and pulled her, just as slowly, just as casually, into his arms.

CHAPTER TWO 'VITA?' His voice questioned, commanded her. 'Look at me!' She tried to avert her fascinated gaze, but found it impossible. Against her will she found herself studying, memorising the strong planes of his face so close to hers, speculating just how the crisp, dark hair would feel to exploring female fingers. He wasn't conventionally good-looking, she decided. His features were too hard for that. His main attraction lay in the innate sex appeal he exuded. Nervously, knowing he was watching the play of expression on her face, she moistened her lips. 'You're a very lovely woman, Vita,' he said huskily, 'but then, you know that, don't you?' And you're a connoisseur, of course?' Her attempt at flippancy was a failure. It lacked confidence. But that was his fault. If he was going to kiss her, she wished he'd get on with it. The tension mounting within her was destroying every vestige of her normal poise. 'I know what turns me on,' he agreed. He said it softly against her lips, his mouth just a hair's breadth away. One hand held her fast, the other explored her spine, gradually edging her closer to him. 'And you turned me on, Vita, the moment I saw you.' A puzzled note crept into his voice. 'There's something—different—about you.' He must be able to hear the frenetic leaping of her heart. To her, it seemed its vibrations reverberated against the hard wall of his chest. His stomach was firm and flat, his thighs hard and warm on hers. His hands were roaming now, unhurriedly shaping her

shoulders, the indent of her waist, the swell of her hip, moulding possessively. She was being seduced by an undeniable expert. Well she couldn't say she hadn't been warned about the risks involved in sharing this man's acquaintance. But if she was playing with fire, it was a deliciously warming one, and to her bemused mind every second, every caress, brought a diminution of discretion, dimmed her recognition of those risks, but . . . 'Any woman would turn you on,' she felt compelled to argue, her voice a thready whisper. 'Then why am I with you, instead of any other woman?' There was no answer she could think of, even if her lips had been free to speak, for his mouth had claimed hers at last and pleasure swamped all her remaining powers of reasoning. Limply, she allowed herself to be pressed to his hard male contours, as she matched him kiss for kiss, her only awareness now of sensation, the smell, the taste, the touch of him. Only these things were real for her. When the kiss ended. Vita made no attempt to pull away. She doubted very much whether she had the strength to stand unsupported. 'You certainly don't believe in wasting time.' Her voice was as shaky as her knees. 'I never have much time to waste,' he intrigued her by saying. 'Does your work involve travelling too?'

'In a way.' His words were offhand, his attention still concentrated on the seductive exploration of his hands. A spurt of annoyance at his purposely enigmatic reply reminded Vita of her earlier ultimatum. He had long outstayed the time she'd allotted to him and her pride now began to protest at this stranger's too easy conquest of her. But was there a woman alive who could have denied, withstood his attraction? She doubted it. 'You're not such an ice-maiden as you look.' There was transparent satisfaction in the grey eyes at his proven ability to arouse her. 'And you know what you're doing to me?' Yes, she was aware of how much she disturbed him, but it was only physical desire, she reminded herself, and she had never been sufficiently carried away by a man's lovemaking to appease such desires. She tried to draw away from him, but his hold tightened. His head dipped and his mouth explored her neck, finding the pulse point that still leapt ungovernably. His lips were warm, slightly moist, unbelievably sensual. 'I want you, Vita, and you want me.' 'No!' She jerked free, successfully this time. 'Oh, yes!' He was laughing at her, tenderly, but complacently, yet he made no move to recapture her and she gained courage from that. 'I think you'd better go.' She was confused by the reluctance she felt to have him obey her. There was a long silence while he studied her, a silence during which her eyes, green, candid, determined, held his glance. Then he said, 'I'll go—

this time.' Again there was that note of puzzlement. Though I don't know why the hell I'm leaving, when I feel the way I do. But I'll be back, Vita honey, and maybe next time you won't get rid of me so easily. Maybe you won't want to be rid of me.' He didn't wait for her indignant answer, but instead he placed a fingertip beneath her quivering chin, his mouth brushing hers. Even this, his slightest touch, affected her and it was all she could do to refrain from clinging to him with her trembling need, telling him he could stay. Then he was gone and the sound of the descending lift was noisy in the utter silence his departure left behind. In the whole of her life Vita couldn't recall ever experiencing loneliness, but she felt it now, a cold bereavement of sensation, and emptiness that cried out to be filled. Hours later she was still trying to convince herself that this feeling was utterly ridiculous, that she was lucky to have emerged unscathed from the encounter with Craig. Unscathed? Who was she trying to fool? Nothing would ever be quite the same again. She could no longer pride herself on her total self-sufficiency. He'd said he would be back. But would he? They were both the travelling kind. He'd come into her life and gone out of it, where to she didn't know, but she did know she wanted to see him again. Oh, God! Another fact hit her. She didn't even know his second name. Waves of a fear never before experienced swept over her. Suppose he hadn't meant what he'd said? He must know many woman, willing to . . . Maybe she hadn't been responsive enough for him? Suppose she never saw him again? A week passed more slowly than usual and with a growing desperation Vita accepted every invitation she received, but she

didn't once encounter Craig. Gradually she began to accept that she might never do so, and she passed from wishing he had never come into her life to upset its even tenor, to a fierce, proud determination to forget him.

And then, one evening, he was there. She hadn't seen him enter the room, but she felt his presence. It was in the sudden lowering of female voices, the increased intensity of the atmosphere. And then she heard his voice, its unmistakable transatlantic drawl. Fingers tightening on the glass she held, Vita forced herself not to turn round. Not by so much as a flicker of an eyelid would she betray her prior awareness of him. If he approached her, which she now doubted, she would be vague in her acknowledgement of him, as if it was an effort to recall his face, his name. 'Lover boy's back in town.' It was the same redhead who'd been at Laura's party. 'How did you two get on?' 'Oh!' Vita mimed an effort of recollection. 'All right. Nothing spectacular.' 'Nothing spectacular, eh?' the other retorted. 'I suppose that's why he's heading this way with that certain gleam in his eye?' An excitement she couldn't stifle jangled Vita's nerve endings, anticipation singing in her veins. 'Vita!' As though he had touched her, the husky drawling timbre of his voice shivered through her. She turned. She couldn't help herself.

'Craig!' And after all her resolutions! He was alone tonight. Or—she glanced beyond him—at least no new woman had joined their gathering. Did that mean . . .? Had he come here purposely to look for her? If so, why leave it to chance encounter? He knew where she lived. Whether or not his presence at the same party was coincidental, he was up to his old tricks again, singling her out from -the crowd, edging her into the room's only secluded corner. She sat down. Her legs, accustomed to standing for hours at cocktail parties, suddenly betrayed her. Unperturbed, he joined her on the low couch and immediately she regretted giving in to her weakness. Here they were secluded in a kind of intimacy, masked by constantly grouping and regrouping figures. As Craig sat down, the action pulled the material of his trousers— jeans again, she noted— tautly over the bunched muscles of his thighs, thighs that would be hard, warm, responsive to a touch. She gasped and forced herself to drag her gaze away from the unsettling sight, to meet his eyes. But there was no peace of mind to be found that way. His glance touched her as intimately as hands might have done, taking in tonight's outfit, a soft green striped dress with a cowl neckline, the belt tied below the gently looping waist, its skirt split to reveal a sexy length of leg. 'Have you missed me?' She supposed she should have expected this audacity, but she couldn't disguise her reaction to it. 'Certainly not!' Her denial was too swift, too positive and he wasn't deceived, she knew that from the twitch of his lips.

'It just wasn't possible for me to come back sooner.' 'I'm sure I couldn't have cared less.' Her laugh was shrilly false, her tone too brittle, her body language too agitated. 'Don't try to pretend with me, Vita, hmmn? There should always be complete honesty between lovers.' He took one of the hands that stirred in restless denial, 'And we are going to be lovers, you and I. Let's go.' 'I—I'm not going to walk out of a party this early. What will the others . . .?' 'They won't give a damn and neither do you, really. You like to think you're one of these people, but you're not. You don't fit in here. I recognised that the first time I saw you—just as I recognised something else.' 'What?' She couldn't stifle the breathy sound of curiosity. 'That you were for me, of course!' A raised hand silenced her outraged protest. 'Contrary to what you may have been told about me, I don't make love to every attractive woman I meet— very few, in fact. But you—I told you before, you're different. Let's get out of here, Vita. We're both out of our element.' 'Then why do you come here?' She spoke to cover the little gasping noise that escaped her as his hand found its way to her waist, guiding her across the room. As before, she was totally incapable of resistance—uncharacteristically so. 'I've only just got back to town. I called at your flat, but you were out. So I came here. For me it's just a port of call, in between the things that interest me most.'

'Which are?' It was almost a repetition of last time, the way he was skilfully extracting her from the party. Only then she'd been halfreluctant. Now, she was deliriously happy that he'd kept his promise, that he was here at her side. 'Mainly my work, but just now I'm only interested in you,' he murmured the words against her ear, held her clasped to his side as if he feared she might try to escape. He needn't have worried, she thought dizzily. 'Why did you come back?' she asked him in the taxi. 'I thought you never dated the same woman twice?' In answer his hand curved the angle of her jawbone, his mouth pushed aside the silken fall of blonde hair that screened her ear, his warm lips tantalising its lobe. 'I do if I think they're my kind, and I'm certain about you.' Her eyes closed momentarily as a feeling of faintness assailed her. 'I ... I think you may be making a mistake about me.' 'Have you ever wanted to get married?' he challenged softly, the warmth of his breath on her cheek excruciatingly seductive. 'No, but . . .' 'You're a dedicated career woman?' 'Yes, but . . .' 'Have you ever had a burning desire to have children, to change wet diapers?'

'No, but I . . .' Everything he said was true, and yet . . . 'There you are, then. As I said before, we're two of a kind!' She knew exactly what he was implying—no, telling her. He wanted an affair with her, sexual satisfaction without ties. His hands had moved down, caressing her throat, found its way to cup a breast that hardened, stimulated by his touch. For the first time in her life, Vita feared a man— feared and wanted him at the same time. Craig believed her to be experienced. Obviously it had never even occurred to him that she might have reached the age of twenty-five without having given herself to a man. But though she'd sedulously avoided marriage, Vita didn't believe in casual sex either, and right now she was confused, uncertain as to what she did want. All she knew was that she was in danger of being seduced—was being seduced by a master of his art. 'Craig, I think you should know . . .' 'Don't tell me anything, not yet.' As he walked her across the pavement, he laid a restraining finger on her lips. 'I want to find out for myself everything about you.' He was in a hurry tonight. He even took advantage of the lift's slow ascent to take her in his arms, his mouth masterfully crushing hers. She felt enclosed by the heady fragrance of his aftershave, the warm, pleasant male scent of him. The lift stopped and reluctantly he untangled his hands from her hair. 'Come on, darling,' he breathed. 'Craig!' She stood still, resisting his move towards her door. 'I'm not asking you in tonight.'

'Intriguing! Why not?' he murmured. She could see he didn't believe her, thought she was suddenly playing hard to get. 'Because, because . . .' Her emotion-charged voice failed her, even though his dark head was bent in concentrated attention on her answer. 'You're afraid?' he said incredulously. 'But surely . . .?' 'No . . . yes. Oh, I don't know! What do you want of me, Craig?' 'You know what I want!' His tone barely concealed impatience, 'I want the same thing as you, only I'm willing to admit it. For some reason you're not!' 'What I want is never to see you again.' And in that instant she believed it to be the literal truth. She couldn't play this game his way. He was different from any other man she'd ever met. Not in his outlook. She'd known other men who had employed similar tactics, but not one of them had ever tempted her in this way. He was capable of destroying every tenet by which she lived her life. Yet she couldn't hate him, and with a sudden shock she realised that if she gave herself to this man, it would be for ever, body, heart and soul. She might even become clinging, possessive, wanting him constantly at her side. She would want not an affair, but something more lasting. She couldn't—wouldn't—risk that, for the sake of her own pride and because he didn't want that kind of commitment from her. 'Craig, I mean it. Please go!' Before I tell you yes, I want you, she thought. Before I invite you into my home again, into my heart, my bed and lose myself, my identity in you. 'I don't take no for an answer,' he told her quietly, 'not from the same woman twice. You told me "no" last time.'

Oh, God, if she said no this time he was going to turn away, walk out of her life, write her off. Did she want that either? She knew she didn't. But the alternative . . . She couldn't feel this intensely about a man she hardly knew—or could she? He leant against the wall, not touching her, arms folded, though she could guess at the restraint it cost him. 'Well, Vita?' His tone was implacable. She couldn't meet his eyes. Her toe traced the deep-pile carpet's self-patterning. 'I don't sleep around, Craig. If . . . If I ask you in, it will only be for a drink.' He moved towards her, taking hold of her shoulders caressing their curves, their hollows. 'I don't sleep around in the sense you mean and I'm not asking you to sleep around, just to make love with me. But I'm not going to pretend to you, Vita. If you ask me in, I won't be satisfied with half measures, a cup of coffee, a few chaste kisses. It'll be all or nothing.' God, did he think the kisses they'd exchanged so far had been chaste? 'If I come in,' he reiterated, 'I'm going to make love to you. If not . . .' He shrugged. 'It's your choice.' She concentrated her gaze on the checks of his shirt, but it didn't help. The swift rise and fall of his chest, the revelation it gave of his desire, only accentuated the difficulty she was having in maintaining her resolution. He grabbed her then, shaking her a little.

'I think I know what's bugging you. Don't think that because I dislike permanence in my relationships, I make love to several different women concurrently. While our affair lasted there'd only be you. I won't pretend to you that we're together for anything other than sexual reasons. But I will treat you with that respect.' 'Respect!' Her voice snapped into hysteria. Her nerves were strung as tautly as a canvas on stretchers. He was on edge too, for as she flung up her head to confront him, she saw the muscle that jumped convulsively in the square jaw. He leant forward, not touching her now, but for the intensity that flowed from him, he might as well have been. 'Listen, Vita. Perhaps you don't quite understand. I . . .' 'Oh, I understand all right. Don't forget, I was warned about you!' 'Hypocrisy! From a load of women who'd give their eye teeth to be where you are right now.' He swept on before she could condemn his arrogant self-confidence. 'Your socialite friends have obviously built me up into some kind of big bad wolf. Whereas I'm just a normal man with the occasional normal desires. Even if I had the inclination, which I don't, a permanent relationship just wouldn't work out for me. I don't have the opportunity or the time to indulge in prolonged courtships. For the same reason I'll never tie myself down to a marriage. It wouldn't be fair to expect a woman to put up with the little time I could offer her, here today, gone tomorrow, quite often for a couple of months at a time.' Vita couldn't trust herself to speak. It shouldn't matter to her. Her career had always come first. This couldn't be happening to her. This man ... these illogical longings. She shook her head despairingly.

'Then why did you let me see you home this time, if . . .?' 'Be-because I thought I'd give you the benefit of the doubt. That perhaps—because you came back, you felt . . . felt . . .' She choked knowing she had betrayed too much. 'My God!' he exploded. But before he could go on, she interrupted desperately, 'I'm n-not like you think.' Things were moving too fast for her, she who disliked tedium, life to stand still. 'I wouldn't want to tie you . . . any man down. I value my freedom too, but I'm not your sort either. I hardly know you. We've only met twice. You can't expect me to . . .' 'What do you need to know?' There was an edge of badly suppressed irritation in his voice. 'I know all that I need to know about you—that your eyes are green, sorceress's eyes, that they bewitch me. That you've got hair like corn before the harvest, a harvest that I want to be the one to reap. That you've a body I long to see without all these trappings.' His hand fingered the material of her dress. 'But above all, I know you're beautiful and very, very sexy, beautiful and sexy enough, perhaps, to make me wish I were a different kind of man. But I'm not—so take me as I am, or leave me.' Vita was beginning to know that kind of regret too—not for herself, she had no wish to change, to compromise her principles—but regret that he was not different, was not the marrying kind, the kind—ironically enough—that she, until now, had spent her adulthood avoiding. But if he were different, she mused, she might not have been so wildly attracted to him. It was that untamed virility that drew women to him—drew her.

'So what do you need to know, Vita?' His impatient repetition brought her back from futile speculation. I need to know you, she thought wildly, your body, the muscled breadth of your chest and shoulders, the warm, smooth flatness of your stomach, the hardness of your thighs against me, the maleness of you. But aloud, she said, 'I'd need to know you much longer, to know more about you—who you are, where you come from, what you are before I . . .' Before she what? If she were to know this man for ever, would she be willing to compromise, to take him on his terms? She didn't know, but she felt she wanted at least the opportunity to find out. He was angry now, angry in a way that betrayed the depths of his physical frustration. His voice was dangerously low and yet she sensed that she had won—and lost. 'And where I live? What I do for a living, I suppose? I don't give out my address, my occupation. I've made that mistake once or twice, had women turning up on my doorstep, had to turn them away. And whatever you may think of me, I don't like being hurtful. Sorry, Vita. It could have been fun. Hell and damnation, what am I saying—it could have been heaven! But have it your way!' Knuckles pressed to trembling lips, she watched him re-enter the lift and as the doors' closed to behind him, she cried out, 'Craig!' But it was too late.

Antigua, Tobago, Barbados—summer suns to burn away the chill of winter, the numbing chill of loss—she had all these to look forward to, Vita kept reminding herself in the days that followed.

These were what her life was all about. She didn't need Craig. Craig? It troubled her that she didn't even know his second name, but anyhow she didn't need him coming between her and her ambitions. She was still telling herself this, trying to convince herself, when she took her seat on the British Airways flight that would take her on the first leg of her journey. Later, smaller aircraft would fly her from island to island, like birds from landfall to landfall. She leant back in her seat and closed her eyes partly to avoid conversation with her near neighbour, a stout businessman, who had been darting covertly interested glances at her trimly whitesuited figure, and partly so that she could concentrate on her own mental battle. This was the first time she'd ever felt reluctant to leave England, and just because England contained Craig, because she was leaving him behind, a man about whom she knew nothing except that he was a shameless womaniser. Fool, she berated herself. It made no difference where in the world she was. Craig was gone in search of a woman whose principles wouldn't stand in his way. 'Excuse me, sir, but I wonder if you'd object to changing places with this gentleman?' One of the air hostesses was addressing the businessman and such was his susceptibility to female charm, it sounded as if he were acquiescing without protest. Vita couldn't even be bothered to open her eyes to see who her new neighbour was. But as the aeroplane began to taxi, some of the exhilaration she usually felt at the prospect of flight returned and she opened her eyes, intending to witness the still, for her, incredible magic of lift off. But she missed the moment after all.

'So you're not asleep.' The laconic, transatlantic drawl was only too familiar. 'Craig!' Her voice shook on his name and she sat up straight. 'What in heaven's name are you doing here?' It couldn't be just coincidence, could it, that he was there beside her? There was a twist of self-mockery to the mobile mouth as he confirmed her wild speculation. 'It would seem I'm following you!' Was he? Though she contrived to hide it, elation was sweeping through her. Had he really been unable to keep his threat, to take her second no as final? But how had he found her? 'That's impossible. You couldn't know . . .' 'Couldn't I?' The ironic self-deprecation was still there. 'All it took was a bit of leg work, following you to your office, finding out where you were bound for next, booking the same flight.' 'Who told you? Nigel wouldn't.' Nigel was Vita's boss. 'A very naive young thing at the reception desk.' Vita cast up her eyes in despair. The times she'd told that girl to be discreet. 'And being a naive young thing, she responded to your particular brand of charm?' 'Not all women are as inflexible as you.'

'I'm sure,' she said drily. 'But why take all that trouble. Craig? I thought you'd written me off as one of your failures? I suppose you couldn't bear the thought of one defeat blemishing your record?' 'You could interpret it that way,' he said obscurely. 'And I do say it!' she told him fiercely with an angry toss of shining blonde hair at him. 'And I'll say this, too. You're wasting your money and your time. I haven't changed my mind and I'm not going to.' The touch of his hand on hers was a singing chord of memory. 'Don't burn all your boats too decisively, Vita.' His voice was seducing her, low now, for her ears alone, coaxing her. 'I still want you, Vita, more than I've ever wanted any other woman, or I wouldn't be back risking yet another rejection.' Because of her own need, out of her confused emotions, she snapped, 'I'm supposed to feel flattered, I suppose?' 'Flattered?' he questioned the word, shaking his dark head at her. 'No, I wouldn't say that. There are many ways I want you to feel, Vita, but that isn't one of them.' His voice had thickened slightly and at his suggestively murmured words, desire, a trapped bird, fluttered restlessly within her. 'It's no use, Craig,' she whispered, her voice unknowingly full of the painful sensations she experienced. 'I—I can't just change overnight. I am what I am and you . . . you're . . .' 'A more patient man than I'd supposed,' he interrupted. 'I find I'm willing to wait, to give you more of that time you spoke about—to get to know me better.'

'Big of you!' She took refuge in the sarcasm. 'That's why,' he went on inexorably, 'I'm coming on this trip with you.' 'But you can't. It's a working trip, not a holiday, I'm not . . 'Even you can't work twenty-four hours a day —and there'll be the nights,' he reminded her. As she looked at him, temptation warring with common sense, he gave his ultimatum. 'Either you promise to spend some time with me in these next few days, or I catch the next flight home— and this time I can vouch for it, you won't see me again. But somehow,' he leant across and mouthed the angle of her jaw, the sensitive flesh of her neck, 'somehow, in spite of your protests, I don't believe you really want that?' 'She should have denied it, told him to go to hell. He was too damned perceptive, or she was too transparent. And now under his intent study, she felt herself growing hot, not with embarrassment, but with the flushed heat of desire. She couldn't look away, she discovered, and the expression in his eyes told her that this time he wasn't making idle threats. Either she went along with his suggestions or she must accept the alternative finally this time. 'Vita?' It was said with raw impatience. Below her, the island of Antigua was looming larger and larger, to her misty eyes a jumbled mosaic of fantastic blue bay, white strands, lush greenery. Another few moments of indecision and it might be too late. 'All right,' she promised him weakly.

CHAPTER THREE BUT that didn't mean she would allow him the final intimacy he sought, she placated her more practical self. It was only a testing time—for both of them. The high-perched hotel on Antigua was strategically placed overlooking the island's shoreline, a sunswept beach made private by enclosing jagged coves, the sea so blue its waters seemed stained with dye. For the first time in her career, Vita found it difficult to concentrate on a hotel manager's sales talk, as he gave her a guided tour of the amenities, discussed terms of contract. Always at the back of her mind was the thought of Craig awaiting her, the expectation of the hours she had promised to spend with him. How would they fill those hours? She discovered she was trembling at the thought. It would be the longest time she'd ever had with him, and the prospect stretched endlessly, alluring, alarming, giving him too many opportunities for his particular brand of seduction. Just how much could she take without succumbing? She dragged her mind back to what the manager was saying. 'Do you know Antigua at all, Miss Raven?' 'No. No, I haven't been here before.' 'Then if you are to do it justice in your brochure, you must certainly see more of our lovely island before you move on. I've placed a car at your disposal and a room here of course. But . . He paused, looking uncomfortable as though disconcerted at being found lacking. 'But it is the height of the season, and the gentleman? I'm afraid we weren't expecting . . .'

'Oh, I see. Of course not. Perhaps there's another hotel where he could . .?' 'I will certainly enquire for you, but . . .' he spread his hands in pessimistic warning.

The disturbing problem of Craig's accommodation—she knew what his solution to it would be—was never far from Vita's thoughts as they drove into St John's—Craig had insisted on taking the wheel—to explore the capital city. Notebook in hand, Vita scribbled enthusiastic descriptions of the white weatherboarded houses with their fresh blue-painted shutters, the upper storeys reached by outside stairs with iron handrails. How marvellous Antigua was, she thought. She couldn't remember ever having been so instantly captured by a place, ever experiencing this particular quality of enjoyment. Why should that be? she wondered. Vita had changed into skirt and T-shirt and, had it not been for her inner worries, could have felt in holiday mood as they walked, Craig's hand firmly and warmly clasping hers. 'I wonder what on earth they're doing.' Personal problems pushed aside by a momentary curiosity, Vita pointed to a group of Antiguans. bending low over something before them on the pavement. 'I should say they're playing warri.' Craig surprised her by saying. Hand curled around her elbow, he drew her towards the little group. 'Yes, look, d'you see? It's a betting game, a bit like backgammon, only they use warri nuts as the men. It's an

entertaining pastime. Tourists buy the boards and take them home. Vita, I . . .' Whatever he'd been intending to say was cut short, as with a sudden commotion, a small dusky-skinned boy hurtled out of an alleyway. Unable to call a halt to his headlong progress, he was among the gamblers, scattering their pieces in all directions, then falling heavily, his howls of pain almost drowning the angry cries with which the men leapt to their feet. One of them seized and was about to cuff the offender, when Craig intervened. 'An accident,' he soothed, employing the persuasive tone of voice Vita had come to know so well. 'Here!' He distributed coins, which seemed to assuage ruffled feelings. He took the boy on one side, inspected his injuries, binding up a bloodstained knee with his own handkerchief. Vita thought that here, too, she saw money change hands, before the boy melted back into the crowd. 'That was kind. I thought you didn't care for children?' He shrugged. 'I don't dislike them. But I do dislike seeing small boys beaten—a fellow-feeling I suppose, since I was a child once.' 'And you were beaten?' Vita tried to visualise him as a boy, but failed. 'Frequently!' His tone was brusque and the subject it seemed was closed, for he strode on. 'How do you know such a lot about the game they were playing?' Vita asked as she caught him up and they moved on towards the

seventeenth- century cathedral, a must in their itinerary, they'd been told. 'I've been to the Caribbean once or twice before and a few other places besides.' 'Tell me,' she invited, but the crack in his reserve went only thus far and no further. 'It'll keep,' he said shortly. 'More importantly, you tell me something. Have you come to any decision—about us?' 'Us?' she prevaricated, though she knew very well what he meant. 'Come now, Vita. You can hardly expect to convince me that you've forgotten, not when I know it's been on your mind every second since we arrived.' 'Why, you . . .' she began. 'It's in every nervous little glance you give me, the way you avoid my eyes, my touch. But you can't put off the moment for ever, Vita.' She knew that, knew she'd been rash in agreeing that he should stay on with her. But after those last few days of turmoil, when she believed she was never going to see him again—even though common sense told her still that might have been best—she couldn't have borne it if he'd disappeared once more. But her conscience told her she wasn't playing fair with him, because however long he stayed, she still had no intention of going to bed with him, and mightn't he have seen that as implicit in her agreement to his remaining?

But then had he played fair with her? To appease conscience, she tried to lash herself into a state of righteous indignation. Was it playing fair for a man of such vast experience to concentrate the whole of his expertise on seducing her when they were virtual strangers to each other? It was as though two personalities inhabited her being and the other, weaker side of her was asserting that, short as their acquaintance had been and however little she knew about Craig, right from the start he hadn't seemed like a stranger. From the very first moment, when their eyes had met across Laura's drawing-room, hadn't she recognised him, recognised the inevitable? Wasn't that why she'd been so afraid, because the even tenor of her life was about to change, the path ahead of her, once so clear, overgrown with confusion? If so, why not accept it? Because—sharply she reined in the desire that prompted her to throw over the traces—because however much she felt for him, she had standards that he could not, or would not, acknowledge. And, she reminded herself, whether or not he seemed like a stranger, to all intents and purposes he was one. There were many things she wanted to know, things he had refused to tell her. His accent revealed his Canadian ancestry, but from what kind of family did he come? What was the occupation or profession that he was so reluctant to talk about? Surely it couldn't be something disreputable? Secret Service, perhaps? That would be understandable. But—and of all the unknown facts about this man, this seemed the most important—was he married? Unhappily, perhaps? Could that explain his reluctance for anything other than casual affairs—his reluctance to reveal his address? Breaking in upon her musings, he drew her into a deeply shadowed alleyway—a mere slit between two buildings—and pulled her into his arms.

'Perhaps you need some more help in making up your mind?' The instant her body was pressed to his, urgent yearnings were once more set afire and it seemed she had no choice, nor any wish but to accept the kisses, sensual and exploring, that covered her face, her neck, the exposed flesh above the T-shirt. Indeed she was stimulated into urgent response, her own lips wandering over the hard square jaw, mating with the wide mobile mouth that seemed as if it would engulf hers. His hands were becoming ever more impatient, disposing of the Tshirt's flimsy contact with her waistband, and as his fingers brushed over her bare midriff, she tensed for a breathless moment, then, senses swimming, melted against him, all warm compliance. But then he sought the fastening of her bra and she tried to draw away, sanity returning with every gulping intake of breath. 'Craig! No!' He restrained her attempt at escape, his hips pinning her against the wall, which struck sharp and cold through the material of her skirt. 'Forget the cathedral. Let's go back to the hotel, Vita. I want to make love to you—now -' But at her outraged gasp and stiffening body, he seemed to recollect himself and in his turn took a deep breath and pushed her from him. 'All right! All right!' He shook his dark head as if to clear it, lifted his hands in surrender. 'But damn it. Vita, you're straining my control to its very limits. I don't know how much longer I can go on wanting you like this and not . . . not . . He turned away abruptly and strode ahead of her, totally ignoring the ancient monument they had come to see.

'We'd better get back to the car. Perhaps driving will distract my thoughts—though I doubt it.' They drove on further south to English Harbour, then turned inland. Many of the roads were one-car width and full of bumps, but the scenery was worth the shake-up. At intervals their route was lined with what seemed a wilderness of massive, ragged vegetation, fanning out against the blue of the sky. 'Bananas,' Craig said. His good humour seemed restored. 'You should see the harvest, the murderous-looking machetes they use to lop the fruit down.' 'Where else have you been besides the Caribbean?' Vita asked, carefully casual. He angled a brooding glance at her and for a moment she thought he would shut her out again, but then he inclined his head as though coming to a decision. 'Just about everywhere, I think. The Far East, France, Switzerland, northern Italy, Greece, Turkey, you name it.' 'Doing what?' she dared to ask and again received that considering grey glance. 'Again, just about everything. Hotel porter, lorry driver, ski instructor, to mention but a few. Merchant navy—that was the best.' And are you still at sea?' His had been a strange life, Vita pondered, for a man of his obvious culture and intelligence. 'No!' It was crisply said.

'What then?' 'I mean "no, that's enough".' He said it quietly, but she thought she sensed a certain anger in him—with himself, at having betrayed even this much to her? 'How about a bit of fair exchange?' 'You want to know about me?' She was surprised. She'd believed his interest in her to be totally confined to one aspect. Perhaps she was right at that, for he sounded slightly bored as he drawled, 'That was one of your conditions, wasn't it? An exchange of information, getting to know each other better. I know the woman, or I soon will. What sort of child were you?' He didn't know her at all, Vita thought sadly, and she wished he would stop reminding her, emphasising their so-called bargain, reading more into her acquiescence that he stay than she'd intended. Did he really Still think she meant to go to bed with him tonight? This thought reminded her of the accommodation problem and she shivered, praying that by the time they returned to the hotel the matter would have been resolved. 'I—we—that's my sister Gail and I—we didn't see much of our parents when we were very young. We lived with my grandparents most of the time. My father's work took him away from home a lot and my mother nearly always went with him. She . . .' Vita hesitated, 'she was desperately afraid that something would happen to him, if she didn't go with him. It was as it while she could see him he was safe.' 'And?' 'They died together,' Vita said simply, 'as she'd have wished, I suppose. I was twelve, Gail was eighteen.'

And that was why, Vita reminded herself, she had sworn never to get so involved with a man. to suffer the agonies her mother had known. Right from the time she'd been old enough to understand, she'd taken this vow not to set such a curb on her personal freedom, her peace of mind. Nor would she bring children into the world to feel excluded from the aura of love enclosing their parents, as she and Gail had been excluded. Only it didn't seem to have had a lasting effect on Gail. She had married. She and Barry planned to have a family. What would it be like to have a child? It was the first time Vita had ever considered the idea. What would it be like to have a child by this man sitting beside her? The idea excited her strangely and she went on hurriedly with her potted biography. 'My grandparents didn't outlive them by very long, and Gail went out to work to keep us both, so at holiday times I was on my own a lot. We lived by the sea then and I didn't mind being alone. I loved the sea. I used to walk on the beach for hours, collecting shells, watching the seabirds. I've never lost that love of the sea.' She gestured towards the coastline they were passing. 'I've always thought that some day I'll have a house overlooking the sea— perhaps when I'm too old to travel any more—and just spend all my time looking at it.' As she spoke she had been aware of his absorbed, almost intense interest, but when he spoke it was only to say, 'So you don't mind your own company?' 'I like people!' she emphasised. 'But I can do without them when and if I have to. I'm not miserable when I'm alone and I'm perfectly capable. I mean I can change electric plugs and fuses and . . .' 'OK, OK. I'm not asking for a testimonial.' His voice was cutting. 'You don't have to sell yourself to me—not in that way!'

Hurt, she fell silent for the rest of the return journey. Foolish of her to start thinking his interest might develop in other ways. That evening they dined in the hotel's terrace restaurant. Craig was keen for Vita to try the traditional island recipes, introduced from France and Spain in the days of the planters—local iguana, frogs, fish, all heavily spiced. But though normally she saw this as part of her duty, her nerves were at high tension and she felt safer sticking to a more conventional chicken and rice dish. Even so, her capricious appetite was totally destroyed when a message was brought to their table that the manager had totally failed to find alternative accommodation for Craig. The manager regretted, could not apologise enough . . . Craig cut across the obsequious speech. 'No problem! Tell the manager I'll share Miss Raven's room. We're old friends.' Vita drew an outraged breath, as a look of prurient interest crossed the messenger's face. 'Craig! What will he think?' 'If you mean the manager, he'll be a very relieved man. Can't you tell he's terrified of upsetting the influential Miss Raven?' 'But he'll think we . . .' 'And he could be right, couldn't he? Couldn't he, Vita?' It was said with such humorous insouciance that Vita choked on a morsel of rice, caught in her throat by a gasp that was between laughter and indignation, and which spared the necessity of answering.

And then, music drifting out on to the terrace reminded Craig that there was dancing, and as they'd finished eating, he tried to persuade Vita that it was her bounden duty to test the hotel dance floor. 'But I've already seen it,' she said, 'and it looks to me to be in excellent condition.' She knew very well what Craig was up to. Dancing would be just another excuse for the flagrantly public lovemaking in which he'd been indulging all through dinner. Perhaps he thought by disconcerting her in this way she would more readily agree to their adjourning to somewhere more private? 'Oh, all right, if you're tired?' he drawled suggestively. 'We'll . . .' 'I'm not in the least tired!' To prove it, she jumped to her feet, nearly overturning the small bamboo table. 'We'll dance, if you insist.' 'I don't insist!' He was watching her with ill-concealed amusement. 'If you'd rather we went up now—to our room?' 'But I'd love to dance,' she protested. 'After all, I am here to work and -' 'Coward!' he breathed softly in her ear, as he led her on to the dance floor. 'But the music won't play all night, Vita. Some time the dancing will have to end, and what then?' What then indeed, when dancing with him was to be expertly shudderingly seduced? A firm hand on her back held her far too tightly—or not tightly enough? With every step Craig's muscular thighs slid against hers, their bodies touched too intimately—or not intimately enough? Alarm and desire warred with, confused each other. But, she tried to remind herself, his reactions— all too

evident to her—would be identical no matter which woman he had in his arms. As the night wore on, the tempo of the music slowed and Craig gave up all pretence that this was dancing. One arm held her closely, while his free hand made an inventory, perhaps imperceptible to an onlooker but not to Vita, of her contours, moulding her to him. 'Relax!' he breathed against her temple. 'Don't fight it!' How was she supposed to relax, she wondered indignantly, when she knew very well what this was leading to? The final chord of music vibrated into silence and couples drifted from the floor, Craig and Vita among them, and she sought for some excuse that would further delay the confrontation she knew awaited her. 'A ... a walk would be pleasant,' she suggested with feigned enthusiasm. In reality she was so tired, mentally and physically, that she felt she must soon drop from sheer exhaustion. 'No, it wouldn't,' he contradicted. 'Antiguan nights can be very chilly.' He urged her towards the lift. In its seclusion she faced him, a last desperate stand. 'Craig! I can't do this. I . . . I've never . . .' His eyes were flint hard, disbelieving. 'Never been to bed with a man? That is what you're trying to say?' She nodded.

'How old are you? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?' 'Twenty-five,' she admitted. 'And you seriously expect me to believe you're still a virgin? In this day and age?' 'I expect you to believe it because it happens to be true.' Courage had returned and her eyes flashed green fire at him. 'I know quite well what present-day standards are—for some people— people like you. But it doesn't mean I have to abide by them. Besides,' she was grasping at straws, looking for ways to convince him, to convince herself that it was still true, 'I don't have time for . . . for that kind of relationship.' 'Time? How long does it take to make love?' he asked scornfully. 'I wonder ...' his eyes narrowed, 'whether that's why you chose the career you did? So that you never had to face up to reality, to admit your own nature?' He reached out an exploring hand and the finger traced the full sensuous curve of her lips. 'But you can't hide it from me, Vita, any more than you can hide it from yourself.' And as she flinched away, 'Let yourself go, for heaven's sake, stop curbing that passionate nature of yours. Let me show you all you've been missing, teach you to fulfil the potential of that nature.' As they stepped from the lift into the momentarily deserted corridor, he took her in his arms, arching her backwards, so that her hips were in contact with his, his mouth covering hers, reinforcing his knowledge of the latent ardour lying dormant within her. But though the fluttering nerves of her stomach were alive to him, she wrenched herself free. 'Craig, I have to think. I . . . you have to leave me alone for a while, to decide . . .'

'So that you can lock the door against me? Oh, no, Vita. It's decision time. Now—or never!' 'All right,' she said, but her voice was dull. She wanted him and she knew there would be physical pleasure in giving way to him. But that wouldn't last. Once desire had been appeased she would hate herself—and him. She unlocked the bedroom door and he followed her closely, as if even now he suspected her capable of sudden resistance. A zealous maid had opened the window, letting in cool air and turned down the bed, and at this sight, Vita shivered uncontrollably, wrapping her arms about herself in a defensive gesture. 'Cold? I told you Antiguan nights could be chilly. But you'll soon be warm. Come here.' He reached for her, gently now, loosening her folded arms, running his fingers over her face, cupping it in his hands, tangling the long, blonde hair. 'I . . . I've never met any other man quite like you,' she whispered, tremulously. 'What do you mean?' He was still for an instant, his voice harsh. 'So ... so persistent—refusing to take no for an answer.' He unfroze. 'Is that all?' When he began covering her face and neck with swift little kisses, Vita made no attempt to resist, but despite his promise of warmth she felt a chill that nothing could alleviate. All day she had hoped against hope that he would say something to convince her that it wasn't just a physical need any more that drove him, that there would be some kind of concession to her as a person, not just as a collection of feminine attributes, a mere amalgam of chemical

attractions. But there was still nothing more than his male arrogance, the determination that she submit to him, because anything else would be damaging to his pride, his image of himself. He seemed to sense the untouchable, frozen core of her, for with an angry exclamation, he yanked her closer, his fury bruising her mouth with harsh relentlessness. But his savage onslaught, though it aroused her, also increased the pain around her heart, made her unable to be anything but limp in the encircling arms. At last, failing totally to win the response he sought, he thrust her away, his face rock hard, his eyes grey flint. 'So it's still no?' 'It's still no,' she confirmed wearily. 'I can't help it, Craig. I thought I could, but—oh, you're right, you can make me want you, you do tempt me to abandon the principles of a lifetime. I am only human. But I don't want to be just another in your line of conquests. If I ever gave myself to you . . . and I said if . . . I'd want more of you than you're prepared to give.' It was crazy, but it was true. Twenty-five years of independence and now she wanted to be committed to this man, wanted an emotional commitment from him. He regarded her stonily. 'You know what that means? You know it means goodbye so far as I'm concerned?' 'Yes. Her voice was low, defeated. 'I know.'

Raw tension held them both in its grip, exploded in Craig's angry words. 'Damn it all to hell! Damn you! I warned you! Goodbye, Vita!' Without even a final glance, any further attempt to change her mind, he turned on his heel and then the door closed behind him. Blindly, Vita groped for the bed, flung herself upon it in a paroxysm of unhappiness and—she admitted to herself—gnawing frustration. It was only just before merciful sleep carried her over into the abyss of unconsciousness that she wondered where Craig would spend the night—and how she would face him in the morning.

CHAPTER FOUR SHE didn't have to face him. When she came downstairs she was greeted by the desk clerk with a verbal message—Craig hadn't even bothered to write his farewell for her eyes alone—that Vita need not look for him, he was leaving Antigua on the first available flight. 'Thank you.' Her voice was small and choked. 'I'll . . . I'll be leaving myself. I have to go on to Tobago.' She had to go on telling herself that what she felt was only physical, not love in its true sense. But, the doubt niggled, if that were so, why hadn't she just given herself to him, assuaged his need and her own? Because she couldn't treat so lightly a relationship that to her could mean so much more than it ever would to him. Afterwards, Vita couldn't have said how she got through the rest of her tour. It was as if a mechanical Vita took over from the suffering flesh and blood one, stipulating conditions, signing contracts, moving on to Barbados where the whole ritual must be gone through again. Would she ever be able to recapture the satisfaction such dealings had always previously brought her?

She came back to England, to London, to skies as sombre and weeping as her mood. 'Of course you can come and stay for a few days,' her sister said in answer to Vita's impulsive telephone call. But Gail had been surprised. Usually it was she begging for a share of Vita's time, not the other way round. 'Is anything wrong?'

'No—no of course not. What could be wrong?' On the telephone it had been easier to make the denial, to conceal brimming eyes, quivering mouth, but face to face with her elder sister, Vita found it hard to be evasive. 'How was the trip? Successful?' 'Yes. Nigel's pleased.' ' You don't sound very pleased?' 'Oh, but I am. I . . .' 'The partnership is still on?' 'I believe so.' 'You believe so?' Gail raised incredulous eyebrows. 'You mean to say you haven't been hustling Nigel ever since you got back?' And as her sister shook her head, 'That doesn't sound like you.' Anxiously, 'You're not ill or anything?' 'Maybe a bit tired,' was all Vita would admit. 'It was a long trip— hectic. Hot, too.' When has all that ever bothered you? Gail thought, but she didn't voice the question. There was something here she didn't understand. But Vita was reticent by nature and if pressed too much would inevitably clam up. 'I'll just have to wait until she decides to confide in me,' Gail told her husband. It wasn't so bad by day, when Vita and Nigel sat at his desk planning brochures, deciding on the most enticing way to sell their

new range of holidays, though even that was punctuated by painful recollections that in this place or that she had walked with Craig, in this he had kissed her. It was a relief to finish with Antigua and move on to describing the other islands that held no memories of him. No, it was the evenings she dreaded most. Evenings that lacked occupation, the nights when it was impossible to sleep.

'Party season over?' Barry asked his sister-in-law one evening, when her visit had lasted nearly an unprecedented week. It wasn't that he minded her prolonged stay; he was fond of Vita and glad for Gail's sake that she had chosen to spend some time with them. But both he and his wife were troubled by Vita's uncharacteristic lethargy. He didn't remember ever having seen her sprawled evening after evening in front of the television. In her own flat she didn't even have a set. 'No,' she said in answer to his question, then, cynically, 'for that lot the party's never over. I'm just not in a sociable mood. In fact I'm beginning to think there's a lot to be said for home comforts.' It sounded very much, Barry thought, as if for Vita the party was very definitely over. The truth was that she feared the usual social round, in case it brought her into contact with Craig. She didn't think she could bear to meet him, perhaps with another woman, and encounter cold disinterest in his eyes, endure the malicious curiosity of those who'd witnessed the dead-set he'd made at her. But there was truth, too, in her statement about home comforts. In the last few days, she'd actually caught herself envying Gail and Barn their domesticity. Perhaps remaining in one place wouldn't be

so bad if you had the companionship of the right person? Go on, admit it, she adjured herself, the right man! Barry Sampson sat for a while, covertly studying the preoccupied Vita, noticing many things: that the lovely face was a little more finely drawn, that a few faint worry-lines had begun to mar her smooth brow, while the full mouth that once had seemed perpetually smiling drooped disconsolately when she thought no one was noticing. Had she also lost weight? He rather thought so. He looked at his watch. Gail, visiting an old schoolfriend passing through London, wouldn't be back for at least another hour. That she was more worried that usual about her younger sister he knew, and he wished for both girls' sakes that Vita's problem—and a problem there certainly was—could be aired. With a sudden decisive movement, he got up and switched off the television. Neither he nor Vita was really watching it with any degree of enthusiasm. But she looked at him in surprise. She'd supposed him engrossed, thus allowing her to brood undisturbed. 'Right then, Vita!' With the privilege of close acquaintance, Barry took a direct approach. 'This has gone on long enough, don't you think? So out with it. What's wrong?' She didn't pretend to misunderstand him or that nothing troubled her. In a way it was a relief to receive a direct challenge instead of Gail's gentle hints and it might be easier to talk to Barry than to her sister. Gail would be emotionally affected, prejudiced in Vita's favour, indignant against Craig, whose behaviour she would undoubtedly condemn as licentious and despicable. Somehow Vita didn't want to hear those terms applied to him. It was an impersonal viewpoint she sought.

Maybe, she thought, Barry would tell her she'd over-reacted to Craig's sexual pressure, would tell her she was old-fashioned, prudish? She didn't know what she wanted to hear, since no one could help her achieve the only thing she really wanted—to see Craig again, to have their relationship on a different footing, one of mutual respect. Accustomed to listening to his patients' woes, mental as well as physical, Barry listened without interruption as Vita poured out her story, from her first meeting with Craig until its abrupt conclusion on Antigua. When at last she fell silent, he went straight to the heart of the matter. 'Are you in love with him?' 'I don't know. I wish I did. It's that that's so confusing. I think I could be—if I let myself—if he were—different, if he were the kind of man I could just get close to.' She flushed. 'Mentally, I mean. But he just closes up. And,' she met Barry's sympathetic gaze squarely, 'I won't let myself care for a man who's only interested in one thing.' She waited then, watching her brother-in-law's face, but without much hope. What could he say that she hadn't already worked out for herself? That she must write off the encounter with Craig to experience, pull herself together, sink all her energies once more into her career. So Barn's considered pronouncement was unexpected. 'If you were a different sort of girl, Vita. I'd say forget him, mutter platitudes about there being just as good fish in the sea. But I don't think that would work for you.'

'Oh?' she breathed interestedly, a flickering light of hope breaking in upon her darkness. Had she missed something vital? Or had she misunderstood Barry perhaps? 'No. Your attitude to life is a little too unusual. Oh, there are probably many women like you— only I haven't met any. Most of those I've known, including Gail, were keen to fall in love, marry. Some of them wanted to run careers concurrently, but basically they all wanted emotional security. You've never sought that, as far as I know?' 'You're right, of course,' Vita said slowly. 'I've always wanted to be independent, and in a way I still do. That's why I hate this—this need I feel to see Craig, to be with him, when I'm not even sure I like the wretched man. Do you think it's possible, Barry?' she hesitated, a little embarrassed to be asking him this question, 'or right, for—for a woman to have affairs without—without getting permanently involved?' He considered her question seriously. 'Maybe—for some. Only a woman who'd succeeded in that way could tell you, and I don't know any. But you, Vita? No, I don't think so, and I'm not just saying that because we're related, or because I'd disapprove in any way— though it's fair to say Gail might. No, your life is your own business. But you and Gail are sisters, after all, and I believe you're a lot more like her than you think. You've never been in love?' and as she nodded. 'It's only my opinion of course, but I think you're probably the type that only falls for a man—really falls for him—once in a lifetime and then hard and for keeps.' 'Then—then you think I could be in love with Craig?' She said it incredulously. It certainly didn't feel like love, this mingling of

irritation— the wish that they'd never met—with unsettled restlessness, lack of purpose, dreading yet craving to see a man again. 'Perhaps you're not in love with him yet, because, in the circumstances, you won't let yourself be. He won't let you. But if things were different . . .' he shrugged. 'What should I do, Barry?' This time it was a real cry for help. Her green eyes misted over and her mouth trembled. 'Do? I think you should stop avoiding him. That won't solve anything. His absence will only make him seem more glamorous, more desirable. You're right in what you told him, you will need to know him, through and through, warts and all, before you can come to any decision, because that's the way you're made.' 'You mean,' Vita found she was shocked, 'you mean I should give in? Have an affair with him?' 'Not necessarily. Only if that's what you want —if you feel it's the only way you can find out what you need to know. The alternative is to stick to your guns and fight for what you really want. If there's anything to the chap at all . . .' 'And if there isn't? If he snubs me? Doesn't even attempt to . . . to . . .?' 'Then, my dear,' her brother-in-law said softly, 'you'll know for sure, won't you? That it's useless. But remember, Gail and I will always be here, to help pick up the pieces if need be.' 'You did what?' Gail said disbelievingly.

'I told her to go out and look for him, to settle the thing in her own mind once and for all.' It was the following evening and Vita was upstairs dressing, taking pains over her appearance, which she'd neglected recently. At first Gail had been pleased by what she saw as her sister's returning spirits, until Barry had recounted the previous evening's conversation. 'Barry! I never thought you could be so irresponsible! A man like that! She's better off without him.' 'Maybe,' her husband said placidly, 'but Vita has to decide that for herself. We can't order her life. And I really believe he may be just the man for her—if she can get him to see it that way.' 'And if she can't? She'll end up even more hurt. She'd be better off putting him out of her mind.' 'But she can't,' Barry insisted patiently. 'You should know your own sister by now, surely? Look at the stream of menfriends she's had, most of them thoroughly nice, suitably well-to-do, besotted with her—and to her totally boring! Vita just doesn't go for the predictable, the easily attainable—and that's where this fellow made his mistake. If it was a mistake.' 'How do you mean?' 'Maybe—just maybe, mind you!—he wanted to pique her interest.'

'Long time no see, darling! Stunning dress!'

Vita felt as if she'd never been away from the social round. Laura's flat, her shifting circle of acquaintances, were just as before, the atmosphere one of frenetic movement allied with blasé cynicism. Her lip curled, but not at her surroundings or the people but at herself, at the vanity that had made her wear the new black dress, its traditionally simple cut and severe colour a perfect foil for her shimmering blonde good looks. 'The Ivory Tower coming tonight?' Laura asked. It was unusual, Vita thought with dry amusement, for her hostess to expend more than one conversational gambit upon an arriving guest. Then she became aware that not only Laura was waiting avidly for her reply. 'I've no idea,' she said, striving for the utmost nonchalance. 'I've been abroad, haven't seen him around. 'Neither has anyone else, darling!' A light laugh. 'Rumour has it he went with you?' Vita felt as if the purposely incredulous smile would crack the brittle porcelain shell that her face had suddenly become. 'But then rumour's a chancy thing!' she retorted and before the inquisition could continue, she moved on, deliberately camouflaging herself in the jostling, gossiping crowd. Gail had once asked her sister if she ever suffered from boredom and Vita had firmly denied it. At the time it had been the simple truth. Now she knew just what boredom was, knew that it was not a contradiction in terms to feel lonely in a crowd. And this revelation brought her a greater understanding of the people around her. Aimless, no purpose in life beyond the search for enjoyment and more enjoyment, they talked, laughed with such animation to hide, not necessarily emptiness of mind, but the emptiness of their very existence.

And tonight. Vita felt herself very much one of them as she feigned absorption in conversations which no longer had the power to interest her, ate and drank more than she usually did and— consequently—laughed a little more wildly and shrilly at meaningless jokes. And all the while her eyes were restless, constantly scanning the continually moving faces, watching the door for someone who never appeared. That became the pattern of the next few weeks. In between her absences from London on assignments in Scotland, Ireland, Wales, she trod the party line, sometimes every night of the week, always searching for one particular face, listening for an unforgettable voice. 'You'll make yourself ill,' a worried Gail told her. 'Why not come and stay with us again?' For Vita had gone back to her own flat, terrified that Craig might come in search of her there and she miss him. It was on one of the rare occasions when she was minding the London office of Travelway for Nigel that the telephone rang and instantly she recognised the voice of the caller, albeit distorted by a bad, long-distance line. 'Vita? Is that you? Damn it—this confounded telephone!' 'Craig?' That was all she could say—just his name. 'Yes.' Silence, then, 'I didn't intend to do this —to ring you.' 'Then why did you?' she said into another silence, hoping the poor line disguised the tremulousness of her voice. 'I don't know. Yes. Damn it! I do! I was worried about you. I had to know if you got back OK.'

'Back?' she said incredulously. 'Do you mean from Antigua?' Her laugh was brittle, insincere. 'You're a little out of date. I've been away half a dozen times since then.' 'I've been out of circulation,' he said curtly. There was such a long silence then that she thought they'd been cut off, 'Craig?' Her voice rose a little on a note of panic. 'I'm still here, Hell, Vita, now I've rung I don't know what to say to you.' The line was clearer now and he might have been in the same room, his voice husky in her ear. She shivered. 'It's very difficult to talk on the phone,' she ventured. 'Where are you?' 'A long way off—which is probably just as well.' He sounded savage now. 'But where?' She was afraid he might ring off, disappear into the void once more. 'It doesn't matter.' 'But it does, it does!' What had happened to pride? But in any case he ignored her, perhaps hadn't even heard the stifled cry, for the line was crackling again. 'Tell me about yourself,' he commanded. 'What are you doing these days?' 'Pretty much what I've always done—work, parties, visiting my sister.' 'You have a sister?'

'I did tell you, but you probably weren't interested,' she told him tartly, 'since you never talked about your family.' 'And I didn't ring now to talk about relations. Look, Vita, I have to go shortly. Tell me.' he repeated, 'about you. Is—is there anyone in your life at the moment—a man I mean?' No was too flattering to his ego. Yes was a lie. Neither appealed. 'None of your business,' she prevaricated crisply. 'I suppose not.' It was a milder reply than she'd anticipated. He sounded almost—depressed? 'Oh well,' and she knew he was about to end the call. 'Will . . . will I be hearing from you again?' She had to ask. 'Maybe, maybe not.' His voice was curt. 'I don't know.' Then, to someone else, 'OK, Frank, the phone's all yours.' 'Craig? Craig?' But the line was dead. Slowly, reluctantly, Vita replaced the receiver, as if it were some last tenuous physical connection with him. She sat for a full ten minutes, reliving every word of that unsatisfactory conversation, trying to read some deeper, hidden meaning into his words—and failing. It was something, she supposed, that he had telephoned. At least it meant he hadn't entirely forgotten her. It didn't mean he was still interested in her, though. The call could have been prompted by genuine dictates of conscience, guilt at having so ruthlessly abandoned her on Antigua. He couldn't be expected to know just how capable, how self-sufficient she really was. But was she selfsufficient any more? *

'I just had to come round and see you. I've been so worried.' Gail Sampson followed her sister back inside the luxury flat, her sharp eyes looking for any signs of neglect that might reveal Vita's frame of mind. 'You haven't been in touch for ages. You're looking thinner.' 'Gail, for heaven's sake, don't fuss. I'm all right. It's fashionable to be thin.' 'Have you found that dreadful man yet?' 'He isn't dreadful, and no, but I have spoken to him on the phone.' 'Where was he? What did he say? What was he doing? Did he . . .?' 'I've no idea where he was. He said -' 'Vita, how do you know he's not hiding something dreadful from you? These absences of his, I think they're very suspicious. He might be in prison or ... or anything.' Her sister's words were an uncomfortable reminder of Craig's strange pallor, which Vita had remarked on when they first met. Of course it could also indicate illness. She sat down abruptly, face whitening, a hand at her throat. 'Gail, suppose—suppose he has to go into hospital, for regular treatment of some kind? Suppose he's got some terrible illness? That could be why he won't commit himself to anyone. He might not think it fair to.' Her sister gave a very unladylike snort. 'If that was the case I should think he'd have his mind on other things besides love affairs.'

'I don't know so much.' Vita was still pale. 'If . . . if I knew I was terminally ill, I think I'd want to get as much as possible out of the time left to me.' She stood up and began to pace the comfortable sitting-room, her heels clicking agitatedly on the varnished woodblock flooring. 'I must try and find him, Gail—I must. I have to know.' 'Now, Vita,' Gail warned, 'don't jump to conclusions and don't do anything idiotically self- sacrificing either.' Worriedly, she watched her sister's restless pacing. Would Vita be so far lost to all common sense as to give herself to a man she thought hadn't long to live? Vita was wondering the same thing. 'Don't look so mother-hen-ish. I'll make sure of my facts, before I . . . before I . . .' She couldn't put into words what she contemplated to her elder sister. 'What will you do, then?' Gail knew that once Vita had determined on a course of action there was no changing her mind. 'Keep going to Laura's for a start, and other places, and this time I'll ask questions. Someone, somewhere must know something about him, where he comes from.' 'And suppose you find out things you'd rather not know? Oh, Vita,' Gail pleaded, 'I just know you're going to get hurt, perhaps badly.' 'I can't give up. I know it must sound crazy, but Craig's face, his voice, is coming between me and everything I do. I can't go on like that, not knowing. And if I do discover something about him that -'

'I hope it'll cure you of this insanity.' Gail had never before dared to speak so frankly to her younger sister. 'Yes—and I hope you do!'

Vita was to remember Gail's words with bitter force before many more days were out. The party this time was at Sally's, the redhead Vita had met several times at Laura's riverside house, and Vita moved from group to group, not idly as on previous occasions, but with definite purpose. 'Craig? Craig who? Doesn't ring a bell.' 'Never heard of him. Sorry.' 'Oh, you mean old Ivory Tower. Is that his name—Craig?' 'You mean that tall, good-looking guy, dresses a bit rough, like a Canadian lumberjack? Come to think of it, he is Canadian, isn't he?' Then, dashing Vita's hopes, 'No, I don't know any more about him.' But Cynthia might know,' volunteered one of the men. it was she who christened him Rock. She brought him here the first time, about a year ago.' 'Cynthia?' Sally said. 'No, she doesn't come to these dos any more. She married an artist, or so I've heard. He followed her here all the way from Cornwall and dragged her back there by the scruff of her neck. Touching, isn't it?' 'Good God! Talk of the devil!' a woman shrilled. 'Here's the man himself. If I was superstitious I'd say you'd conjured him up.'

Perhaps she had, Vita thought wistfully. Certainly her thoughts had been so much concentrated on him of late that had she possessed such a power, it must certainly have succeeded. Craig had noticed her. She was sure of that. Though, as far as she knew, he hadn't looked directly at her, there was an electric current bridging the room which must surely be apparent to others beside herself—to him? But much as she longed to approach him, to hear his distinctive voice, to bask in the aura of his vibrant warmth, she knew she must do no such thing. Though she had in fact sought him out, now, for her pride s sake, she must allow the next move to come from him. Thus she continued as before, talking a little more hectically, her enjoyment a little more obvious, her smile pinned determinedly to her face, her profile carefully aligned so that he could see her cultivated radiance. It was impossible actually to watch Craig, without him becoming aware of her scrutiny, yet Vita could have marked to an inch his exact position in the crowd, could have listed the women with whom he paused to talk—blondes every one! So his predilection for that colouring hadn't altered. The strain of maintaining her vivacity was telling. Her throat felt sore from forced mirth, her face stiff with the false smile and all the while she was tremblingly aware of that destroying physical presence that made her heart palpitate, played violently upon the fluttering nerves of her stomach. He was moving nearer, still apparently engrossed in his conversations, yet Vita had the feeling, almost a certainty, that he was playing the same game as she, showing her how totally he disregarded her presence, demonstrating to her that he could have

any woman for the asking, and how little he cared about her studied indifference towards him. Now he was in the group adjacent, surrounded by a little coterie of admiring females. Had he purposely manoeuvred himself to a position where, as if by accident, his arm could brush hers, a gust of his husky laughter assail her ear, his exhaled breath fanning the soft tendrils of hair surrounding it? Vita fought for composure. She wanted, needed, to turn, to speak to him, to see him smile, hear his voice directed only at her. Painful jealousy gripped her and she knew all that mattered was that she should be in his company once more, alone with him, whatever the risks that implied. With that she could cope. What she couldn't endure was the thought that he was no longer interested in her, no longer found her desirable. She turned, aiming for a look of mild surprise, of friendly interest, gambling everything on this instant. 'Hello, Craig.' Despite herself, her voice was throaty—betrayingly so? Her green eyes, unconsciously pleading, looked into grey ones, grey eyes that immediately lost all the animation they had held for other women and met hers coldly. 'Oh, Vita, how are you? Well, I hope?' The words were formal, disinterested and his gaze passed through and beyond her. He moved away.

CHAPTER FIVE 'Wow! That was some brush-off!' Sally, the redhead, murmured in Vita's ear. Stricken, her green gaze still disbelievingly following Craig's leisurely progress, Vita could only swallow, blinking rapidly to dispel the moisture which blurred her vision. She'd lost him. But then, he'd never been hers, she tried to tell herself, and if he could treat her in this way, just because she had avoided all his blatant sexual lures, he wasn't worthy of the unhappiness that now filled her heart, choked her throat. Only her indomitable courage came to her aid, made her drag her eyes away from the sight of that broad-naped neck, the dark, wellshaped head, made her turn her back on the tall, receding figure, and made her reapply herself to her abandoned conversation as though Craig's passing had been but a briefly irritating interruption. And still the evening had endless hours to run. She couldn't, wouldn't leave, give him the slightest reason to think that he had been responsible for driving her away. By midnight, Vita's head ached abominably. Never had she longed so violently for a social occasion to be over. If only she had something to look forward to, a journey to make tomorrow, an absorbing assignment that would thrust all personal considerations from her troubled mind. But the holiday season was in full swing now and the need for Vita to visit possible new venues slightly reduced. It might be another month before she could escape from the city. Usually she fended off with practised ease the eager suggestions of various men that they should escort her home, but tonight she wanted to be seen leaving Laura's house on the arm of another

man—any man, so long as Craig was made aware of her departure, her complete unconcern with his defection. On the customary wave of gushing farewells, promises to meet again soon, she was swept towards the door with an urbane, blond young man, scarcely able to believe his good fortune, in attendance. 'I'll get my coat,' she told him, her voice an octave or two higher than usual, pitched to reach Craig's apparently inattentive ears. She emerged from the dimly lit bedroom, blinked in the blazing hallway, to find her arm taken in an unexpectedly firm grasp. 'I -' She turned to remonstrate lightly with her amenable young escort and the words faltered on her lips. 'Craig? What . . .?' 'Do you mind if I see you home?' It was so unexpectedly worded, his voice almost pleading that Vita could only nod silently, her mind racing, trying to take in, to understand, this totally unpredicted turn of events. Yet while she marvelled and completely failed to understand how this situation had come about, tremulous delight coursed through her. It was impossible, it was unbelievable, but it was happening. Craig was here beside her, the warmth of his fingers scorching familiar shivers along her nerveendings, his thigh brushing hers as they moved in unison, a physical accord flowing between them as if it had never been broken. He said no more until they were in the taxi, a mundane vehicle that had become for Vita an intoxicatingly magical transport, because it enclosed them, alone, together. 'Why?' Vita began, swallowed on the nervous sound and fell silent. But he had understood.

'Why did I ignore you? Pretend that our encounter meant absolutely nothing to me? Because I thought that was how you intended to treat me. You never once looked my way or acknowledged my presence, not until it was unavoidable and then it was "Oh, hello, Craig!" So cold, so disinterested.' Was that really how it had sounded to him, when she had been so sure she'd given herself away in just those three words. 'I wasn't even sure,' he went on, 'that you even intended to speak to me.' 'Wh-why shouldn't I? It . . .' again her throat seemed constricted, 'it would have been very . . . very immature not to. I ... I have no reason for not speaking to you.' 'Antigua?' he said. She didn't pretend to misunderstand. 'You had every right to leave, if that was what you wanted.' 'There was certainly nothing to keep me there,' he agreed drily. 'And I don't suppose you've undergone a change of heart since then?' Had she? Vita was still confused. Tonight had been all too sudden, the stabbing thrill of seeing him again, the pain at his rejection, this new bewilderment that he should have sought her company after all. What now would be her wisest course of action? To avoid further pain and renewed loss by submitting to his will? He must still want her, or he wouldn't be here now and she—oh how she wanted him! Every leaping sense combined to confirm that need. But afterwards, what then? His conquest made, his male supremacy reconfirmed, mightn't he then move on, his point made,

some revenge exacted for what, from his masculine viewpoint, must seem her earlier prudish denial of him? The taxi deposited them outside her apartment building and Vita sensed the tension in him, the waiting. What she said now, in these few moments, could determine the future—a future that held what? He became impatient. 'Is it still no, Vita?' In the roar of the passing traffic her voice was so quiet he had to lean forward to catch her answer, engulfing her in a torrent of remembered sensations, the warmth, the scent, the sheer exciting potency of him. 'I . . .I don't know.' To Craig this must have seemed at least encouraging, for with a dizzy rapidity, he paid off the driver and swept Vita across the pavement, into the building, the lift, her apartment, while she still pondered her indecision, in a trembling uncertainty which must appear to him a feeble barrier against his renewed determination. For. as he closed the door behind them, he held her in an inflexible grip that hurt while it enervated. 'This time, Vita, this time it's going to be yes!' He sounded triumphantly certain. But as he urged her towards the bedroom door, faint reason struggled for survival. 'No, Craig! Please, wait. I'm not sure I . . .'

'But I'm sure, Vita, very sure. You belong to me! You know that's so, don't you? You've always known it—from the first. And you have missed me, haven't you?' he demanded. 'Yes,' she whispered weakly. Oh, God, how was it possible to feel as though she'd known this man all her life—so that after only two charged encounters it was impossible to exist without his presence, feeling his absence like a searing amputation? He didn't bother with the light switch, but instantly gathered her against him, his mouth insistent, seeking, his tongue's probe an insidious destruction of her defences, his hands gliding a gentle but firm path over her throbbing breasts, parting the soft wrap-around folds of her bodice, discovering the absence of any bra to halt his sensuous quest. Inflamed, he bent his head then, so that his mouth could take full advantage of his hands' discoveries, his lips tugging at, peaking the sensitive nipples. Arched against the sudden hardness of his thrusting body, Vita gave herself up to exquisite sensation. Her fingers plunged deeply into the thick, vital hair, she pressed his head more closely to her breast, caressing as he worshipped, loving him. She murmured, 'I love you,' and knew at once that it had been a fatal mistake. He didn't release her, but his body relaxed, as if, she thought dully, some vital quality had gone from it. 'What did you say?' His voice was lacklustre. the slowing movements of his hands now only absently caressing. Vita sighed. Useless to dissemble.

'You know what I said.' Then, into the intangibly threatening silence, 'But you don't love me.' It was said from an ineffable weariness of spirit, out of a growing sense of loss. _ 'Yes, I love you.' For a moment her heart lifted, then, 'But in my way—which isn't yours; is it, Vita?' She could barely speak. Where was the breath, the courage to lie, to tell him that she meant only what he meant, wanted only what he wanted: no complications, no strings—no emotion. The words wouldn't come. She couldn't lie—couldn't, even for the sake of expediency, even though it would drive him away from her, deny this pulsing rapture not just of the body but of her heart, her spirit. Yes, even though the truth would destroy everything, she couldn't give the Judas-kiss to her love. 'No,' she said quietly, 'my way isn't yours.' 'Why not?' It was a cry of angry anguish, his fingers clenching painfully on her shoulders, his body a hard bow of agonised frustration. 'Why can't you be how I want you to be?' 'Because,' she said sadly, 'if 1 were. I wouldn't be me—and it is me that you want?' 'My God! Vita, if you only knew how much, you'd take pity on me.' But she did know. His needs could not outweigh her own; his pain could not be greater than hers. What terrible freak of creation had made this one man so utterly, so uniquely hers in every way but one—the one way without which an union between them was impossible.

'It isn't fair!' she cried her protest aloud, but Craig misunderstood her. 'Not fair to pressurise you!' He sounded bitter. 'No, perhaps not, but I'm in no mood to be fair. If you knew how constantly you've been in my thoughts, come between me and . . .' He stopped, for what reason she couldn't divine, then went on, his voice hoarse, 'But I'm not giving up, Vita. Somehow I'll make you love me as I want to be loved.' At least he hadn't gone away, Vita thought, as again he took possession of her mouth, this time with a gentle sensuality, his hands again firm and caressing, holding her close to his once-more hardening contours. Craig hadn't lost faith in his eventual power to seduce her, she thought, and he knew that he held a powerful weapon against her. Because she loved him—and, to her, love was a tender, giving thing—he knew it would be all the more difficult for her to refuse to alleviate his frustration. And it was true: at this moment more than she wanted to receive, she wanted to give, and the euphoria of this fiery surge of emotion seemed for a moment to outweigh all other considerations. Slowly but surely he was backing her towards the bed, but she could sense that he was tense, waiting for an unfavourable reaction. Vita wasn't aware that she'd made any conscious decision. She could only think that once she had nearly lost him, that to refuse him now might be to lose him finally. A quiet, fatalistic calm that this was meant to be seemed to possess her, as he lowered her, following her down, his mouth still on hers as though he would quell any possibility of verbal rebellion. The simply cut dress slipped easily from her shoulders, down over her waist and it seemed natural that she should continue the unfastening of his shirt buttons which his exertions had begun. His

broad, muscled chest was sensually rough beneath her hands, his fiery hunger seeking and finding surrender. Her arms about him, she drew his weight more firmly to cover her. Desire knotted thickly in her throat as she heard his breathing change gear, a deep, disturbed, disturbing sound, and a moan issued from between his lips. , Suddenly, startling her, he flung away, rolling on to his back and for an instant's bewildered silence Vita could not believe in the total withdrawal. She flipped on the bedside light, turned on her side the better to look at him, surprised to see his large mouth twisted into a bitter, self- mocking grimace. 'God help me, Vita, but I can't do it to you! It's ironic,' his laugh sounded more like a gasp of pain. 'Here you are, at last, just where I've always wanted you and I'm going to throw it all away!' 'Craig?' His manner confused her and her body ached desperately with the need to be close to his once more. 'Craig, please?' 'No,' he sounded fiercely determined now, avoiding her eyes, their febrile glitter. 'Why?' she choked. 'Why now? When I'm ready to give you what you want?' 'Perhaps that's why.' He shrugged. But his tone was unconvincing. Why? Why? Vita's senses cried. 'You swine!' she whispered. She gazed at him She couldn't believe it. An instant before hrs body had been entangled with hers, the knowledge of his need had been a sweet knife-sharp thrust. How could he throw off so swiftly the chains of drugged desire that still held her captive?

Hungrily, her eyes devoured the rugged features, the strong, sensual mouth, his dark hair rumpled now by her hands. It was actual physical pain to prevent herself reaching out to him, touching him, pleading with him. He slid off the bed, avoiding contact with her. His fingers rebuttoning his shirt seemed steady enough. 'Best stick to your tailored dummies in future, Vita, and your parties.'

'You were right, Barry! The best cure was to see him again, know him for what he is.' Vita had called on her brother-in-law in surgery hours, not for professional reasons, but because, she said, she didn't want to face Gail at present. 'She'll only worry.' Yes, Gail certainly would worry, Barry Sampson thought, looking at his young sister-in- law, his professional eye noting certain symptoms. Vita had lost her former serenity, had become almost a totally different woman since she'd met that man, damn him! And yet Barry still believed his advice to her to be right. Better a short painful death to her obsession, a sharp disillusionment, than longdrawn-out weeks, months even, of brooding over what might have been. 'So now what. Vita?' he asked gently. 'Oh!' she shrugged, 'I don't know—work and more work, I suppose.' This coming from a girl who, until now, had lived for her career. Things were worse than Barry had thought. 'Nigel's seriously considering opening up a branch office in Australia. I might ask him to send me out there.' What on earth Gail would say to that was the first thought that occurred to Barry.

'Bit drastic, that, isn't it?' he said, however, keeping his reaction carefully casual. 'Perhaps. But it's going to take pretty drastic measures to make me forget Craig. Maybe,' her lovely face was suddenly pinched and weary, 'maybe nothing will ever do that. He's not just in here,' she stroked a slim hand across her brow and then—not a dramatic gesture, but as one seized with sudden pain—she touched her breast, 'he's in here too, and—oh, Barry! It hurts!' She rose swiftly from the chair in which she'd been sitting, turning her back as though ashamed to have her brother-in-law witness the tears that sprang so readily these days. 'My dear girl!' Barry rose too, but he didn't touch her. He knew that at this moment only one man's arms about her would do. 'Shall I prescribe something for you? Just for a while, until ...?' 'No.' She was in command once more. 'I don't need tablets, Barry.' She moved towards the door. 'I ... I may be going away for a while. I need to think things through. You'll tell Gail?' 'Yes, but may I know where you're going—in case . . .?' 'I don't even know that myself.' Her smile was weary, selfmocking. 'Not like me to be so indecisive, is it? I've a backlog of leave owing to me. leave I've never bothered with. I may just hire a car and drive.' 'You'll be careful?' It was ironic. Times out of mind Barry had remonstrated with his wife and now here he was, himself genuinely worried about Gail's sister. 'I'll be careful and—and I won't do anything stupid either.' Her words cleared his brow a little. He'd never really had any doubt, but women in love were odd creatures.

There was one duty that had to be performed before Vita could leave London. It was a duty she would rather have evaded, but that was impossible. Prior to her last encounter with Craig, arrangements had been made for the party-goers to congregate at her flat and there was no way she could cancel the event. In their usual casual style, names and telephone numbers had not been exchanged, and in view of all the hospitality she herself had received, Vita's social conscience would not let her just disappear, allowing her guests to make a fruitless journey. Catering for an unknown quantity of people kept her hands occupied but not her brain, which steadfastly refused to banish Craig's image and, furthermore, retained with deadly accuracy every word he had ever spoken to her, while her body, dual traitor, could recall every sensuous caress. Suppose—the thought struck with sickening force—suppose he turned up at her party? There was no reason why he shouldn't. Invitations were informal. Guests often brought uninvited friends. Would he—could he be insensitive enough to arrive, to treat her to a further display of his newly assumed coolness towards her? This fear coloured her attitude towards the whole evening, each new influx of people had her anxiously searching for, half-longing, half-dreading to see, a familiar dark head, but he didn't arrive and as the party drew to its close, the tense knot within her dissolved, replaced illogically by something that was close to disappointment. Even though his presence might hurt her, it would be a long while, she knew, before she could banish this desperate craving to see him.

'Oh, by the way!' It was Laura, on the point of departure. 'Sally and I saw your "friend" today.' She turned to the redhead for confirmation. 'Yes, dear! I don't know what you did to him, but he seems to be off willowy blondes. He had some dumpy little woman with him and—shall we tell her?' There was something avid in the redhead's manner, as of one who longed to impart sensational tidings. 'Why not?' Laura drawled. 'We girls must stick together! Selfpreservation!' 'There was a kiddie with them—spitting image of him—walking between them, holding hands, swinging like kids do, you know?' Oh, yes. She knew. Vita could well imagine the cosy domestic scene and her too-reliable brain recalled certain words Craig had spoken: 'If you knew how constantly you've been in my thoughts, come between me and . . .' He'd stopped then. Had he been going to say 'between me and my wife and child?' A horrible, growing certainty told her this must be so. But the two women were watching her keenly. 'Really?' she drawled, and sensed their deflation as she bade them goodnight. 'So our mystery man becomes even more of a mystery!'

'What a hell of a mess!' The debris of a party such as she'd thrown last night was always pretty daunting, but this morning Vita felt like walking out, closing the door on it and driving away in the car she'd hired. But the vehicle wouldn't be available until midday and, besides, her

fastidious nature fought against the lowering instincts of depression. Sighing, she began to gather up discarded glasses, overflowing ashtrays and, wrinkling her nose in distaste, opened windows and the front door of the flat to allow a through draught. A non-smoker herself, she disliked the stale aftermath of cigarettes. With the flat restored to something of its usual pristine order, Vita was tackling the formidable pile of crockery and glassware when she heard footsteps . . . inside the flat. She froze. Even though the porter would be in attendance downstairs, it had been careless of her to leave the front door open for so long. Peeling the rubber gloves from her hands, she went to face the intruder. 'Oh, I'm sorry. I did try your bell, but it didn't work—and the door was open, so I . . .' Vita relaxed. There was nothing alarming about the small, comfortably plump woman standing hesitantly in the middle of the living-room. 'Can I help? Are you sure this is the right flat?' The woman was a complete stranger. 'You are Miss Raven? Victoria Raven?' 'That's right. Though people usually call me Vita.' 'Yes, I know.' The woman must have some good reason for her presence, Vita supposed, but she seemed oddly ill at ease. 'Could I—could I sit down for a moment? Can you spare the time—to talk?'

A market researcher? A saleswoman? Ostentatiously, Vita consulted her watch. 'I do have an appointment at twelve and, really, I . . .' 'It is rather important,' the woman interrupted. 'I'm not selling anything, I promise you. It's more of a personal matter.' Vita studied her for a moment—grey-haired, fiftyish, quietly spoken. Certainly she seemed to have none of the dynamism that went with door- to-door canvassing. But something personal? Personal to whom? 'All right,' she decided. 'I could spare you half an hour, I suppose. Is that long enough?' Somewhat belatedly, she moved to shut her front door. 'It might be,' was the enigmatic reply. 'That rather depends on you.' Checking an impatient sigh, Vita sat down facing her importunate visitor. 'It's all I can spare,' she said firmly. 'I'm going away today and . . .' She stopped, wondering if she had been unwise to advertise the fact. This woman looked harmless, but . . . 'Where?' The woman leant forward, an anxious frown puckering her brow. 'Not abroad again? For how long?' And as Vita's delicate brows arched in amused incredulity, 'That sounds impertinent, but it isn't meant to be. Please believe me.' Vita wasn't quite sure why but she believed her. There had been a note of real concern in the quiet voice and the older woman emanated an air of respectability, almost of motherliness, that Vita found oddly appealing.

'No,' she said slowly, 'I'm not going abroad. In fact, I'm not sure where I'm going—touring perhaps. But suppose you tell me just who you are and how you know so much about me?' 'I don't know a lot, only what I've heard—in a rather haphazard fashion—from someone I'm very fond of.' Vita waited. 'I want to talk to you,' the woman said, 'about Craig—Craig Stonier.'

CHAPTER SIX So that was his name? Craig Stonier? Mentally Vita tried the name, liked it. It suited him. But what was Craig's connection with this woman— her interest in him? She was too old to be his wife, not quite old enough to be his mother. She gave voice to her thoughts. 'What have you to do with Craig? How do you know anything about me, this address?' Vita was aware that she sounded curt, rude almost, but this woman couldn't have picked on a more touchy subject. 'As I said, I'm very fond of Craig, but I'll come to that in a moment. I've heard about you from him—not a lot, he's a very reserved man—but enough to make me think. As to your address, I knew the name of your travel agency and . . .' That young receptionist again, Vita thought irritably. She'd have to speak very sharply to her. 'Miss Raven—or may I call you Vita? After all, I'm old enough to be your mother. Are you in love with Craig?' Vita gasped. That beat the band for bluntness. 'Whether you're a friend of Craig's or not, I don't think that's any of your business,' she said and—more slowly—'and I'm not sure anyway that I want to talk about him.' 'My dear, I quite understand, but believe me, I'm not being nosy just for the sake of it.' The woman leant forward earnestly. 'Normally, I wouldn't dream of interfering in his affairs——' She stopped abruptly, her plump cheeks colouring. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it in that sense.'

'Don't worry!' Vita retorted, 'I'm not one of his affairs.' 'Do you think I can't tell that?' The quiet voice was comfortably assured. 'You're different. I thought you would be and now I can see for myself I was right. And you are in love with him!' she persisted. 'I'm sure of it.' 'Look, Mrs . . .?' Vita had noted the gold band on her visitor's chubby left hand. 'Garnett, my dear, Ruth Garnett. My Freddie and Craig work together. Well, if the truth's told, Fred's his superior, but my Fred's not one to pull rank, so long as the work gets done. And we— well, I—always feel I have a responsibility towards Fred's assistants and their loved ones. I take it very seriously—a duty. So when he told me—well, he didn't exactly tell me—I had to drag it out of him . . .' Yes, Vita thought, if sheer persistence were all that was needed, Ruth Garnett would be hard to withstand. As the other woman prattled on, Vita studied her in puzzled silence, not really taking in everything that was said. It had been obvious, of course, that Craig was used to some kind of manual occupation. But his general demeanour and educated manner had led her to suppose him a man of some authority himself, certainly not a mere assistant to a man such as Fred Garnett must be. Though Vita was no snob. Ruth's accent and appearance proclaimed her working-class origins. She was neatly clad, but the cotton print dress and cardigan had not been expensive buys. The older woman was still speaking and Vita forced herself to concentrate. ' . . . and it's because you're the kind of girl I expected you to be that I'm asking you to meet someone, someone very important to

Craig, or at least,' her tone became tart, 'someone who should be important.' 'Wh-who?' Vita faltered. 'His son,' Ruth Garnett said simply. 'His—son? He has a child?' Then Craig was married. Hands clenched at her sides, Vita jumped up, began to pace the room. She should have known, she thought ironically. No wonder Craig had wanted no commitment from her, no emotional involvement. 'Will you come and meet the boy?' Ruth Garnett watched the lovely face contort in anguish. 'No!' It was a cry from the heart. 'Why should I?' 'Because if I'm right—and I am, aren't I?— anything or anyone connected with Craig is of interest, of importance to you.' Every breath was like a pain, every word agony. Then, with increasing bitterness, Vita said, 'Why should his child be important to me— another woman's child?' 'There is no other woman,' Ruth told her quietly. 'Dominic has no mother.' Disbelieving green eyes fixed upon the plumply placid face and Vita's tone was sarcastic. 'No? But he must have had one somewhere along the way.' 'Yes, but she was never Craig's wife.'

'That doesn't surprise me. It's quite consistent with what I know of him.' 'Forgive me, my dear, but you know very little. Don't prejudge him—not until you've heard everything.' 'And who's going to tell me?' Vita almost snapped at the pleasant little woman. 'If he'd wanted me to know these things, he'd have told me himself.' 'No. Craig is a hard man in many ways. It's a matter of pride with him to be self-sufficient.' Once, Vita thought painfully, she'd shared that kind of pride. And now? 'Exactly!' she said. 'Which means he doesn't need anything from me—at least, nothing that he can't get from any other woman. And he wouldn't thank you for revealing his secrets. He doesn't want anyone to know him that well.' 'He may think that's so,' the other woman said cryptically, 'but if you won't let me tell you about him, why not find out for yourself—if you really care? Start by meeting Dominic? What have you got to lose, and if you do love Craig you must be curious to see his son,' Ruth pressed. 'He's very like him.' Yes, she was curious. That was the damnable part of it, and not only curious about the child, the result of Craig's union with another woman. She wanted to know if he had loved that woman? Why had he implied that he didn't want children, when he had a son? Ruth Garnett was right. Vita had to know the answers to these questions, if only to settle her own fascination with the man. It was

only reinforcing her brother-in-law's advice—to know Craig fully might cure her of this obsession that she thought of as love. But she must find out from Craig himself, if she could—if he would let her. 'Dominic's such a lonely lad,' Ruth told Vita in the taxi that took them to the small hotel off the Bayswater Road, where Ruth and the boy were staying. 'He boards at a private school down in Hertfordshire and he's lucky if he sees Craig there more than once or twice a year.' 'What about holidays?' 'Quite often spent at school,' Ruth told her somewhat grimly. 'There are a few foreign boys who don't go home either, so . . .' she shrugged. 'But that's monstrous!' Vita exclaimed hotly. 'People shouldn't bring children into the world if they're not prepared to do their duty by them.' 'I quite agree, but according to Craig he does his duty—as he sees it. He feels that providing Dominic with an education . . .' 'But what about a home? Love?' 'Quite! And I've tried to make Craig see it that way. The only concession he's made is for me to have the boy down once or twice during the holidays, and I come up to town when I can, and visit him, take him out.' 'Concession!' Vita picked on the word. 'That's a concession? When it doesn't involve Craig in any inconvenience? Why should his responsibilities devolve upon you? You're not related?'

'No, but it's a responsibility I'm more than happy to shoulder,' Ruth Garnett assured her. 'You see, I keep hoping that if Craig can be brought to see more of the boy he'll develop a fondness for him. The ideal thing, of course, would be for Craig to marry and for his wife to accept the boy.' 'You've got a hope!' Vita exclaimed. 'Craig married is about as likely as . . .' Words failed her.

She recalled this conversation now, next day, as she drove along the winding road that followed jagged clifftops which seemed suspended in light, as the clear air transmitted the light from sky to sea. As Ruth had obviously foreseen, Vita hadn't been able to resist the eight-year-old Dominic. No woman could who had any heart at all, she told herself in exculpation of her own weakness. Though whether his charm lay wholly in his own ingenuous, friendly personality or in the striking resemblance to his father she wasn't sure. But when Ruth Garnett had urged her to accompany herself and Dominic to Cornwall in order to learn more about the man she believed she loved, she had at first resisted the temptation. 'No, I won't have Craig thinking I'm running after him. He—he didn't want to be taken seriously. It would look as if -' 'Nonsense!' Ruth said briskly, with all the unselfconsciousness of the middle-aged, married woman who has forgotten such agonisings. 'Besides, you can always make it quite clear to him that you've no such intention,' and, with a twinkle, 'even if it's not quite the truth!'

'But it is the truth! I won't force myself on a man who doesn't want me.' 'Of course not, dear, so there'll be no harm done, will there?' This specious reasoning left Vita a little bewildered, and somehow she found herself acceding to Ruth's plans, unable to forgo what might be her only chance of seeing Craig again, knowing the magnetism of his presence however frustrating the experience might be.

When she'd hired the little runabout, Vita reflected wryly, she hadn't anticipated using it for such a journey, nor had she expected to have passengers. From time to time, in the rear-view mirror, she caught glimpses of Ruth Garnett's plump face relaxed into lines of satisfaction, now that she had—in part, anyway—secured Vita's compliance. A brief sideways glance at the grave child beside her saw him equally content; the lineaments of his face, so like Craig's but set in a softer mould, were alight with pleasurable anticipation. Feeling Vita's glance, he turned towards her, grey eyes a warmer shade than his father's, the mobile mouth that was all Craig's upturned in an engaging grin. 'I'd like to live in Cornwall always.' 'It's one of my favourite places too,' Vita agreed. Now that she had committed herself to this enterprise, had travelled so far that there could be no turning back despite her fluttering nerves, she was possessed of a kind of heady, defiant exhilaration, intensified by the grandeur, the harmony of contrast, of the coastline along which she drove—sandy inlets, rocky headlands, vertiginous cliffs. She could well imagine Craig

working in such a setting, living here. He had all the rugged stubbornness that epitomised this land of granite harshness. And yet he hadn't been born here. Ruth had confirmed his Canadian citizenship. 'But he hasn't been back there for years, though I believe he keeps in touch with a sister.' 'I've never driven to Cornwall before.' Dominic was speaking again, and as he seemed to be a child who spoke rarely, Vita gave him her full attention. 'When I've been to Auntie Ruth's before it's always been by train.' 'You like visiting Mrs Garnett?' A flutter of her eyes towards the rear-view mirror showed Ruth comfortably dozing. 'Yes, I like her house and the place she lives. I wish I could stay there always.' 'Tell me about it?' Vita invited. Such had been Ruth's whirlwind persuasiveness, she realised with wry amusement, that she knew nothing about her destination except its name, and even that she'd never heard of. 'There's no other place in the world like Crentrom,' Dominic averred, 'and when I'm grown up and I don't have to do as my father says, I'm going to live there. I'm going to be a lighthouse keeper too!' The presence of Vita's foot on the accelerator faltered and for an instant, as she looked at the boy, the car swerved dangerously. 'Craig's—your incredulously.

father's

a

lighthouse

keeper?'

she

said

'Well,' the boy strove for complete honesty, 'he's not in charge. Uncle Fred is the principal keeper. My father's only one of the assistants.' Vita felt that to absorb all this startling information was not consistent with safety and she braked, steering the car into the side of the narrow road. 'Tell me more.' The sudden stop had disturbed Ruth Garnett and when she learnt the reason for it, the older woman vied with the boy in supplying more details of Craig Stonier's unexpected occupation. 'The Crentrom light is a tower light,' she explained. 'It's not like a shore station with accommodation for keepers' families. It's just a tower sticking straight up out of the sea, no dry land whatsoever.' 'But you live there?' Vita was puzzled. 'No, my dear, not on the light, but on shore, in a community of lighthouse cottages. We're lucky to be based so close to our menfolk. Some lighthouses offer no accommodation at all and families have to make do with council accommodation in the nearest town.' 'And Craig has one of the cottages?' 'Oh, no. A bachelor doesn't get a cottage. Normally he'd have to travel backwards and forwards, but we have room to spare, so he lodges with us. I didn't realise just how little you did know about Craig.' The older woman clicked her tongue and a worried frown marred her brow. 'And there was I thinking—oh dear, maybe I shouldn't have meddled.'

'Ruth! Ruth!' By this time the two women were on easy terms. 'You're not making sense. What difference does Craig's job make to anything?' Ruth Garnett's expression lightened a little, but then she shook her head. 'That's one of the things I promised to let you find out for yourself.' 'Promised? Promised who?' Suspiciously, 'Does Craig know you're bringing me to Crentrom?' Caught out, the older woman flushed. 'N-not exactly. I—I told him,' and her manner took on some of the defiance with which she must have outfaced Craig himself, 'I told him I was going to do my best to get you here.' 'And he said?' Vita waited tensely. 'He told me to do as I damned-well liked—that it wouldn't make any difference.' 'I see.' And Vita thought she did. Craig couldn't have known whether she'd succumb to Ruth's persuasion, but perchance she did, he was prepared and it didn't sound as if she'd receive a very warm welcome—quite the reverse. Thoughtfully, she drove on. As Vita stepped from the car, her nostrils were assailed by the myriad scents of heather and gorse and salt from the sea. The group of lighthouse cottages, their destination, were sited some fifteen miles from any other habitation. Alone on a cliffside,

sheltered only by its curve, the smart, white-painted buildings faced the sea. Far offshore, amid endless unbroken miles of rolling sea, lay the Crentrom Rock light atop its massive granite block. Despite the fact that onshore benign autumn now prevailed, out there waves hurled themselves at the rock with a violence that sent clouds of spray rocketing perhaps a hundred and fifty feet, into the air, the lighthouse building almost vanishing in an enveloping white shroud. What must it be like in surly weather? Vita wondered. Yet, as always, the magnificent primitiveness of the sea excited her, almost as Craig himself excited her, she thought, with his undisciplined, untamed lovemaking. She turned her attention to Ruth Garnett who was urging her to come inside. 'Even on the sunniest day the wind off the sea goes right through you.' Then, to the boy, 'Dominic, you see if you can find your Uncle Fred. Tell him we're home.' She hustled Vita through the doorway. 'I'll put the kettle on and invite the others in to meet you.' 'Others?' 'The other assistants' wives, Jenny and Clare. There are four men assigned to the light, two on, two off. There's my Fred, Craig and two others, Jim and Alec.' Ruth's kitchen seemed to be not only the nerve centre of her own home but of the little community over which she presided as of right. Thick white-rendered walls, warm red furnishings, the crackling of the Aga stove, made it a fortress of cheer against the grey-green view its window overlooked.

Summoned by Ruth, Jenny Brighton came in with alacrity, but some minutes elapsed before the other woman, Clare, younger than the others, entered the bright kitchen; and then she did so with an air of sulky unwillingness, a small child in her arms, another clinging to the leg of her tightly fitting jeans. Jenny Brighton, small, dark, birdlike, about the same age as Ruth, was friendly and all too obviously curious when Ruth introduced Vita as a friend of Craig's. 'It's the first time he's ever invited a girl down here,' she commented. Over her teacup, Ruth darted a conspiratorial glance at Vita, as much as to say, 'We won't tell her it was all my idea.' 'Well, if she's got any sense, she won't come again!' It was the fairhaired, bitter-faced Clare. 'If I'd known what I know now, I'd never have got involved with Jim.' She slumped rather than sat on one of the pine kitchen chairs, and Vita thought how pretty the other girl could have been but for her expression of discontent. 'Clare doesn't like our lifestyle,' Jenny Brighton said. 'And that's the understatement of the year,' Clare retorted. 'I hate it!' 'Didn't you know what your husband's job was before you married him?' Vita asked. 'D'you think I'd have married him if I had? When we first met, he had a decent job in a factory, sensible, respectable hours, evenings and weekends at home. Then he got made redundant and went in for this!' Clare banged her cup viciously into its saucer. 'Sometimes I think I'll go mad, cooped up in the house with only

that to look at!' She gestured towards the ever-present sea, the distant upthrust of rock continually harassed by surging waves. 'You're more fortunate than some young couples,' Ruth Garnett retorted. 'At least Jim's got steady work and you've got a roof over your heads.' 'Yes,' the younger woman's tone was still self- pitying, 'but miles from civilisation—no night life, no shops, and just these two,' she indicated the children, 'for company one month in two.' 'You have us,' Ruth pointed out. 'To Clare we're just two old fogeys,' Jenny Brighton put in purselipped. Clare flushed, but she went on doggedly, 'Well, it would be nice to see someone my own age occasionally. I can't understand Jim. He doesn't seem to care about being away from me for weeks. I don't think I can bear it much longer.' Her mutinous face broke up into quivering mouth and brimming eyes. 'Have another cup of tea,' Ruth suggested briskly, pot in hand, but the younger woman jumped up clumsily, knocking over her cup with its dregs on to the spotless tablecloth. 'Damn your tea! You and Jenny, seem to think that's the cure for everything—for this Godforsaken spot, for loneliness, for—for frustration! But then perhaps you two old fogeys wouldn't understand about that? Perhaps you don't care when your husbands aren't in the other half of the bed? Well, I do!' 'Oh, dear!' Jenny said, as Clare slammed out of the cottage, towing her children in her wake. 'She gets worse every day.'

'No self-reliance,' Ruth agreed, 'and Jim's work'll begin to suffer if she goes on like that. But young people are different these days. We've been twenty-five years with Trinity and my Fred hadn't had many opportunities before he joined them. We've always thought of ourselves as lucky.' 'Did you never feel as Clare does?' Vita asked. 'Yes, of course. I still get a bit upset. It's only natural. Contrary to what Clare would have you believe, Jenny and I are just as fond of our husbands' company. But I don't let Fred see my feelings. It wouldn't be fair. He's got his job to do.' 'That's right,' Jenny agreed. 'When my Alec goes off, I don't trail down to the harbour with him like Clare does. I put the kettle on and give myself a good talking to.' 'I think Fred's going away has brought us closer together over the years,' Ruth continued. 'Stops us taking each other for granted.' 'Makes mine more affectionate!' Jenny laughed. 'The last few days of his leave he won't let me out of his sight.' Ruth nodded vigorously. 'Even at our age, happiness is still going to sleep with your husband's arms round you. Oh, I can understand Clare, but I don't hold with the way she goes on.' She glanced out of the window and gave a little start, her face creasing into a contented smile that echoed all she had said about her affection for her husband. 'Here's Fred now, coming up from the harbour, and Craig with him.' The waves around the base of the lighthouse could not have pounded more fiercely now than Vita's blood in her veins, now

that the moment of encounter with Craig was almost upon her. She felt breathless, sick, almost, with nerves. Ruth seemed to sense her agitation for she rose, urging Jenny Brighton towards the door. 'Why don't we take a look at that fuchsia you were worried about?' Over her shoulder to Vita, 'Nothing much grows outside here, so Jenny's a great one for her indoor plants. We'll ask Fred what he thinks too.' Her ploy was so obvious— that Craig and Vita should be alone. Long before she saw him, she heard the sound of his impatient strides on the cobbled path. The door jerked open and he stood there, filling its frame, his grey eyes burning ice—with resentment at her presence? Probably. 'Hallo, Craig!' she said, her voice quieter, she felt, than the staccato of her heartbeat. 'So you came!' It was a grim statement. 'Yes!' She lifted her dark head, her expression unconsciously provocative. 'But don't get the idea that it was on your account.' And she turned away, keeping her voice cool, light. 'I had some leave due to me. I like Cornwall, and I like Ruth.' 'Of course!' It was drily said, and indignantly she turned, only to find herself confronting the solid wall of his chest. She hadn't heard him move. 'It—it's true.' Her voice sounded oddly unlike her own as she stared into eyes that no longer froze her soul, but burnt instead with a sultry consuming warmth, their gaze centred on her parted lips.

'Vita,' he muttered, as his hands gripped her shoulders. As he dragged her to him, his kiss was raw, hungry, angry, his arousal immediate and quite obvious to her own trigger-keen senses. Without even a struggle, she allowed him to hold her fast against the aggression of his maleness, her arms going about his neck as if that had always been their intention. Had they been entirely alone, she thought, heaven only knew where his uncontrolled embrace might have ended, but the sound of voices—Ruth's and Fred's?—made him set her aside with a groan. 'Let that be a warning to you,' he muttered. 'You knew the score, yet you chose to come here. I won't be answerable for -' 'Craig!' Ruth Garnett bustled in, her husband, tall, white-haired, straight-backed, following in her wake. 'Where's Dominic? Didn't he find you?' 'What? Oh, yes!' Craig's manner was abstracted, careless, his eyes still on Vita's flushed face. 'We left him down at the harbour, staring out at the lighthouse—as usual.' 'You can't blame the boy,' Ruth moved briskly about the kitchen, setting the table as she spoke, 'if he's inherited your obsession with the sea and solitude. I just hope he won't be too late for his tea. Now, you two, get washed and Vita and I will have your meal on the table in two shakes.' As soon as Craig and her husband had disappeared, she turned on Vita. 'Well? Was he pleased to see you?'

Just what had Craig's reaction been? Vita wondered confusedly. He'd been both angry and passionate in turn. 'I don't know,' she confessed. 'Well,' Ruth was sanguine, 'you've plenty of opportunity to find out. He's on shore leave for another two weeks.' 'Oh, but I can't possibly stay that long!' 'Why not?' Ruth demanded crisply. Vita muttered something about abuse of hospitality, the need to get back to her work. 'Rubbish, I shall enjoy having you here. We don't get many visitors and you told me you had a whole month owing to you.' 'But,' Vita's voice was anguished, and she paused in her task of buttering bread, which Ruth had allotted her, 'the longer I stay here, the more I'll see of Craig, and the harder it's going to be for me to leave. Oh, Ruth, if only I hadn't met the dratted man! I haven't been really happy ever since. If that's what being in love does for you, I'd rather do without.' 'Ah!' Ruth said sagely. 'But you can't just turn love off, can you? If you go away you won't be any happier. It will still be there. No, you owe it to yourself—and perhaps to Craig,' she added thoughtfully, 'to put it—and him—to the test.' 'A man who doesn't even pretend to love me in return?' Vita said incredulously. 'Maybe, maybe not.' Ruth shrugged. 'But there is something there, between you, isn't there?'

'Oh, yes!' Vita's agreement was bitter. 'Sexual attraction, that's all—on his side anyway.' But Ruth was persistent. 'And do you love him any the less for that?' 'No, but . . .' 'So wouldn't you be foolish to throw away any chance that he might some day come to love you for who you are, rather than what? You, Vita Raven, and not just because you're a woman? Think about it, my dear. I think you'll find I'm right.'

Vita wished Ruth hadn't put her directly opposite Craig at the table, his head and shoulders silhouetted against the darkening window, through which could be seen the regular warning message of the Crentrom Rock light. What was he thinking about? Did those thoughts concern her? Would he contrive later to be alone with her? These agonisings prevented her doing full justice to the ample high tea Ruth had provided. 'Your first visit to Cornwall, Miss Raven?' Fred Garnett asked and she turned towards him, glad of the diversion from her own tumultuous thoughts and the difficulty of avoiding Craig's brooding grey stare. 'To this part, yes. I've been to Falmouth and to Helston, but this is very different, wild, rugged.' 'And do you like it?'

'Vita's a city dweller,' Craig broke in caustically. 'Such primitive surroundings will hardly appeal to her.' 'I may live in town now,' Vita retorted, 'but I haven't always. I told you I was brought up by the seaside.' 'A gentle holiday resort? With placid beaches? Safe swimming? That's not the sea as I know it— restless, savage, a living thing.' His voice was as intense as his gaze. 'It's a whole different concept to your idea of it.' Fred Garnett chuckled. 'Craig talks about the sea the way most men enthuse about a mistress.' 'Fred!' Ruth bristled at him, but her tall, thin husband continued unabashed. 'Well it's true, my dear. God knows I love my work, but Craig lives and breathes it. You never hear him go on about anything else the way he does about the rock.' No doubt, Vita thought, that was the origin of the nickname she had first heard applied to Craig Stonier. 'The only thing that beats me,' Fred went on, addressing Craig this time, 'is how a rolling stone like you has settled to one place this long?' Craig shrugged. 'Maybe,' he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the darkening view outside, his tone whimsical, 'maybe that old boy

out there was a rolling stone once, until he ended up off this shore and took a fancy to stay. Until I came here. the thought of settling down to a routine life would have made me shudder.' 'Won't you ever move on, then?' For the first time during the meal, Vita addressed him directly and immediately wished she hadn't when his penetrating gaze returned consideringly to her face. 'Some day, perhaps, if and when I get my own light.' Ruth Garnett clicked her tongue. 'Blessed if I can understand it, with your education and your money. It's all right for the likes of Fred and me, but you . . .' 'Money!' Craig said dismissively. 'Money's all very well, but I despise people who just live off inherited wealth. A man should work for what he needs, prove himself, otherwise he gets soft. That money you speak of was my father's and much contentment it ever brought him! It's there, in the bank, in case I ever get too old and feeble to work for my living, but while I have my health and strength -' he shrugged again, the gesture making Vita acutely aware of powerful muscles, reminding her of the strength his arms possessed to hold a woman. 'But you've a good brain, lad,' Fred chipped in, 'intelligence, qualifications. Why take menial jobs?' 'No job should be too menial for a man. And I use my brain, but the body needs employment too. Physical hard labour never did any one any harm. Quite the contrary. What would you have me be? A university don? With a proscribed area of life—too narrow

for me! My travels, the jobs I've done, have given me a far better insight into life than your purely intellectual type has.' 'And what about Dominic?' Vita asked. 'Will you expect him to lead the same sort of life?' 'That's up to Dominic, surely?' he said, surprising her. 'I chose my lifestyle. He can do the same when he's old enough. And if need be my father's money can pay for his training.' Ruth rose to replenish the teapot and while the kettle boiled she closed the curtains. 'Speaking of Dominic, it's time that boy was in for his tea. It's dark out there now, Craig, why don't you and Vita go and look for him? Dominic's a good lad, but he loses all sense of time when he's down at the harbour.' Craig looked irritated, Vita thought. Was it at Ruth's obvious attempt to throw them together, or because she had reminded him of a responsibility? 'You mollycoddle that child, Ruth,' he said. 'He has to learn to rely on himself in this life. That way he won't get let down.' 'He's only eight,' Ruth pointed out. 'The younger they learn that lesson, the better it is for them.' 'No, Ruth's right. He's over-young to be out on his own at night.' Fred put his hands on the table, about to lever himself to his feet, but the older man looked tired, Vita thought, and she anticipated his movement.

'I'll go and find Dominic,' she volunteered. 'No one else need trouble themselves.' Her words were a weapon directed at Craig, an implied criticism of what she saw as his lack of care for his son's safety. But the sword became two-edged when he rose, saying casually. 'Might as well get a last breath of air. Besides, if you try to find your way down that cliff path alone, you could end up breaking your neck.' The way he said it made Vita wonder why he should want to prevent that possibility. 'What about Dominic then, if it's that dangerous?' she challenged him. 'I've said I'm coming, haven't I? What more do you want?'

'Would you have gone to meet him if I hadn't offered?' Vita asked, as they stepped from the cottage into the mothy darkness, broken only by moonlight, and the sweep of the Crentrom light. 'Of course. I'm not totally irresponsible where the boy's concerned.' He sounded edgy and his hand as it grasped Vita's elbow made no concession to the vulnerable softness of her flesh. 'You don't have to guide me,' she said quickly. 'I'm quite surefooted,' and promptly stumbled, causing Craig's grip to tighten still further. She thought she heard him catch his breath as she rested for an instant against him. They met Dominic at the head of the cliff path, heard him coming long before they saw him, a happy tuneless whistle and the downward scuttle of pebbles under sandalled feet.

'Dad? Vita?' His voice sounded a note of guilt. 'Looking for me? I'm sorry I'm late, but . . .' 'Your tea's been on the table an hour since,' Craig took an unnecessarily curt tone with the boy, Vita felt. 'It's discourteous to Ruth to be late.' Dominic moved on towards the cottage, shoulders slightly hunched now, his light step heavier with the weight of censure, and Craig continued to Vita, 'Feel like walking down to the harbour anyway?' and as she hesitated, 'We can't talk properly at the Garnetts', not with Ruth sitting there giving her impersonation of Cupid!' If Vita had felt like smiling, his description of his landlady would have brought that smile to her lips, but she was still taken aback by his abruptness with an eight-year-old boy, his own flesh and blood. 'Why don't you let Dominic enjoy his childhood while he can?' she asked as they moved on. 'Why must you be continually pushing him into adult ways?' He did not immediately answer her question and she wondered if he intended to ignore it altogether. 'Give me your hand. I'll go first here, then if you slip I'll catch you.' Praying devoutly that she wouldn't need his help, Vita followed cautiously down the steep path. 'I wouldn't recommend this on a night when there's no moon,' Craig told her. Then, 'About Dominic—you've made it pretty clear that you disapprove of my methods. Ruth's been at work there too, I suppose?'

'She thinks as I do, certainly, but I am quite capable of forming my own judgments,' she told him stiffly, 'and I think you treat him abominably.' 'I could have put him up for adoption, you know!' In the half-light, Vita couldn't see his face, but he sounded angry. 'Perhaps it's a pity you didn't.' She heard his indrawn breath of surprise. 'You said that as if you meant it.' 'I did mean it. It would have been far better for Dominic to have adoptive parents who really wanted him, loved him, were prepared to make a happy normal home for him, than the kind of existence he has now.' 'And just what makes you think he isn't loved? Just how do you see my son's existence?' It was asked with dangerous quietness. 'A no-man's-land,' she told him. 'The poor child has no mother, he has a father who patently wishes he didn't exist, and he has no proper home. Probably the only love and security he's ever known is what he gets from Ruth, and you'd deny him that if you could.' She was warming to the theme now, and plunged recklessly on into further condemnation. 'It's a wonder he's the nice child he is. Treatment like yours would have turned most kids into delinquents or neurotics.' 'Have you finished?' She had, she realised, principally because having painted such a dismal picture of Dominic's existence, she was moved almost to tears by her own eloquence, the depth of feeling she experienced.

'Because if you have, there are a few facts I'd like to lay before you—not because it's any of your confounded business, incidentally, but because I'm damned if I'm going to be cast as a villain.' They had reached the foot of the cliff path now' and as he stood over her, Craig's face appeared and disappeared in the regular illumination of the lighthouse. 'How could I wish him not to exist? He's my son and that means something. True I've no home to offer him, but to me real love is doing what I see as best for the child. Contrary to your belief, I don't dislike him. Though sometimes,' he added obscurely, 'his presence is—painful to me. Nor do I dislike children in general.' 'But you do dislike women, don't you?' 'Dislike them?' He sounded as if he were questioning his own motives. 'That's not quite the word I would use. Distrust would be nearer the mark.' 'I suppose from that,' Vita's voice was scornful, 'I'm meant to infer that some scheming harpy deceived you, dented your male ego and ruined your life for ever? What a cue for a violin solo!' He was so unnaturally still and quiet that she was tempted to go further. 'And I suppose she was Dominic's mother?' 'Actually,' and it was impossible not to recognise real pain when she heard it, 'she was my mother.'

CHAPTER SEVEN AGHAST, Vita stared at his averted profile. What demons, had her furious words unleashed? 'I—I'm sorry,' she faltered. 'Why should you be sorry?' His voice was harsh. 'You wanted to know—now you do.' 'I didn't intend—I mean, I didn't know. I couldn't . . .' 'Does it really make any difference to you who was the author of my disillusionment?' 'Not to me,' Vita said slowly, 'but I think it might to you. If you'd been hurt—as an adult— by a woman, perhaps you wouldn't have felt it so deeply. But a child should be able to trust, to respect his parents. That's why -' 'Hurt?' The voice, still raw, questioned the word. 'What makes you think / was hurt? It was my father who suffered. I merely learnt a lesson that's stood me in good stead.' He began to walk along the harbour wall. The tide had come in and was raging into the rocky ravines outside the wall's protection. Craig's head was turned towards the light, a silent sentinel, its reassuring flash still warning of the perils on which it stood. He might not be willing to admit to his vulnerability, Vita thought, might not even be aware of it, but he still bore scars of the wounds his erring parent had inflicted on a small boy. 'My father worshipped my mother,' Craig went on, and Vita had to hurry to keep pace with his long angry strides. 'She wasn't worthy

of such adoration. Fortunately, he could be sure of one thing—that I was his son!' 'You mean . . .?' 'That my mother was promiscuous? Had lovers? Yes. I was born within the first year of their marriage, but my sister Naomi . . .' He shrugged. 'Half-sister, I should say, I suppose. Once the novelty of being married to a rich man wore off—a man much older than herself, incidentally—she began to look for diversions— and found them.' 'I'm very sorry,' Vita said softly. 'Don't be!' His tone dared her to presume to offer sympathy to him. 'My father's dead now. She can't hurt him any more.' 'She's still alive?' 'Yes.' 'Do you—do you hear from her?' 'Only indirectly. My sister keeps in touch with her and with me. She and Naomi get on pretty well, but I doubt whether it will ever be possible for me to see my mother without remembering what she put my father through.' 'You can't forgive her?' 'Forgive?' Craig shrugged. 'Maybe. But not forget.' 'Did your father divorce her?'

'I told you—he worshipped her. I grew up watching him go on living in the hope that she'd settle down some day, go back to him. She wouldn't even . . .' Craig's voice became sibilant with his condemnation ' . . . she wouldn't even go to see him when he was dying, though he asked constantly for her. To get there in time she would have had to fly and she was terrified of aeroplanes. Why should she risk her neck to gratify an old man's dying whim?' The question was heavy with bitter sarcasm. Craig might think he'd forgiven his mother, but he hadn't, Vita mused. 'How old were you when your father died?' 'Thirteen.' 'And even at that age you knew so much about what was going on?' 'I had plenty of kind friends and relations to tell me what sort of mother I had. And then, after my father's death, I saw for myself. Unwillingly, she was my legal guardian, and it didn't suit her to have to take responsibility for a growing boy, one that gave the lie to her supposed age.' 'Craig!' Diffidently, Vita touched his arm and he broke stride to look at her. 'Not all women are like that. Perhaps you've been unlucky . . . or . . .' she said with sudden insight, 'perhaps you've deliberately sought out the wrong kind— a deliberate justification of your . . .' 'Spare me the psychology lecture! In my travels I've met women of all kinds, in all walks of life, the sort you mean and others. I'm well aware there are decent women—Ruth's a case in point. I've just never met one I'd travel half a mile to see again.'

Did he realise quite what he'd just said? He'd travelled considerably further and more than once to see her. Vita thought with an irrepressible spurt of exultation. Careful to show nothing of what she felt, she said, 'And Dominic's mother? Which kind was she?' 'Annemie was—different.' His tone forbade further discussion, but having dared thus far, Vita was not so easily deterred. At last she was learning something of Craig, something beyond the externals, beyond the raw smouldering masculinity of the man. She felt a hungry curiosity about him. No detail was too small. She would treasure every one. 'Different?' He gave vent to a sigh of exasperation. 'You're very persistent. What will it profit you to know?' 'I just want to understand.' she said doggedly. 'To understand? To understand me?' His laugh was a harsh sound. 'I wish / could understand you. You've made it pretty clear there's nothing for me where you're concerned, yet you follow me here— and don't say you didn't,' he snapped before Vita could draw breath. 'Whether it was your idea or Ruth's, you came. Why, Vita? Tell me that.' 'I—I don't have to explain myself to you . . .' she began, but knew it was a feeble protest that he would find it unacceptable. 'Yet you expect explanations from me—of things, of motives far more personal than yours could ever be.'

Subtly, his manner had altered and she sensed that with his curiosity had come a reawakening of interest, a possible misinterpretation of her actions. 'I brought you down here to talk—not about my past—but about us. Is there going to be any us, Vita?' He didn't wait for her answer, but drew her into his arms, his hand forcing up her chin, so that the moonlight could reveal her expression. It must have been more telling than she'd imagined, for he bent his head and took possession of her yielding lips in a kiss totally unlike any other she had ever received from him, not fierce and demanding, but sensually gentle. His fingers tangled the long, blonde hair, continuing the disarray the sea breeze had wrought. The kiss, the hardening contours of his thighs, set her own blood on fire. She was rapidly becoming lost in his expertise and when at last he released her lips, she remained quiescent against him, trembling. 'Vita?' He repeated his question. 'What about us?' 'Not on your terms, Craig.' It was quietly but firmly said. 'My God!' He thrust her from him then, so abruptly that she stumbled and was glad they were no nearer to the edge of the quayside. 'What is it with you? What do you want from me? One minute I think you're mine for the asking and the next you're holding back. Either you want me or you don't! Which is it, Vita?' Still slightly dazed by the fiery surge of emotion flooding her being, Vita spoke wearily, huskily. 'Oh, you can make me want you all right. But I've told you, mere sexual attraction isn't enough.'

'I see!' He was sardonic. 'It's still the same cry, is it? You have to know me, warts and all, and I'm supposed to meekly tell you what you want to know. But suppose you don't like what you hear, Vita? Suppose the truth is a complete turn-off? Where does that leave us—me?' 'No worse off than you were before,' she pointed out, but she shivered a little. What if Craig meant what he said and she found, by his own telling of his story, that he was a man to be despised rather than loved? Could she bear it? She hadn't expected, or intended to fall in love— ever—and now it seemed she'd done so with the wrong man. Craig had noticed the shiver. 'You're cold. Come on! Back to the cottage. Ruth and Fred keep early hours. Maybe we'll be able to talk in comfort, as well as in peace.'

As he had predicted, the Garnett's home was in silent darkness. Almost automatically they gravitated towards the cheerful kitchen, made hot drinks and, at Craig's suggestion, carried them into the living-room, which, as yet, Vita had not seen. There was evidence here, too, of Ruth Garnett's home-making talents, and as Vita lowered herself into a large, comfortable chair, she found herself, for perhaps the second time since she'd met Craig, wistfully envious of what a married couple shared. Whatever interests, from time to time, drew them apart, they had a common base in which to live out their love. She could settle for that, Vita thought, as she sipped her cocoa, if she were married to a man such as Craig, a man who needed

occasional periods of solitude, whose work provided for that need. After all, she had a career which, until recently, had been the be-all and end-all of her existence. Wasn't it possible that the two ways of life could be combined? Or—and her next thought came as no surprise to her seeming to follow a natural sequence— wouldn't she also be willing to give up her travels and instead follow Craig wherever he led? 'You wanted to know about Annemie?' To her surprise, Craig reintroduced the subject. 'Only if you want to tell me.' He had made her afraid of what she might hear. 'Oh, I want to tell you. There are going to be no secrets between us from now on. I'm not giving you any more excuses for indecision. But if you want honesty from me, I shall expect the same from you.' 'But,' Vita was puzzled, 'I've told you about myself—everything that matters, and,' she added half-jesting, half-serious, 'I've no dark secrets.' 'I wasn't referring to that sort of honesty. I meant that you should either commit yourself to me once and for all or—or get the hell out of my life!' It was a savage conclusion, as though frustration gnawed at him and for the first time Vita felt guilty. Was she being unfair to Craig, placing herself in his way, when she could not, would not, give him unreservedly what he wanted? Maybe it was playing with fire for her to be alone with him, the opportunities it presented for intimacy, but she couldn't resist such chances.

'Annemie was French. You might have gathered that from the name. I met her when I was working in a Paris nightclub—as a bouncer!' he forestalled her question. 'Oh! Unconsciously, Vita's lip had curled and he pounced on the fact. 'And before you get the wrong idea, she wasn't that kind of girl. She should never have been working in a place like that—not even as a cloakroom attendant, which she was. But she didn't have much choice. She was on her uppers and an orphan, no relations to give her a helping hand.' 'You felt sorry for her?' Vita hazarded. 'Yes, I did. And before you can say that's not a very firm basis for a relationship, I also happened to be in love with her—for the first and only time in my life. I was only twenty-six then, nine years younger than I am now and,' he said it drily, 'still had an Achilles heel. We came back to England. I thought,' his tone was rueful now, 'that she knew a little about the facts of life, but apparently not. She was only eighteen. The next thing I knew, she was pregnant. Something I hadn't counted on—not with the sort of life I led.' 'Dominic!' 'As you say!' As if he relived the uncertainty, the restlessness of that time, Craig got up and began to pace the small room, his path taking him to and fro close to where Vita sat so that she was constantly aware of his passage. 'There was no way I wanted us to settle down then—put down roots of any kind. You can't keep moving from pillar to post with children.'

'And?' He had been silent for so long, Vita felt compelled to prompt him. 'I asked her to marry me.' He stopped by her chair, looking down at her and she couldn't fathom the meaning of the expression in the grey eyes, as he added, 'She turned me down.' Whether or not Craig had really wanted to marry Annemie, that must have represented quite a blow to his male ego. But why had the girl refused? Vita asked him. 'She said she wasn't in love with me. She'd used me to get out of the situation in France. She said she couldn't live my kind of life, constantly on the move, whether there were children to be considered or not. She wanted permanence, stability. My mother,' he brooded, 'wanted the stability, the security, from which to pursue her more dangerous activities.' 'So what happened?' 'I left her in England, in good hands, and with enough money for her needs. I went back to Europe, kept on the move. But I kept thinking about her. She was alone in a strange country, whose language she didn't speak very well—and then there was the baby. Whether she loved me or not, she was carrying my child!' So, despite all impressions to the contrary, Craig was capable of affection, of compassion for a woman, had had some feeling for his son, even when unborn. 'You came back to England?' Vita hazarded. 'A week too late,' He couldn't camouflage the regret. 'The child had been born prematurely. Annemie was dead.' He continued his pacing and did not see the involuntary movement of Vita's hand

towards him. It seemed to her that his voice shook a little as he added, 'Dominic's damnably like her, you know.' Strange how one saw what one wanted to see. In Dominic, Vita saw Craig. But Craig saw the image of the woman he'd loved. 'I put him into care,' Craig went on, 'while I tried to decide what was best. I could have put him up for adoption. There were no other relatives—yet somehow . . .' 'You couldn't do it?' Unbearably moved she prompted softly and something in her voice must have alerted him, for he swung round and spoke coldly. 'Don't shed any tears over it, Vita. Don't attribute any emotionalism to me.' But he was lying and Vita knew he was lying. He'd loved Annemie, she thought painfully, and Dominic was too poignant a reminder of her. 'If I'd sent Dominic for adoption, how could I know what sort of parents he'd end up with? That he might not grow up unhappy and disillusioned as I had? No, that was the one responsibility I couldn't avoid. At least as his legal guardian I could see that he grew up with a harder protective shell than I'd had.' It was a queer, twisted kind of logic, Vita thought sadly, and despite his denials, Craig didn't realise how much it revealed— how much he did care for and agonise over his son's welfare. But it would be fatal to point that out. It was something she could only hope he would some day realise for himself—that duty was not enough—before it was too late. Craig had flung himself back into his chair now, as if the retelling of his past had drained him of physical energy, and his attention, which had been distracted from Vita, returned in full force.

'So now you know it all—or is there more? Do I have to tell you what books I read? What music I like? Where I buy my socks?' Relieved at this note of—albeit wry—humour, Vita laughed, the spontaneous reaction lightening her tension a little. 'You once told me socks were low on your list of priorities,' she reminded him. She could remember every word he had ever spoken to her. His wide mouth parted into one of its rare attractive smiles. 'Hmmn. If, as sometimes happens, a relief is overdue, clean socks mean doing your own laundry, not a task I'm fond of.' 'Relief? Overdue?' This was a subject which might, if she were lucky, head him on from the return to personalities he obviously contemplated. 'Uhuh! Generally we do a four-week stint out at the light—two of us—four weeks on, four off. If bad weather blows up it can extend that, either the tour of duty or the leave. It's just as bad hanging about ashore, hoping the weather's going to improve, as it is waiting to come off. Worse, in fact, because out at the light there's always plenty to do.' 'How do you get on and off the light, then?' Vita was genuinely interested now, delaying tactics, for the moment, forgotten. 'Boat,' Craig said succinctly. 'At least that's how we go about it here. A lot of the lights have been modernised and most have been fitted with helidecks, but not the Crentrom.' 'By boat? Isn't that dangerous?'

'Life is dangerous. But you can't be frightened of everything. You're just as likely to have an accident in that car of yours—more likely, since you probably use it more often.' 'You know,' Vita said thoughtfully, 'I agree with Ruth, it does seem a strange life for a man like you. However did you get into it?' He shrugged. 'Quite by chance, really. I was working at Southampton at the time. One evening I was at a loose end and I got talking to an old chap down on the front. We were both interested in the sea and the subject of lighthouses came up. Principally because he was a retired keeper and he was still fretting for the life. He told me a lot about it and I suppose some of his enthusiasm rubbed off. To cut a long story short, I made enquiries, got taken on by Trinity House, did my training. For the first year I was pushed around landlights, rocks and towers in quick succession. Then I ended up here. I've been here almost two years.' 'And it really suits you?' Vita asked wonderingly. 'Yes. I suppose I just have the right kind of outlook for it. In this job there's no nipping home for a quick bit of normality, and as I have no home . . .! I get quite preoccupied with the work, and we get some free time even out there. It's an ideal place to pursue your own interests with no outside interruptions.' 'Such as?' 'I put in some hefty reading for a start—travel mainly of course, historical biographies, sociology. Then I like watching the birds. I've even learned how to put ships into bottles. Fred taught me that. It's a craft handed down from the old days, you know? When pay was low and keepers had to supplement their income somehow.'

Vita looked at the large, strong hands and marvelled that they could be capable of such delicate, finicky tasks. But then, unfortunately, she remembered how gentle those same hands could be. Gentle sometimes, at other times fierce and demanding, and she felt the warmth of renewed awareness flood her body. Unwisely, without taking care over the subject, she rushed into speech. 'B-but isn't it lonely, too?' 'Sometimes, though there's always two of us, of course—generally me and Fred. Jim and Alec share the other duty. Perhaps the only time I ever really feel the solitude is in the middle watch through the night. That's when I'm really on my own. I can let my thoughts wander.' He leant forward, and as the grey eyes kindled Vita had no need to wonder what thoughts occupied him in the long, dark watches of the night. 'That's when you miss women—when you want one in bed with you. That's the time, just lately, when I've thought about you, Vita, when you've come between me and my work.' He was out of his chair now, moving towards her and she shrank back a little, knowing that this time a confrontation could not be avoided, his thoughts diverted. 'I—I'm surprised th-that anything comes between you and y-your beloved rock,' she stammered, 'I thought . . .' 'Oh I've always been able to put it behind me when I'm ashore, I've had a hell of a time, enjoyed every single moment and I always knew the light would be there, waiting for me when I got back. A light is a faithful mistress. Vita?' He put out a hand, inviting her to place hers within it, but cravenly she ignored the gesture.

'By a hell of a time, I suppose you mean going to parties at places like Laura's—and picking up a different girl every night?' 'I never made any secret of that. But don't go running away with the idea that I slept with every one of them.' Since Vita had made no response to his outstretched hand, Craig took her by the shoulders, pulled her to her feet. 'And just lately I've been wanting to come ashore only to see you.' She wanted to avoid his intent gaze, but found herself unable to do so. 'Wh-why go all the way to London for your— your entertainment? Aren't there any girls in Cornwall?' 'I go to London for my "entertainment" as you call it,' he said repressively, 'because that way I can combine it with my visits to Dominic at his school.' As his head lowered towards her, she sought for a further diversion. 'I—I often wondered where you went when you went away. You— you were always so pale. I—I even wondered if you had some kind of illness, whether you went back to a—a hospital.' He smiled. 'The first time we met, I'd just done six weeks on the light without a break, the weather so lousy we couldn't even go out on the gallery for a breath of air. And did it bother you,' he said curiously, 'that I might be a sick man?' She remembered how she had agonised over whether, in that case, she would have consented to an affair with him, and she flushed betrayingly.

He sighed then, impatiently, she thought. 'I don't want you to worry over my welfare, Vita, except in one respect.' 'I wondered when we'd get back on that tack.' 'Sooner or later, Vita, sooner or later, because that's what all this is about, isn't it?' She was silent under his intent stare. She had protested often enough and he would never, she brooded despairingly, come around to her way of thinking. But her silence had spoken for her. 'You'd better go to bed,' he advised tightly, and as her eyes widened questioningly, 'Don't look at me like that! You know, and I know, God help me, that you're not going to give in, so why prolong the agony? Go to bed, Vita, and while you're there, think about going home! Tomorrow!' For an instant, she waited, waited for she knew not what, but his stare was inexorable and with a strangled sob, she turned on her heel and ran from the room.

The bedroom Ruth had allocated to her was upstairs, the only one under the eaves of the cottage. 'It's rarely used,' Ruth had told her. 'It would have been different if we'd had children. But it wasn't to be.' Which probably explained why Ruth Garnett sublimated her maternal instincts in mothering the men and their wives and families. Even she, Vita thought, came under that all- embracing urge. But Ruth hadn't helped her by involving her with Craig again.

She undressed, the curtains still open, so that she could see the light winking enigmatically at her. She could understand so much about Craig now, having heard about his past, knowing of his consuming love for the sea, so why couldn't he understand her? Surely she had revealed as much of herself to him as he to her? Were men really so different from women, aside from the obvious physical differences? Did they really have no mental or. spiritual need of a woman's companionship? If not, it seemed a sad lack. For after all, when physicality passed, what was left? Then she remembered Ruth and Fred—Ruth's words—'Even at our age, happiness is going to sleep with your husband's arms around you'— and she had not meant just the sense of physical gratification, Vita felt sure, and was comforted a little. Even when she was ready for bed, she was reluctant to close the curtains and shut out the friendly presence of the light, for she felt it was a friendly one. Unlike Clare, who seemed to feel that the lighthouse actually came between her and Jim, Vita had no sense of a rival for Craig's attention. How would I feel if this were my house, she asked herself as she lay, still wakeful, and if Craig and I were—married? If he were out there, perhaps looking towards the shore, thinking of me, perhaps not? Perhaps just deep in one of his books, or just engrossed in tending the light? One thing of which Vita was certain, she wouldn't feel resentment or deep unhappiness as Clare seemed to. If Clare's case were hers, she knew she would lie there, the light a friendly connecting link between her and Craig. She would miss him, yes, crave, sometimes achingly, for his physical presence, his lovemaking. She stirred restlessly in her

bed. But there would always be the warm inner knowledge that wherever he was he was hers. That even a mile or two of sea could never really separate them. And how glorious his returns would be, every shore leave a rapturous honeymoon. It was only then that Vita realised that tears were running from the corners of her eyes, into her hair, dampening her pillow, as she dreamed of what could never be. She must have dozed then, for she woke with a start, conscious of some difference in the atmosphere of the room. It was still dark, the light still constant in its revolutions. She tried to move, found she couldn't. A heavy weight seemed to restrict the quilt that covered her. Eyes wide open now, she saw an unmistakable silhouette, Craig's, as he sat on the edge of her bed. 'Craig?' she whispered in alarm. 'What are you doing here? What is it? Is something wrong?' 'Nothing more than usual,' he said wryly. 'It came to me that this was the only way I was ever likely to see you in bed—and,' his voice was throaty, 'I couldn't resist that thought.' 'Craig, please—don't,' she begged, but too late. His head had already begun its downward movement towards her and the quilt was held in place by two strong, determined hands, effectively preventing any escape. And then she didn't want to escape any more, as her flailing hands encountered the muscled bareness of his chest. He wore only brief pants, she discovered. She had never seen him without a shirt and she couldn't see him clearly now, but in the darkness her fingers were as eyes, trailing over the sensual roughness that covered his rib cage.

His mouth on hers was a bruising force and with only a sighing token protest, she wrapped her arms around him, inviting him to come closer. With a swift movement that did not interrupt his possession of her lips, Craig disposed of the quilted barrier and his hand pushed down the narrow straps of her nightgown, so that it could explore the tautening mounds of her breasts. Desire twisted inside her, deep and sharp, as he groaned her name into the warm moistness of her mouth. Possessively, he cupped her hip, his leg hooked across her knees. Vita was engulfed by the incredible virility he exuded. 'I knew this had to be a good idea,' Craig muttered. 'Let me stay, Vita?' Perhaps, who knew, if he hadn't spoken, broken the spell of sensuality under which she lay, he might have got his wish. But the words penetrated to a brain only temporarily bemused, but inevitably still capable of coherent thought. She began to struggle. 'Craig! Let go of me! Go away!' 'No!' Just the one word, but the power, the determination it held! 'Craig! I won't be forced,' she warned him. if I have to, I'll raise the whole house. Fond as she is of you, even Ruth wouldn't turn a blind eye to rape.' For a moment she thought he would call her bluff. Then, without another word he rolled away from her, stood up, walked to the door and went out, slamming it behind him, without even a backward look.

Vita rolled over on to her stomach, her teeth clenched in her pillow in an effort to quell the sobs that threatened and crush back the paroxysms of desire that still swept through her. She'd had to send him away—she'd had to—and the pains of frustration could surely be no worse for him than for her? And she had a decision to make—but tomorrow would be time enough.

CHAPTER EIGHT 'You want to ask Clare if you can stay with her?' Ruth sounded incredulous, hurt. 'But why?' 'I thought she might welcome the company,' Vita prevaricated. 'Another adult under her roof. I could babysit for her, so she could get out.' 'You could do that without moving in. And don't you think we've offered—Jenny and me?' Ruth said sharply. 'It's not merely adult company Clare craves, it's Jim's. I thought you realised that.' Then, stiffly, 'I'm sorry if we've not made you comfortable enough here.' 'It isn't that,' Vita said earnestly. 'Oh dear, I was trying to save embarrassment, chiefly my own, but I can't have you thinking me so ungrateful. I just don't think,' she went on after a pause, 'that it's a good idea for Craig and me to be under the same roof.' There was a silence while Ruth absorbed this. Then, her eyes narrowing, she asked, 'You don't mean to say he . . .? Not under my roof? Just let me . . .!' 'No, Ruth, please!' It was an agonised cry. 'I wouldn't for the world cause trouble between you and Craig. But you must understand—I do- -that it's expecting an awful lot of him not to— not to—when I'm so—so available. Well, that's why I thought I might ask Clare if . . .' 'All right.' Ruth still looked affronted, but by Craig's behaviour now, Vita thought, rather than what she must have seen as Vita's ingratitude. 'Ask Clare, but I honestly don't know what kind of reception you'll get.' *

Contrary to Ruth's expectations, Clare responded eagerly to Vita's hesitant request and she too misunderstood the reason for it. 'I can quite understand you not wanting to be under that old biddy's roof. I don't suppose you and Craig would get much time to yourselves with her around. She has to have her finger in every pie going.' Vita parted her lips to protest, but then decided it was enough that Ruth—and quite probably Jenny by now—knew the true reason for her transference of quarters. Clare would be quite incapable of understanding her motives. 'You're not the sort of woman Craig usually goes for. Not that I've ever met any of them, but I've heard him talking to Jim when they didn't know I was listening. Usually when women get too intense he drops them like a hot brick. But you must be special. He can visit you here as often as you like,' Clare went on, as she sat on the spare room bed watching Vita unpack her few belongings. 'Oh, no!' Vita had to protest at this. 'I don't want you to think . . .' 'Come off it! It's pretty obvious to me that you know each other very well. That well?' 'No!' Vita said sharply. 'Oh, I'd be the last one to blame you for having a bit of fun. Craig's a very sexy man. But of course you'd be mad to take him too seriously. He's not the marrying kind.' Her pretty face passed from avid curiosity to discontent, 'And I don't think Jim should ever have married either. That blasted light! I'm sure he thinks more of it than he does of me and the kids. And when he's ashore, what does

he do? He goes fishing with Alec. Fishing!' She gave a shrill laugh. 'If he had another woman, I could understand it better. I know my looks have gone off since I had two babies, but how the hell do you compete with the sea?' 'Why try?' Vita paused in her occupation to ask gently. 'Perhaps if you shared his interests . . .?' 'Lighthouses? Fishing? Do you know what our interests used to be when we first met—even after we were first married? We used to go dancing, to the cinema, the theatre and now, nothing. We don't do a damned thing together.' 'Surely you take the children out together, when he's on leave?' 'The children!' Clare said scornfully. 'Who wants them when Jim's around? D'you know, we can't even have an undisturbed night together, without one of them wakes up and crawls into bed between us. Before we had them, Vita . . .' As she spoke, Clare's hands gripped and twisted each other in her lap. 'Before we had them, I can't count the number of times when we've made love in the afternoons—even in the middle of the morning sometimes if we felt like it. Nothing like that ever happens now. Keep your relationship with Craig the way it is. Don't be daft enough to get married and have kids.' Vita was too embarrassed by these personal revelations to protest again that she and Craig had no relationship. Clare struck her as being essentially immature, an immaturity that resisted inevitable change, development within a relationship. Instead, she clung to a memory of the first carefree raptures—raptures which, incidentally, had probably conceived the children she now complained of.

If only she could bear Craig's children, Vita found herself thinking. She would never complain. She'd told Craig—and it had been the truth—that she had never felt the urge towards motherhood. But all that had changed, as so much else within her had—and it put yet another barrier between her and the man she loved, with his insistence on freedom from emotional ties. 'Well, while you're being kind enough to put me up, I hope you'll let me babysit for you?' she offered. 'Perhaps you have some girlfriends you could look up while Jim's away?' For a moment she thought Clare was going to refuse, but then a considering look, which somehow made Vita feel uneasy, crossed the other girl's face. 'I might just take you up on that.'

Craig was coldly furious about Vita's defection. She had hardly been under Clare's roof for an hour, when he came storming round. He said nothing in Clare's presence, but with coy tact she soon went out and Vita was left to face his anger. 'Why have you done this?' he demanded. 'I think you know why.' 'If that's so, why the hell didn't you do as I told you and go home?' Who did he think he was, telling her what to do? 'Because I'm not ready to leave yet,' she told him, her own fury mounting to match his.

'Why? There's nothing here for you now.' Perhaps not, she thought painfully, but how could she go and leave her heart behind without suffering mortal injury? 'Where I stay, why and when I leave is for me to decide,' she told him. Only anger could mask other, deeper, feelings. 'And what will you get out of staying with Clare? The woman's a menace, She's a living example of my reasons for steering clear of marriage. She's wrecking Jim's life. She loathes the sea, the very idea of his work. When he's home, she's as possessive as hell— resents it every time he goes off to do anything on his own.' 'You may be right about her,' Vita said. 'In fact I'm sure you are, but I feel sorry for her.' 'Sorry? For Clare? Trust you women to stick together! It's Jim you should feel sorry for. Is it any wonder he prefers his own company, when all he gets at home is rows and more rows?' 'If you'd just let me finish,' Vita said tautly, 'I feel sorry for Clare, not because I think she's right, or because I would share her feelings, but because she so obviously shouldn't have married someone like Jim.' 'Jim and I have a lot in common,' Craig pointed out, his tone flat. 'I can imagine! Clare was happy when Jim was a nine-to-five man. If things had stayed that way, she might still have been happy. But from what I've seen you have to have a certain special kind of mentality to be married to a lighthouse keeper—the kind of mentality that's self-reliant, able to accept the other person's need for privacy, to be able to let go when necessary.'

'In other words, she's a clinging vine. But I didn't come here to talk about Clare. What must Ruth think of your moving out like this? It's damned discourteous!' 'Ruth thinks exactly what she should—the truth!' Craig looked disconcerted. 'You mean, you actually told her what we— what I -Good God!' 'It was the only way,' she said steadily, 'to move without offending her. You wouldn't have wanted me to do that?'

'And it's working pretty well,' she wrote a week later, in a letter to her sister Gail. She had promised Barry she would let them know her whereabouts. 'Finally, Craig seems to have accepted that I'm not going to sleep with him and we've achieved a kind of truce, though an uneasy one perhaps.' And it was a precarious peace, she thought, her pen pausing for a moment. By day, she still saw almost as much of Craig. Chiefly at Ruth's instigation, she suspected, they had fallen into the habit of taking Dominic out. But in the evenings she had so far avoided being in his company, as she also avoided being alone with him. It wasn't easy to maintain this resolution. Sometimes, when he looked at her, it was as if she could read his thoughts, and she knew the continual presence of others made him irritable and restless. Whenever an opportunity arose, he took advantage of it to touch her, just briefly perhaps in passing, but it had its effect upon her own highly strung nerves. If she spoke to him, he made a point of lowering his dark head towards her, so that the charisma of his

aura enveloped her in pulsating, breathtaking waves. And once, unheard by anyone else, his eyes intent on her mouth, he murmured, 'I want to kiss you, Vita!' Her heart had seemed to rise in her throat, almost choking her and her whole body tingled to the sensual implication of his voice, accentuated by its attractive accent. For a crazy moment, she envisaged going with him to some solitary place, giving in to him, felt an inner pulsing that craved to be quieted by his possession. But again common sense came to her aid. 'If I gave in, Gail,' she wrote, 'I'd soon be no more to him than all the other women he's known. At least if I have nothing else, I still have his respect. He's finally admitted that while he doesn't understand them, he has a grudging kind of admiration for my views.' But why didn't he understand them, she puzzled, when he was so bitterly contemptuous of entirely opposite values held by his own mother? 'But I'm beginning to despair. I don't think he'll ever change substantially. Another week and he goes back on duty, for a month, and there doesn't seem much point in my staying after that. 'I've already written to Nigel, to let him know when I'll be back . . .'

The day after she had written to her sister, Vita and Craig had their last outing with Dominic, their last because the boy was due to return to school. 'The poor lamb doesn't want to go back at all,' Ruth told Vita. 'It's really made his holiday, you know, your being here. And he's seen far more of Craig than normal. I wonder if he is beginning to

develop more of a fondness for the boy? I've thought once or twice . . .' 'Don't build any hopes on it, Ruth,' Vita told her in brittle tones, 'Craig hasn't changed. At thirty-five he's hardly likely to!' She was determined, however, that Dominic's last day should be a special one, with memories to last him through the long autumn term ahead. 'Why don't we take him out to the lighthouse tomorrow?' she said, then waited breathlessly for Craig's reaction. It came in a look of scathing incredulity. 'We? Me—and you?' 'Why not?' She met his gaze steadily, 'Or,' sarcastically, 'aren't women allowed to' set foot on such hallowed ground?' The grey eyes had narrowed consideringly and she wondered just what was going on inside the dark head. Behind her back, surreptitiously, she crossed her fingers, willing him to agree, not just for Dominic's sake, but for her own. In a few days' time she would be returning to London, Craig to his beloved rock. It might help in the lonely weeks ahead if, sometimes, she could envisage his surroundings, picture him at his work. It could also, she reflected, make it harder to root out his image from her mind. For she had no doubt now that that was what it must come to in the end. As she'd told Ruth and Gail, Craig was unlikely to change and she knew that she could not—not in something of such vital importance to her own self-respect.

'A final request!' she said, her tone deliberately light, 'from the condemned.' He was not to know she bracketed herself with Dominic. 'All right!' and she thought he sounded rather grim. 'But remember, you asked for it!'

Clare, however, was even more incredulous than Craig, when she heard of Vita's plans. 'You want to go out there, to that dreadful place? What on earth for?' Ruth, predictably, approved. 'You should see what Craig's life is like,' she told Vita. 'That's always been part of Clare's trouble. She's always refused to take an interest. I'm sure if she did she could come to terms with Jim's absences a bit better.' But Vita shook her head. 'I doubt it, Ruth. I'm worried about Clare. Oh, I don't know her as well as you do, but it seems to me she's been getting more depressed than ever lately. It doesn't seem as if my staying with her and babysitting for her has been any help after all.' Ruth nodded. 'I was afraid of that. It may have made her more restless and discontented. Where's she been going on her evenings out, do you know?'

'Into St Ives, sometimes Penzance, she says. But she doesn't talk much about it, just thanks me for sitting, then goes off to bed and next morning you'd think she'd never been away.' 'Well, you're lucky,' Craig told Vita and Dominic, 'or perhaps you won't think so later.' 'Lucky?' 'That the weather's OK for our trip today. You didn't think,' sarcastically, 'that you could just step into a boat any old day and head out there?' She supposed it should have occurred to her that sea conditions might not be conveniently favourable, but she resented Craig's tone of voice. 'What's a little choppy water?' He gave an unamused grunt. 'I may be asking you and Dominic that a little later!' But his mood seemed to change when they were actually in the launch, heading out to sea. Jory, the boatman, Craig had told Vita, was a local man, born and bred on this coastline. He'd spent his childhood around the Crentrom coast fishing, lobster potting at low tide, and he knew all the dangerous rocks between the shore and the light. Introductions made, Jory's opinion of the weather reconfirmed, the launch's motor rattled into life with a short high-pitched metallic screech, coughed, spluttered, nearly died, then roared again. Thick

clouds of blue-black smoke billowed out of the exhaust just above the water- line, making Dominic cough suddenly. 'All right, my 'andsome?' Jory shot him a glance. 'Of course he's all right,' Craig said. 'He shouldn't be here if he isn't.' 'I'm fine honestly, Dad!' When the engine was throbbing steadily, Jory turned the wheel and with a jerk the launch moved forward. 'Look at that!' Craig pointed ahead at the light. 'Nearly a hundred years old and however strong the winds or the seas, she's still there.' Fred had been right, Vita mused, in saying that Craig spoke of the tower as of a beloved mistress. 'The men who built her were craftsmen, eh, Jory?' 'Aye, Mr Craig. They knew the sea and respected it. You have to have the knowledge and the respect, or the sea'll treat you as you deserve, like,' he added scornfully, 'they fancy oil rigs that's always getting knocked over.' The sea was powerful, Vita thought. Down here in a tiny boat among the waves, you could feel its strength. It was indifferent, arrogant—as Craig was in many ways. She brooded over the comparison. But the sea was stronger even than Craig. As they came nearer, the rock seemed to change colour, from black to brown, brown to yellow ochre, ochre to beige. From the shore smooth in appearance, now its soaring sides were jagged,

deeply fissured. Everywhere there was evidence of the sea's ravages, of years of elemental struggles. It loomed up over them, barren, huge, the tower itself of white granite. Their landing was to be made on the far side of the tower, in a narrow place between two great rocks. The landing itself was almost at water level—a small, concrete platform with red- painted railings. From it, steps wound up the rock face and out of sight. 'Always a tricky moment, this,' Craig commented, 'and if the wind's blowing in a certain direction and the sea's running very heavy, this isn't safe for a boat.' Two men—Jim and Alec?—waited on the platform. Both held poles with metal hooks on the end. Jory throttled back the engine, considered the gully ahead of him, then slowly, carefully, steered the launch in. The water sluiced in between the rocks, the boat rising and falling. 'Now,' Craig told Vita, 'when the boat rises level with the platform again, jump! Inwardly quaking, outwardly calm, she did so and the men caught her arm, steadying her. She turned to watch Dominic's progress, saw the look of sudden fear on the boy's face. 'Come on, Dominic!' she called in competition with the soughing wind. 'It's easy, nothing to it!' She saw him give an uncertain grin, then, pluckily, he launched himself out towards the platform, his timing fractionally out; saw Craig recognise this and plunge forward, incredibly swift-thinking, his hand grasping the falling boy's anorak and hauling him to safety, slightly damp, but with only bruises to show for what might have been a nasty accident.

Dominic, she saw, had not realised the full extent of his danger, but Craig had, and his face was drawn into taut lines. She noticed that as they ascended the endless steps, his hand continued to support the boy. Then up the dog-steps to the entrance door— metal steps, about thirty feet of them, bolted to the outside of the tower. These protruded at the most six inches from the wall, so that only a climber's toes could be set in them. Today, the heavy gun-metal doors, weighing several hundredweight, stood open, but most of the time, Craig said, they would be closed and bolted against the sea. 'That gives you some idea of the seas we get in bad weather!' Inside the fifty-foot tower—with its rock, a hundred and fifty feet above the sea—everything was spotlessly clean, stairs, brass handrails, cogwheels and the shafts of the machinery. Metal stairways connected each of three circular floors with the next, but then three levels had doors, for the staircase went around the outside of them. 'This is where we do our socialising, such as it is,' Craig indicated the kitchen level. Vita looked out through the only window, a small double-glazed one. They were now, she estimated, some eighty feet above the sea. Below her, the waves, a turmoil of green, white-capped water, seemed to roll in from different directions. First one side of the tower then another took a big wave, then a few minutes later the other. She could feel the tower vibrating and quivering—and this was a fine day! 'In bad weather you wouldn't be able to see through that for spray,' Craig told her.

Benches and tables were curved to fit the room, the rest of the furnishing consisted of store cupboards, fridge and cooker, a small TV set and a radio transmitter receiver. But Dominic was eager to see the illuminant itself. 'Game for another two floors?' Craig challenged Vita. 'Of course!' Her legs were aching by now and trembling a little with the stress of their arrival, the unaccustomed climbing, but she would never have admitted it—to Craig least of all. The light itself consisted of two banks of what looked like car headlights, back to back, sixteen of them on each side, arranged in rows of four. One switch lit them, Craig told his son, another turned them. 'From inside, it's seen as it is, a straight beam of light revolving. But from a distance it's only visible when it points straight at you—so it looks as if it's flashing.' Now, by day on this bright morning, inside the pentagon of the lenses, some translucent, some opaque, some reflecting, the thick glass magnified or reduced. Through them, Vita could see a perpetually changing kaleidoscope of surging green foamed with white, the view split and fractured making glimmering rainbows quiver in lines of prismatically fragmented light. Fascinated, she could scarcely tear herself from the panorama of mingling, mixing mosaics, breaking, parting, meeting again in different patterns of distorted images, shattering, reforming, but always changing. But Craig was calling her to come downstairs again, to be properly introduced to the other two men, and, reluctantly, she followed him.

'Jim, Alec, meet Vita! She's staying with your Clare at the moment, Jim, giving her a chance to get out and about.' How did Craig manage to tell Clare's husband that, in a pleasant offhand voice, while still subtly conveying to Vita his disapproval? 'Oh? That's nice of you.' The slim, fair-haired man shook hands with Vita, but he sounded surprised. 'I don't know what sort of miracle you've worked. That doesn't sound like my missus.' 'We've heard a deal about you,' was Alec's contribution and at Vita's doubtful 'Oh?', the stocky man added hastily, 'Only good things, of course!' Vita wondered. Clare had related overhearing some pretty frank discussions about women between her husband and Craig. Why should he be any more reserved about her? Had he complained about her uncooperativeness? Did these two men see her as some kind of frigid freak? Alec put her mind a little at rest on this score, when Jim, obviously more accustomed to children's curiosity, accompanied Dominic and his father on a more detailed tour of the lighthouse. 'It's good to see Craig taking an interest in a nice, steady sort of girl,' he told her as he brewed tea, so strong that only politeness enabled Vita to drink it. 'I hope I'm not talking out of turn, but it'd be a pity if you turned him down because of his job. I know there's a lot, like Jim's Clare, that it doesn't suit.' Was that what Craig had told them? Was that how he'd preserved his ego? 'Craig doesn't talk much about his work to me. I didn't even know what he did until I came down here.'

'Ah! He'd be afraid of putting you off!' Alec said sagely. 'He's seen what it's done to Jim and Clare.' Vita wished that were all. 'Seems this is the longest he's ever stopped in one job, one place—quite taken with the life he is—made a study of the subject too.' He pointed towards a row of bookshelves in one corner of the communal accommodation. 'Jim and me now, we go in for good, fast-moving yarns, but Craig, well . . .!' He indicated a row of heavy-looking literature, among which Vita recognised many of the subjects Craig had cited as his favourite reading matter. 'Look at this one.' Alec put a book into her hands. The Corporation of Trinity House.'' Curiously, Vita leafed through its pages. It seemed to be a history of the organisation and its evolvement from a medieval Mariners' Guild: 1 . . . of Godly disposed men who do bind themselves together in the love of Lord Christ—to succour from the dangers of the sea all who are beset upon the coasts of England—to build and light proper beacons for the guidance of mariners . . .' Probably known as Trinity Guild because seamen traditionally placed themselves under the protection of the Holy Trinity, it had received a Royal Charter from Henry VIII in 1514, reconfirmed by Elizabeth I in 1566 and an Act of Parliament, which authorised the 'erection of beacons, signs and marks whereby dangers may be avoided and escaped and ships the better come into their port without peril'. Had Craig found in this life, its tenets, a safe harbour from perils of human relationships? 'What most of us hope for eventually, of course,' Alec interrupted Vita's browsing, 'is a land light, where we can have our families along, though even that's not ideal. You're always on standby, so you hardly ever get an evening out together, but . . .' he shrugged,

'it's slightly better. It'd be better for Jim's Clare. But it's not for Craig. D'you think,' he asked Vita, 'you could Rut up with this?' 'The question doesn't arise. There's nothing like that between me and Craig.' She could see she'd surprised him, but there was no opportunity for him to comment further, as they heard ringing footsteps on the metal staircase, heralding the return of the other three. 'Ready for the return trip?' Craig asked her. 'Oh, Dad!' Dominic protested. 'Do we have to go yet? This is super!' "Fraid so, old man. Time and tide wait for no one and in this case it's the tide.' 'Can I come again next holidays?' 'Weather permitting.' It was quite a concession and Vita found herself staring at Craig, quite unexpectedly catching a glimmer of what might be indulgent amusement in the grey eyes. Wonders would never cease. There might be hope yet that Craig would rejoin the human race.

CHAPTER NINE VITA had expected the next two days to be quiet and uneventful. Craig would be away, returning Dominic to his school, a trip which necessitated him staying overnight. How would he spend the intervening hours? she wondered with a stab of jealousy. Would he go into London, look up one of his female acquaintances? She could have gone with them, she supposed, offered to drive them, instead of them making the long train journey. But something told her to give father and son the opportunity to be alone together, in the hope that the rapport between them might increase. Besides, once she was in London herself it would have been foolish to return to Crentrom, since only one more full day would remain of her leave and this one last day alone with Craig she was reluctant to sacrifice. As it turned out, the time of Craig's absence was not uneventful at all. As she left Clare's house to have morning coffee with Ruth— Clare, tired and grumpy after a late night out, had refused to get up and accompany her—a taxi was pulling away from the cottages and she recognised the dapperly dressed figure of her boss, suitcase in hand. 'Nigel?' she said disbelievingly, 'What in the name of . . .? What are you doing here?' 'I had some business in Penzance. I took a chance on being able to get a shakedown here and travel back with you at the weekend.' Nigel was not usually given to such impulsive behaviour. 'I thought it'd be a good chance to talk about . . . about Australia.' At Nigel's mention of Australia, Vita felt her heart perform that most peculiar phenomenon known as sinking. Before she'd left on

her extended leave, she'd as good as indicated to Nigel that she would be more than willing to represent Travelway's interests in the antipodes. It had seemed a good way then of escaping from Craig's unsettling influence. But . . . but that had been before Ruth had talked her into corning here, to Crentrom, seeing him again, getting to know Dominic. Nothing was different, though, she realised. She was no further forward in her relationship with Craig. All the good reasons for leaving England, for sinking herself in a new challenge, still remained. Yet she didn't want to go, to put the whole world between herself and Craig in case . . . In case what? she jeered inwardly. And pulling herself together, she invited Nigel in to meet Ruth and, inevitably, Jenny. 'Of course your boss can stay for a few nights,' Ruth said warmly. 'There's the room you had for one night standing empty.' At Nigel's enquiring glance, Vita explained hastily that she was actually lodging with Clare next door, 'to make baby-sitting easier'. Nigel, of course, had no reason to query her explanation, but Ruth gave a speaking snort and inveigled Vita into helping her make the coffee. 'Jenny, you take Mr Porson into the sitting-room,' and at her friend's raised eyebrows at this unusual procedure, 'we can't have him thinking us uncivilised, taking our coffee in the kitchen.' Her eloquent wink must have enlightened Jenny, however, for with no further comment, silent or otherwise, Jenny did as she was told. 'Now, Vita!' As soon as they were alone, Ruth began to crossquestion her. 'How are things going between you and Craig after yesterday? Any better?'

'We get on very well,' Vita said drily, 'so long as a certain subject doesn't arise. I'm afraid we'll never agree on that.' Ruth's sigh was one of exasperation. 'I'd like to shake that young man. And I suppose you'll just be going back to London and that will be that?' Vita nodded, hesitated, then—she might as well tell Ruth the whole of it. 'I may be going even further than that eventually. It's almost certain I'll be going to Australia. That's why Nigel's come down here, to talk about it.' Ruth sat down suddenly on one of her pine kitchen chairs, her good-natured, motherly face paling. 'You—you don't mean—for good?' 'Well, certainly for a few years, until Travelway is well established out there.' 'Does Craig know about this?' 'No. It doesn't really concern him, does it?' 'You never know. It might. Perhaps if you were to tell him, it might make him realise . . .?' 'No! And I don't want you to tell him, either, Ruth. Promise me? If Craig were ever to change his mind, I'd want it to come from him, not from outside influences.' Ruth snorted again.

'Fat lot of good it'd be his changing his mind when you're on the other side of the world.' Reluctantly, however, she gave Vita the desired promise. 'As you've got a car, how about a bit of sightseeing?' Nigel suggested to Vita as they drank their coffee. 'Sightseeing?' Vita said incredulously. 'You? You must know this country inside out.' 'There are a few places that could bear seeing again, such as St Michael's Mount, Land's End. So, how about it?' It was as good a way as any of passing the next forty-eight hours, Vita supposed, though she wondered with a sudden anxiety whether she would be able to evade Nigel once Craig had returned. That last bittersweet day would be very- precious to her.

St Ives, the artists' paradise; St Michael's Mount, home of Christian myth and fairy tale; Land's End with its great boulders in crazy piles against which the mighty Atlantic waged its age-long warfare—they visited all three and Vita waited for Nigel to mention Australia. When he did, at the end of their return journey to Crentrom, it was not in the terms she'd expected. 'Of course, my original offer's still open, if need be, but as an alternative h-how about m-marrying me? We'd make a great partnership.' It was fortunate they had reached the site of the cottages and were on private land, for the car swerved to a halt and, literally openmouthed, Vita turned to stare at him. Never in all the time they'd worked together did she recall Nigel showing any interest in her

other than as a colleague and it was disconcerting to see him now, red- faced and stammering. He was right about one thing. Their shared expertise could only do Travelway good, but . . . She was fond of Nigel, of course, but she'd honestly never considered him in the light of a husband. He was a very personable young man, she supposed, only three years older than herself, already rich and successful. He was good company, a good mixer and yet . . . It would be an advantageous— a sensible—marriage. Gail and Barry liked Nigel. What was she trying to do? Talk herself into accepting Nigel, for whom she had no emotional feelings, so that she could show Craig how little his strict avoidance of emotion bothered her? She sighed. She couldn't do it. It wouldn't work. For one thing, it wouldn't be fair to make use of Nigel, and for her part, Vita knew she'd rather stick to her original resolve to remain single than try and erase Craig's memory by any marriage of convenience. 'Vita?' Nigel was looking at her anxiously. 'Whatever brought that on?' she said with less than her usual tact, and Nigel looked hurt. 'I don't know what you mean. I've just proposed to you, for heaven's sake! Don't I get a civil answer?' Tm sorry.' And she was genuinely contrite. 'But I honestly never expected you . . . And of course I'm very flattered, but . . .' 'I might have known,' he groaned. 'It's my own stupid fault. I've known you, worked with you for three years and it took the idea of you going off to Australia to make me realise how I really felt about you and now . . .'

She could only repeat that she was sorry. 'So am I,' Nigel was rueful. 'But this needn't make any difference to our working relationship? A different kind of partnership?' 'No, but ... if as you say the offer of Australia is open, I think it would be a good thing if I . . .' 'Didn't work with me any more?' he finished for her. 'Yes . . . but . . .' Vita was nothing if not honest. She could not let Nigel think her desire to leave England was solely due to his unexpected proposal. 'You knew I meant to go in any case, for . . . for other personal reasons?' 'A man,' he said gloomily. 'When a woman says that, it has to be a man.' 'Not necessarily.' Vita was sharp, her old self for a moment, the self independent of male domination. 'But in this case,' she conceded, 'you're right.' She restarted the stalled engine and parked the car in a more orderly fashion. 'Who is he? Anyone I know?' Nigel asked as he emerged from the car. 'I don't recall you mentioning anyone.' 'No! And I'd rather not talk about him now.' She led the way into Ruth's kitchen, Nigel closely on her heels and stopped short at the sight of Craig leaning against the Welsh dresser, hands thrust deeply into his trouser pockets, his features drawn into a scowl that deepened at the sight of her and her companion. 'Oh! Craig! H-have you been back long? How —how did you leave Dominic?' Vita rushed into speech. She never seemed to be prepared for the sight of Craig. Always his appearance caught at

her senses as though a current of electricity discharged itself from those grey eyes, flowing to the very core of her being. 'I've been back a couple of hours.' He looked at the kitchen timepiece which showed seven o'clock. 'We've had our meal.' Vita turned to Ruth. 'I'm sorry we're late. We were hungry and we decided to eat in St Ives. I hope nothing's gone to waste?' 'If it did,' Ruth observed tartly, 'you two weren't the only ones to blame. Craig hardly touched his. I think he must be sickening for something.' Vita dared to look at him again. 'Dominic?' she asked. 'The boy must learn to face partings like a man,' he growled, but the growl was less convincing than usual. 'For God's sake,' Vita's tense nerves exploded, 'he's only eight!' 'Craig's thinking of moving him from that school at Christmas,' Ruth put in, a curious inflexion in her voice. 'Oh?' 'Only thinking!' Craig snapped. He shouldered his way past Nigel to the door. 'I need some good sea air. London pollutes my lungs.' The door crashed to behind him and Nigel raised his eyebrows. 'Funny chap! What was all that about?'

'It's a long story—too long,' Vita said hastily. 'Ruth, what's this about Dominic's school?' 'The lad, it seems, was more upset than usual about the parting.' 'Craig wasn't—unkind to him?' Vita felt her eyes misting over, as she thought of a lonely little boy, alone despite the company of his peers, so far away from all he cared for. 'Oh, no, I don't think so. In fact I think the parting shook him a little. I've usually taken Dominic back to school,' Ruth said. 'Anyway, he more or less promised the boy he'd look into the possibility of a local school.' 'Here? In Cornwall?' 'Mmm. Makes you think, doesn't it?' It certainly did. And if Craig could soften in one way, why not in others? 'Why not go after him, ask him about it?' Ruth said in a would-becasual tone of voice. Did she know just how Vita longed to do that, to be out there, drinking in the heady intensity of his nearness, as heady as the sea air which blew along the clifftop where he would be walking? 'No. I—I'd better not. He'd resent it as interference.' 'You won't have many more opportunities to be alone with him,' Ruth pointed out. 'You're off home the day after tomorrow.' Inclination triumphed over common sense.

'Well, perhaps I will just see if he's still outside. He may have gone too far for me to find him.' Now that she had made up her mind, Vita was eager to be gone, her insides in a turmoil, heart beating crazily. It was several days since she had last allowed Craig to be alone with her and she had suffered withdrawal symptoms as sharp as those of any addict. But for an instant Nigel stayed her headlong rush. 'So he's the one?'

Outside on the granite clifftop, she paused for a moment in an attempt to steady herself. She must not allow Craig to see how disturbed her emotions were. She must be calm, friendly, her interest, apparently, only in Dominic's well- being. Dusk was falling, but just enough light remained to see the motionless figure silhouetted against the fading pink of a setting sun. 'Vita!' He greeted her without turning. 'I thought you might not want to talk in front of Nigel.' She'd meant about Dominic, but she wasn't give a chance to finish. 'You're too damned right I didn't! So that's your boss? Down on business, Ruth said. You didn't look very businesslike the two of you, when you came through that door. Lovers' tin?' Since her own agitation then and now was entirely due to Craig himself, Vita was incensed into replying, 'On the contrary! Nigel had just that minute asked me to marry him.' 'And you said? Well?' as she hesitated over her answer. At last she said slowly, 'I said no.'

'Not on my account, I hope?' he snapped. 'No!' She snapped back. 'Not on your account.' 'Because if it were, I'd be forced to tell you you're a fool!' 'Do you think I don't know that? And if it was anything to do with you, I'd have to agree with you. I'd have been a fool to come down here, if it hadn't been that I might do Dominic some good. But it seems I may have succeeded there?' 'I wouldn't be too optimistic about that. I'm only considering a change of school. Nothing's decided yet.' 'What a cruel man you are!' she exclaimed. She forced back the tears that threatened. Every time she was with Craig it was the same. Just as she thought she could detect, beneath the hard facade, signs of an inner, warmer man, a man she could like as well as love, he disillusioned her, making her wonder all over again if what she thought of as love were not after all just physical chemistry. If so, it was humiliating that her body could thus cloud her mind's perception of him. 'Why did I ever have anything to do with you?' 'That's what I'm trying to tell you!' At his words her heart seemed to freeze over, a similar incapacity immobilising her physically, so that, as he moved towards her, she was incapable of evading him. if you stay around me, you're going to get hurt, Vita!' He pulled her against him. 'And God knows, I don't want to hurt you.' But this declaration didn't stop him lowering his head, his tongue parting her lips and her shuddering sigh was lost in the sound of the sea. He held her hard, his hands demanding that she arch her body to fit his own perfectly. He was all imperious male, and despite herself desire pierced her.

She could not disguise her trembling as he searched, ravished her mouth, and she could not prevent the answering passion with which she responded to him. Her heart was beating so violently that it seemed it must force a way out of imprisoning ribs. The sound of the sea pounding the cliff face below them was lost in the roaring sounds that spun her head. All too soon he released her lips—but not her shaking body. 'Damn you, Vita!' he said angrily. 'Why did you have to come here? I gave you a chance to escape me. Why didn't you take it?' She couldn't answer him. She couldn't tell him about the crazy hope that had brought her here, the hope that his feelings for her might grow so strong that they would outweigh his caution, his determination not to be swayed by emotion. 'You're mine,' he told her, then huskily, 'let me into Clare's house tonight, after she's asleep? Let me make you mine completely.' His attraction for her, the temptation she felt was a frightening thing. If now he were to swing , her up in his arms, she knew she would go with him, anywhere, that she would let him make love to her. But if she were weak enough to say yes to his suggestion, once she was alone again reason would prevail. Though she felt weak and dizzy with longing, she said, 'No, Craig!' The arms that had strained her to him went suddenly limp and in the fading light she saw his face hard and expressionless. 'All right! Goodnight, Vita!' He turned his back on her, but still she hesitated. 'I—I'll see you in the morning? Be-before I leave?'

'You're leaving tomorrow?' He didn't move but his voice was harsh, strained. 'I thought you had another day?' 'I did,' she said painfully, 'but I think now it would be better if I left.' 'Yes! It would!' 'G-goodnight then!' She felt the tears streaming down her face. 'Goodbye, Vita!'

And he'd meant goodbye. When she went over to Ruth's next morning, to tell Nigel of her decision to return home a day early, she found that Craig had left the cottage hours earlier, telling Ruth he would be gone all day. And she knew with crushing finality that he was avoiding any possibility of a last confrontation with her. 'Why the sudden hurry?' Ruth asked. 'Surely you want to say goodbye to Craig?' Vita swallowed. 'I th-think we said our goodbyes last night.' 'Have you made any arrangements to see each other again?' 'No. I—I'll write to you, Ruth—from Australia.' 'I see!' Ruth's normally cheerful visage crumpled into worried lines as she looked at the young, unhappy face. 'D-don't worry about me, Ruth. I'll—I'll get over it. J-just go on trying to help, Dominic, won't you? I—I knew I shouldn't have

come here, but—I had to take the chance it offered, didn't I?' she pleaded.

Back in London, Vita wished it were possible to take off immediately for Australia, but it wasn't that simple and weeks passed, weeks of frustrating delay. She'd had to ask Nigel to drive for the first part of the journey home. It wouldn't have been safe for her to do so. Beside him in the passenger seat, vainly she'd tried to suppress her tears, her regrets that she hadn't done as Craig had asked. She knew, when time had distanced her from the moment, she would be able to convince herself of the Tightness of her refusal. But now the wounds were too fresh, as was the conviction that she had thrown away something very precious. From time to time, Nigel had darted concerned looks at her and at last, unable to bear it any longer, he burst out jerkily, 'For heaven's sake, Vita, either talk about it and get it out of your system, or have a good cry and be done with it!' The trouble was, she was still having a good cry—every night in bed and sometimes during the day, when Craig's image refused to be banished by work. She had told herself that the physical craving, the pain of its unassuagement, would lessen out of Craig's presence. But it seemed with every day that passed without seeing him, without hearing news of him, that the pain and longing grew. Ruth had promised to write to her, but so far there had been no communication. Perhaps Craig had persuaded her not to, or perhaps Ruth herself thought a clean break was best?

If only they could know how she tortured herself waiting for a letter. Surely Ruth of all people would know how she longed for a mention of his name? All she needed to know was that he was well and safe, that at least he still shared the same world with her. For that was her growing fear— an irrational one, she kept telling herself Craig was a young, fit man, his life, if you discounted the journey to and from the light, risk-free. But suppose, some day, she were to hear that he was dead? How could she ever survive the bitter knowledge, the inevitable regret that she had never known how it would be to have Craig make love to her?

She saw the letter on the doormat, the writing unfamiliar. But as she picked it up the postmark electrified her. It was a woman's handwriting. She knew it wasn't Craig's; she'd seen his, out at the Crentrom light, in the logbook in which the keepers entered every detail of their duty. Her fingers trembled so much that she could scarcely hold the paperknife. Two or three sheets of closely written lines! She forced herself to read them chronologically, not skipping through as she longed to do, for a mention of a particular name. 'Sorry I haven't written sooner,' Ruth wrote, 'but we've been in a turmoil here—such a dreadful upset!' Vita's mouth went dry, but the words did not concern Craig. 'Poor, poor Jim—Clare's left him. He and Alec had gone on one of their fishing trips and she asked me to look after the children—a thing she'd never done before— and she just didn't come back. He's tried her mother's in Truro, all the friends they had before they got married. Not a trace. I've been kept busy looking after the little ones, while he searched. But don't think I've forgotten you. I wish I could send you some message from Craig, but he didn't mention your name once after

you left and of course he and Fred are on duty out at the light at present.' The letter went on at some further length, with news of Jenny, inevitably more exclamations over Clare's defection and Jim's distress. Vita was concerned, of course, but these items were only of secondary interest to her, secondary to the pain she felt at learning how indifferent Craig seemed to her departure. But the final paragraph was more pertinent and she agonised for a long time over how she should react to the request it contained. 'Halfterm is coming up and I find I just can't get away to visit Dominic. Obviously Craig can't either. Could you bring yourself to go and see the lad? Or would it be too painful?'

She went to see Dominic. It was probably foolish of her, but she wasn't going, she told herself, solely because he was a link with Craig. The boy had made himself his own corner in her heart. What she saw made her stay in the vicinity of the school for the few days of half-term. Unlike Ruth, she hadn't Craig's authorisation to take him off the premises. Dominic looked pale, pale and thin. He'd had a flu'y cold, he said. But he was a happier child than the one who'd left Crentrom at the commencement of term. The grey eyes so like his father's sparkled as he said, 'My dad is definitely taking me away from here at Christmas.' They were sitting over tea in a local cafe—cream buns and a milk shake for Dominic, a less calorific diet for her. 'He's found a school in Cornwall?' Vita was pleased for the boy. 'I don't know!' Dominic looked puzzled. 'He didn't say that, just that I'd be leaving here.'

'Well, I expect that's what he meant,' Vita said, but only for the boy's reassurance. Suddenly she wasn't so certain. Was it possible that Craig was thinking of moving on? Even of leaving England? Because he'd stayed put in one place for longer than usual didn't mean it was a permanent state of affairs. 'Will you be coming to Auntie Ruth's again— at Crentrom?' 'No.' 'Oh!' He looked flatteringly crushed. 'But I liked you being there, and so did my dad.' Vita wished she could believe that. 'He said you were pretty sensible for a woman.' Vita choked on her tea and Dominic added hastily, 'That's a compliment, you know. He doesn't usually like girls.' 'Do you know why?' she asked curiously. 'Because they don't like the things men like.' Dominic looked puzzled for a moment. 'But he must have liked my mother, mustn't he? And his own mother?' 'Yes. Of course.' Thank God Craig hadn't gone that far in his attempts to educate Dominic, hadn't disillusioned him. 'Thank you for coming to see me, Auntie Vita,' Dominic said at the end of her visit. 'I wish,' his lips trembled a little and she witnessed his heroic effort at control, an effort his father would have applauded, she thought cynically, 'but I wish I was going to see you again. I enjoyed it when you and my dad took me out— especially to the lighthouse.' 'I'm glad.' So did I, she added silently. 'But I'll be going away soon, Dominic, a long way away, to Australia. That's why I won't be able to see you.'

Inexplicably, his expression brightened. 'P'r'aps you could write to me. I collect stamps. No one in our school has a penfriend in Australia.' 'Oh!' She laughed a little sadly. 'I see. Yes. I'll write to you, Dominic. I'll write anyway, even before I go to Australia, but . . .' she hesitated. Was it fair to lay a burden of deceit on so young a child? 'But I want our letters to be just between us, a secret from your father and Auntie Ruth?' But Vita was to hear of Dominic from another source, before the exchange of letters could begin. She and Nigel were discussing the Australian project which, to Vita's mingled irritation and relief, seemed to be no further forward, when the telephone rang and after a few brief words, Nigel handed her the receiver. 'For you!' Something about his manner made her heart rise in her mouth, but it was only Ruth Garnett—though a Ruth sounding totally unlike her usual placid self, her words coming in a breathless gabble. 'I'm sorry to ring you at work, Vita. I hope it won't cause you any trouble with Mr Porson, but I tried your flat and . . .' 'Ruth! Ruth!' The older woman's agitation was communicating itself to Vita and inevitably her thoughts turned to Craig, surely the only subject mutually important to her and to Ruth. 'Slow down! What's wrong? Is it . . .?' 'It's Dominic! Oh, Vita, do you think you could possibly help? Craig's on duty at the light and I'm still looking after Jim's poor little mites . . .'

'Of course I'll help if I can. What is it?' Another visit to the school maybe? 'He's been so poorly since half-term. They thought it was flu but it turned out to be glandular fever and the headmaster thinks he shouldn't be at school. But where is the lad to go if not here? I can't fetch him and the school can't spare anyone to travel with him . . . and he certainly can't come on his own. Could you . . .?' 'Oh, Ruth!' Vita's voice quivered into the beginning of protest. Did the other woman realise quite what she was asking of her? To go back to Crentrom, to involve herself again, however indirectly, with Craig's affairs. 'Can't Jenny? Or Alec?' 'Jenny's laid low with one of her bad chests. She always gets them at this time of year and Alec has to be on standby—in case of an emergency out at the light.' 'I see.' So there really was no one. She mustn't be selfish, putting her own still lacerated feelings before the needs of a sick child— not just any child, but one of whom she was extremely fond. 'All right, Ruth. I'll ring the headmaster and tell him I'll pick Dominic up this afternoon. I'll drive down again, I think, more comfortable for him than public transport. We should be with you late tomorrow afternoon. And Ruth, there— there's no risk of me bumping into Craig? You promise?' With Ruth's assurance and voluble thanks still ringing in her ears, Vita replaced the receiver and looked at Nigel. 'I expect you got the gist of that? I'll need at least a couple of days on. OK with you?' 'Take all the time you want,' Nigel said unexpectedly. 'You still haven't got that fellow out of your system, have you? And frankly,

I don't think it'd be a good idea for you to go over to Melbourne until you have. Oh, I'm not accusing you of slacking, but we've worked together for a long time, Vita, and I can sense a difference in you. Your enthusiasm's not a hundred per cent in the job as it used to be.' 'I'm sorry. I didn't know it showed that much. No, I haven't got over Craig.' Vita sighed despairingly. 'Sometimes I wonder if I ever will. But I still want that job, Nigel. I'm not going down to Cornwall to see Craig. You heard me ask Ruth, he won't be around, he won't even know I'm there.' As she said those words, Vita believed them.

CHAPTER TEN A SEA mist wrapped the coastline in its damp shroud as Vita drove the last few miles out to the lighthouse cottages. The grey veil made Cornwall seem an unreal world, romantic, mysterious, and even though she knew her journey was a purely prosaic one, Vita was not immune to the melodrama of her wild surroundings. In the rear seat, Dominic slept. She had been shocked and touched by his wan appearance, the pathos of his joy at seeing her. If she ever had children—which on the face of things seemed unlikely— she would never send them so far away from her. It was bad enough in health, but a sick child needed familiar faces, loving arms. Their welcome from Ruth was all that she'd expected and Vita had a heart-tugging sensation of coming home, as she entered the familiar kitchen, its colourful warmth a secure haven from the stark, rocky landscape outside, exposed as it was to all the moods of the Atlantic. 'How long can you stay?' Ruth asked wistfully. Scrutinising the older woman's motherly face, Vita discerned that looking after two very young and demanding children was taking its toll, that Dominic and his present need for tender loving care would be an added burden, however willing the shoulders. 'I—I don't know. How much longer will Craig be away?' 'Still avoiding each other, then?' Ruth sighed. 'He's got another two weeks at least.' 'At least?'

'Well, you know how difficult the changeover can be if the weather deteriorates.' 'Then I can stay for a few days—if you want me to?' 'You'll be more than welcome,' Ruth told her in tones of profound relief. 'Any news of Clare?' Vita asked as she removed her own coat and then Dominic's. 'Not a word. Poor Jim's becoming more and more distraught.' 'You don't think she's—she's done anything—silly?' 'Personally, no!' Then Ruth added grimly, 'I'm rather inclined to agree with Craig—that she's run off with some other man, one who can give her the sort of life she's been craving lately.' 'Oh, dear!' A dreadful thought had come to Vita. 'Do you suppose she met someone when— when I was babysitting for her? Perhaps I shouldn't have . . .?' 'Even if that were the case, you can't be blamed,' Ruth said firmly. 'Any one of us would have sat for her. It could have happened at any time in the last year.' 'I suppose Craig had plenty to say on the subject? I suppose he blames me?' 'Oh, no, dear.' Ruth was shocked. 'Craig may be prejudiced, but he's never unfair. It's just that Clare leaving Jim has reinforced his belief that no woman should be asked to lead this kind of life.'

'What about you and Jenny? Surely you're better examples of what could be than Clare?' 'Jenny and I are two very ordinary housewives, but then we've never aspired to be anything different. You're a career woman, Vita. To tie you down might have an even more disastrous effect than it did on Clare. That's Craig's theory,' she added, 'not mine.' 'You mean, Craig has—has actually gone so far as to discuss the pros and cons of marriage— to me?' Vita asked slowly, disbelievingly. Ruth took her incredulity for affront. 'Oh dear, I hope you aren't offended? I am an older woman and people do seem to tell me their problems.' 'I don't mind in the least.' Vita was still abstracted, but it was true. She didn't mind. Ruth, golden-hearted, really cared for those around her. During her previous stay, Vita had noticed how, religiously, the older woman called every day at the other cottages, to see how the occupants fared. She was always willing to shop for others and when she baked alleged that she had made too much for her own use, a kindness at which the feckless Clare had jeered, but not turned away. Her back door was kept unlatched all day, so that anyone who needed her had only to walk in. No, Vita wasn't annoyed, but here was food for thought indeed. Craig, so much against permanent links with any woman, had gone so far as to envisage her as his wife. Inevitably he'd rejected the idea, but—it had been there! During the next few days, Vita hugged this knowledge to herself, brooded on it in quiet moments, even though her common sense told her to quell the hopes it had raised. Craig, having once made up his mind, was surely strong-willed enough to abide by his decision? No argument of hers could ever prevail.

No argument? Yet there was one sphere in which she could move him—the physical. Suddenly, though she had feared it, planned to avoid it, she longed for his presence. Was she foolish, wishing for just one more chance? But foolish or not, it wasn't an opportunity likely to be granted to her, or so she thought. She was reading to Dominic one dreary winter afternoon. They sat on the upholstered pine bench beneath the kitchen window, the boy close in the circle of her arm, while she related to him the legend of King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table. Ruth's kitchen was still a natural gathering place for the little community, so Vita wasn't in the least surprised when the outer door opened and a stockily built, elderly man dressed in yellow oilskins entered. Dominic recognised him first. 'It's Jory, Vita.' He slid down from the seat and advanced towards the man, his hand politely outstretched. 'Do you remember me, sir? You took us out to the lighthouse.' 'So I did, my 'andsome, and that's where I've just come from. Took some supplies out for your dad and Fred. Thought I'd best get out there today. The barometer's falling.' 'That means bad weather, doesn't it?' Dominic asked. Vita didn't need the boatman's affirmative nod. Already her thoughts were some two miles out at sea, where the Crentrom light stood tall on the crest of a line of scattered rocks amid white fields of foam. Her thoughts embraced two men, but one in particular, who had chosen that lonely existence, virtual prisoners in a stone tower that witnessed some of the wildest scenes Nature could produce.

'H-how are Mr Garnett and Mr Stonier?' Dominic looked up at her curiously. 'You never used to call my dad that,' he reproached. 'Well enough, I do believe. I've letters from them—one for Mrs Garnett, one for my young 'andsome 'ere and one for you, miss.' 'For—for me?' Vita took one of the envelopes old Jory produced from the pocket of his oilskins and read the superscription. There was no mistake. It was for her and in Craig's writing. How had he known of her presence here? There was only one answer, she thought wryly. Ruth! She longed yet feared to open it. The decisive moment was postponed for her, as Ruth, having spotted the boatman's arrival, came bustling back from Jenny's, Clare's children in her wake. Hastily, Vita pushed the letter into the pocket of her jeans. She didn't want to read it under the gaze of Ruth's well-meaning but inquisitive eyes. But Dominic undermined her subterfuge. 'Aren't you going to read your letter? I've read mine. My dad says he hopes I'm feeling better and that he's glad I've got you to look after me.' He passed her the sheet of paper and Vita was able to verify this amazing statement. 'Can I read yours when you've finished it?' Vita stared at him in dismay, at a loss for a reply, but Ruth came to her rescue. 'Grown-ups' letters to each other are more private.' And to Vita, 'Why don't you pop upstairs to your room, love, and read it in peace? I'm sure you're dying to.'

Vita was ashamed that she hadn't credited Ruth with more tactful perception. 'I thought it best he should know you were here,' Ruth added with an air of guilt, as Vita left the room. In case he wanted to avoid her? Even in the privacy of the bedroom, Vita wasn't sure she wanted to read the letter. While it remained unopened, there was still the hope that it contained -Contained what? she jeered at herself. A proposal of marriage? And that was why she didn't want to end this moment of anticipation, to read it, because it would be merely a polite, formal letter of thanks for bringing his son here. But at last curiosity won over trepidation. Fingers trembling, she took out the two or three sheets of paper, covered in Craig's large, black, sprawling handwriting. 'I'm glad you came,' he began, then spoilt it by adding, 'but I wish you hadn't. Knowing that you're so close, yet so out of reach, is hellishly frustrating.' Vita closed her eyes. He wrote as he spoke and she could hear quite clearly his compellingly attractive voice, its distinctive accent, with its power to make her pulses race. 'Why did you have to be the sort of woman you are? Yet I wouldn't have you any other way.' He sounded as confused as she felt. 'Despite myself. despite the example my mother left for me, I've come to respect your views on certain things. Damn it! Why pussyfoot around? Your views on sex and love— the difference. In fact you've got me so darned convinced, I

wouldn't take you now without a wedding ring, even if you offered yourself to me on a plate.' Breathlessly Vita turned the page. 'But then I'm not asking you to marry me either! Feeling about you as I do, it would destroy me if one day—like Clare—you were to walk out of my life . . .' Feeling about her as he did? It sounded as if he meant—love? But if so why couldn't he say so? 'That night you nearly let me make love to you—remember?' How could she forget? She'd been so afraid of losing him altogether and then, at the last moment, when all her defences were down, he'd rejected her. 'And that night on Antigua—I walked out then too. It wasn't because I didn't want you—or because I'd proved a point, as you seemed to think. I was afraid . . .' Craig? Afraid? ' . . . that if you gave me what I wanted so desperately , I might find myself giving you what you wanted—my love. You see, this life, the sea—is in my blood Just as much as you are. Thank you for caring for my son—and for reminding me that he needs love and companionship—that they're as important as teaching him to be a man.' Vita's eyes filled with sudden painful tears and Craig's closing sentence made those tears into an anguished flood. 'So this is goodbye, Vita—finally. I won't try to see you again. In fact I'm seriously thinking of moving on—back to Canada maybe—taking Dominic with me.' She had to will herself to go downstairs again.

to act naturally, brightly with Dominic, to say, yes, that hers too had been a 'nice' letter. But she couldn't deceive Ruth. That evening, when all the children were safely tucked up in bed, the older woman took her to task, and so great was her need of a confidante and some advice, that Vita showed Ruth the letter. Ruth read it carefully, two or three times, before committing herself. 'D'you know, my dear, I really believe he's in love with you. He virtually admits it.' 'Maybe.' Vita was on edge, close to tears. 'But he's not going to do anything about it—except walk away. You see what he says?' 'Yes,' Ruth said thoughtfully. 'He's not going to do anything about it. In fact, he's revealed himself more than I would ever have thought possible. I think the rest is up to you.' Vita stared at her blankly. 'What can I do?' 'My dear, why do you think he's avoiding seeing you?' She answered her own question. 'Simply because he can't trust himself. Oh, not in the old way, perhaps—but not to admit his feelings more fully—can't trust himself not to ask you to stay, to marry him.' 'I wish I could believe that, but I don't.' 'Why not try to see him again?' Eagerly, 'Isn't it worth it?'

Worth another rejection? More heartache? Yet her heart gave its own answer, leaping in the old crazy manner, hope, albeit faint and fearful, surging within her. 'You know you can stay here until Jim and Alec go out to relieve Craig and Fred. I'm sure he only has to see you again. Think about it, Vita.'

She did, endlessly. One moment determined to take Ruth's advice, the next her courage failing her, as she imagined the scene, their confrontation. A clinging vine, he would dub her. But worst of all, her strongest enemy was his belief that love didn't last, that his circumstances, the nature of woman, must inevitably destroy it. She knew that each day that passed Ruth scanned her face, looking for some sign that she had come to a decision, and each day she was no nearer deciding. Yet she made no move to leave Crentrom, almost drifting, as though in the hope that fate would decide for her. In a way, she supposed afterwards, fate had intervened, but only in so far as it had set the circumstances. The decision had still been hers to make, and she had made it. Vita came down to breakfast one morning to be confronted by two grave faces, Ruth's and Jenny's. Even though the two families were so close, it was a little early in the day for socialising and she sensed trouble. Of the two Ruth looked the more concerned and she was seated, another unusual circumstance for this time of day, when normally she would be bustling about her kitchen.

'Something wrong?' It was Jenny who answered. Ruth seemed lost in her thoughts, thoughts that seemed to give her no pleasure. 'There's been an accident out at the light— quite a bad one. Craig came through on the RT last night.' 'He's hurt?' Vita gripped the back of Ruth's chair. 'We don't know the details. The transmitter went on the blink in the middle of the message.' 'So what are you doing about it?' Vita cried urgently, and at the note of anguish in the younger woman's voice, Ruth seemed to pull herself together. 'Everything that can be done,' she said soothingly, and Vita felt ashamed. Ruth had as much cause to worry, and more right. 'Alec's gone down to find Jory, to see if he'll take the boat out.' 'If he will! He must!' Ruth shook her head at Vita's vehemence. 'There's no "must" about it. Jory'll have to look at the sea first. We're in his hands, and those of the weather. It's times like these,' she sighed, 'that I wish the Crentrom light was fitted with a helideck.' 'So Alec and Jim will be going out there?' Vita said, but again she received a negative reply. 'Not Jim. He went haring off late last night, after a message from his mother-in-law that she'd heard from Clare.'

'So there's only Alec? And Jory can't leave the boat.' Vita swung round and headed for the stairs. 'I'll get my anorak. I'm going too.' 'There's no sense in that,' Jenny protested. 'It won't be any picnic.' 'No sense?' Vita swung round. 'We don't know who's injured or how badly. What can one man possibly do on his own? Ruth?' she appealed. 'I'm right, aren't I?' Ruth looked from Vita to Jenny, then back again at the pale, set, determined face. 'Let her go,' she said. 'Alec's not getting any younger either. He may need help. Oh, if only Jim were here. It's very irresponsible of him to go off like that, whatever the circumstances. Trinity House wouldn't like it if they ever got to hear of it.' Knowing the older woman's generous nature, Vita doubted if Jim's employers would get to hear. She was ready and anxiously waiting long before Alec returned with Jory. She knew the old boatman could, if he felt so disposed, refuse to take her, but to her relief, after one look at her strained but determined expression, he nodded. The day was dull and overcast, a steady drizzle blowing into their faces as they made their way down to the harbour. Far below could be heard the surge and crash of the sea upon the rocks. 'She's in a bad temper, all right.' Jory surveyed the sea as it splattered its waves against the harbour wall, giving it an unbroken, white-ruffled collar of foam. 'Waves are only about a foot tall as yet though, say ten foot out at the tower. Safe enough for an hour or so.'

'Wind's backing,' Alec said. 'This'll have to be a fast trip.' To Vita, he explained, 'If the waves were three foot here, they'd be thirty feet out there—too much to attempt.' Jory standing, legs astride, at the wheel of the open boat, they headed out, taking a slight angle towards each approaching wave, rising and falling with the motions of a steeplechaser. Now and again a freak wave would succeed another, coming from a different angle too quickly for the launch to avoid meeting it head on. Then the prow sliced through it and the boat plunged, water cascading over and drenching its occupants. Vita, holding on for dear life, caught infrequent glimpses of the tower, palely stark against the lowering sky, with clusters of ominous cloud above and behind. Black, metallic waves, confusions of foam, rolled thicker and steeper, making the launch wallow and teeter. A succession of staggering, buffeting thumps and jolts seemed intended to dislodge the puny humans from the sea's breast. Seagulls plunging, rising, whirling and scattering like discarded paper in the wind, seemed to cry more dismally than usual. Progress seemed agonisingly slow and the only confirmation that any was being made was the gradually increasing size of the Crentrom lighthouse. Then, suddenly, they were there, the column, with its supporting rock, enormous, an arrogant thrusting upward, contemptuous of the sea thundering around its base, the plumes of water spouting angrily high into the air. 'There'll be no jumping ashore today,' Jory told Vita, pointing to the turbulent waters that hid the normal landing site. 'They'll be using the winch.'

And as Vita looked up, she saw what seemed to be a canvas covered parcel being lowered from the top of the tower. But as it dangled nearer, she saw with a thrill of horror that it contained a man. one leg awkwardly rigid. 'Fred!' The three in the boat spoke in unison and the injured man turned a grimacing face towards them. 'Right arm's gone as well.' His voice was thready, scarcely audible over the sea's tumult. 'We've got a problem,' Jory shouted, 'he'll need supporting on the return trip. In these seas he'll just roll back and forth in the bottom. And if it gets any rougher he could be over the side.' 'Vita, you'd best go back with him,' Alec said as they guided the helpless man into the gunwales. But Jory asked, 'Can you swim, lass?' and at her negative shake of the head, 'Best you stay here then—safer.' 'But what about Stonier? What about the light?' Alec said, 'Someone has to . . .' 'Craig's not as badly knocked about,' Fred said weakly. 'He can cope a while longer.' 'And I'm staying anyway,' Vita affirmed. 'It's unlikely we'll be back again inside twenty- four hours,' Jory warned. The harness released from Fred's limp body and reattached to Vita, the winch began to retract and she gasped with pain as her knee banged against the side of the boat, her hip against the water-

concealed concrete landing. Then she was dangling, spinning in space. The noise of the sea seemed to have increased, waves crashing continuously against the tower, the wind roaring in her ears. Below, far, far below, she could see the gallant little launch starting out on its return journey, in seas that already seemed more baleful, sending searching fingers of foam clawing up the side of the rock on which she was soon to land. The ascent seemed endless, but then she was at the foot of the dogsteps, their steep, wet, metal surfaces slippery with rain and spume. There was a long wait, the winch chain having retracted from sight, before the heavy doors swung open just enough to admit her, then crashed to. Inside the atmosphere was hot and flaccid, the air lifeless and stale. 'What the hell are you doing here?' Craig's features were strained, white lines about his mouth. Bruises marred one side of his strong face. 'Where's Jim? If I'd know it was you . . .' 'You'd have dropped me back in the sea, I suppose?' Vita snapped. She hadn't expected a warm welcome, of course, but neither had she expected quite this degree of cold-eyed hostility. 'I didn't say that!' But, tense, nervous, aware of the risks she'd taken in coming here—not physical risk, but that of further rejection—she was not to be placated. 'You didn't have to! For your information, Jim has gone looking for Clare.'

'That figures! Poor sap!' Craig turned on his heel and Vita was left to follow him through spare coils of rope, lifebelts, and up the spiralling metal staircase to the cramped, communal living area. There were signs here that Craig had been trying to repair the malfunctioning radio transmitter. 'Now!' Grimly, as he turned to face her, 'Whose hare-brained idea was it that you should come out here?' 'Mine!' she said defiantly. Then, her tone changing to one of concern, as the better light further revealed the extent of his injuries. 'Oh, Craig! Whatever happened to your face?' 'I fell. Fred slipped on the stairs down from the generator room. I was ahead and he knocked me flying. I got away with this,' he touched a hand to the livid bruises, 'but at his age bones are more brittle. And don't change the subject. Why are you here? This was more difficult to answer. Suddenly, she couldn't meet the stormy grey eyes and she heard his sigh of exasperation before a long arm shot out and a hand took her chin in a firm grip. 'I thought we'd decided to stay away from each other, you and I?' and as she didn't—couldn't— reply, 'Why, Vita? Was it Ruth's idea?' 'I told you, it was mine. I wanted to come.' The warmth of his hand, his nearness, were having their usual disordering effect upon her thoughts, and she longed desperately to sway towards him, to be held close, to have all conflict resolved. 'Don't tell me you came to help?' He still sounded angry. 'You're not cut out for this sort of life.'

But at this she jerked her chin free, shaking off the sensuous lethargy his touch had always induced. 'You keep telling me I'm not, that no woman is in your opinion. Stop generalising, Craig! Not all men would want to be lighthouse keepers, but that doesn't make men in general unsuited for the job.' 'What are you trying to say?' He was tense too. It was in his stance, the grating sound of his voice. 'That you've never once asked me what I want. Right from the first moment we met it's been what you want, what you think. You've never given me a chance to . . .' 'And what do you want, Vita?' With his words, despite the pounding sea outside, they seemed enclosed in a throbbing silence. Silken skeins of sensuality seemed to snake about her, binding her, luring her to Craig. Yet she dared not presume to move. But tormented by her desperation, she spoke with the sane madness of truth. 'I want you!' His pent-up breath came out on a long, ragged sigh. 'How do you want me? How much?' It was as though he put her to some acid test. She hesitated. Even now the tenets by which she had always lived her life* held her back. Yet finally, voice husky but eyes steady, unafraid— she said, 'Very much—more than I have the words to express.' She spread her hands helplessly. 'So much that—that . . .'

'So much that you'd have me on my terms?' She'd expected triumph, deep-throated satisfaction, but his voice was unexpectedly harsh and she could only nod, eyes now flickering downward indicative of her confusion. 'You've left it too late for that, Vita!' 'T-too late?' Her throat closed painfully over the words. 'You read my letter?' 'Y-yes.' 'And that told you nothing?' 'It t-told me you were g-going away. That seemed to be all that mattered. That I shouldn't lose you.' Again she raised her head and this time the agony of longing in her eyes could not be disguised from his intent gaze. 'I also told you . . .' his own voice was a little uneven now, 'that I've come to respect your views too much ever to try again to overthrow them.' He turned his back and seemed intensely interested in the view from the tiny window, a view that must surely be obscured by lashing rain and flying sea spume. 'You've taught me a lot about yourself, Vita, about women,' he went on, 'made me see things that, perhaps subconsciously, I've always known, but didn't want to admit—that a woman could be loving, loyal, that it is possible for a man to love a woman in many ways, rather than just—lust after her.' 'And you, you feel about me—in that way?' She had to ask, since his silence threatened to become permanent. 'Yes.'

'Then why . . .?' she began, but launched now on his theme, he ploughed on. 'I can't—won't—ask you to share the kind of life I lead—want to— must go on leading.' Then, unexpectedly, 'Come here!' Heart beating, wonderingly, she obeyed, moved to stand at his side, but he didn't touch her. Instead, during a break in the waves' onslaught, he pointed out to sea. 'Those birds flying past, stormy petrels. At night they fly out to sea and roost there. Throughout the day, they make their way back to land—but only to find food. That's where their home is, out in the middle of the ocean, floating on the water. They don't belong to the land. They only visit it. That's how it is with me.' He turned on her then, almost fiercely, his hands going out to grasp her shoulders, a little shake accompanying each word. 'Do you understand that?' 'Yes.' She forced her eyes to remain steady. 'But it doesn't make any difference.' 'To what?' It was a low groan. 'To your determination to undermine my strength of will, lure me from the water like some Lorelei? Is that why you came here? Because you thought— knew— once I'd held you, possessed you . . .? Is that why you're offering so freely what you once refused? Because you think you've won?' 'No!' It was a reproof, but a gentle one, as she raised her arms, linked her fingers behind his strong neck. 'I don't want to change you, Craig. I don't want to compete with the sea for you. I love you the way you are. I understand how you feel about this life and I want to share it with you.'

She could feel that he was trembling slightly, but his willpower was still strong, his comment bitter. 'As Clare shares Jim's life?' 'Craig! Craig!' His name was a tender sound on her lips. 'When will you learn? I'm not Clare. The most important thing is to be married to a man who's happy.' 'Married?' He pounced on the word. 'So, for all your denials you do still want marriage?' 'I can't tell you a lie, Craig. To me that would be the ideal, not to tie you down, but only because I want to belong to you in every conceivable way.' 'And what about your career? The parties? You're not one for the domesticated life.' 'I said I hadn't met a man who could make me want domesticity! My career, the parties, they were part of my old life—part of the person I was before I met you. That me doesn't exist any more. I want to share your lifestyle. As for domestic skills,' she giggled a little, 'if we're going to be stuck here for days—and it looks like it, you'd better believe I possess them.' 'You'd be on your own a lot.' Was his resolve weakening? She pressed her advantage, her hands creeping upwards into the thick, dark, uncombed hair. 'I wouldn't mind that,' she said sincerely, 'not if I knew that you were there, coming home to me some time, that you belonged to me—that— that I belonged to you.'

With her hands now, her body, -her quivering mouth, she willed him to believe her and searing pain convulsed her lower body as gently he detached her arms, put her away from him, even though she had recognised his hardening response to her. 'Craig?' 'Not yet!' She took hope from those two, throatily uttered words. 'You have to listen to me first. Remember I told you I was thinking of moving on, back to Canada? That my half- sister's still there and that we've kept in touch? Recently she told me of an opening for a keeper- -on an island off the coast of British Columbia.' He paused, studying Vita's attentive but now apprehensive face. 'There's every likelihood, with my experience, that I'll get it.' 'I see.' It was a small whisper. She hadn't moved him at all. Oh, she could still affect him physically, but even that, it seemed, was not enough to alter his massive determination to remain free of entanglements. 'The island isn't very large, but it's wild. The only way of reaching the mainland is by boat. Supplies have to be ordered three months at a time and if you forget some essential item you go without. If the weather's bad and the boat can't get out you're on short rations. It would be hard on a woman.' Craig began to move restlessly about the small room and despite her growing despair, Vita found herself marvelling that so much energy, so much vitality had for so long been tempered to such limits. There would be more outlet for it on the island he spoke of in such enthusiastic terms. 'It will mean hard work—land clearing. So that some day there'll be a helicopter pad, which will have to be maintained. Selfsufficiency in effect. All there is, is the light and a house for the

keeper—nothing else. No other houses, no assistants as we have here at Crentrom.' Somehow she was going to have to accept his refusal to let her share his life. Somehow she must emerge from this situation with her dignity, her pride intact, but what about . . . 'And—Dominic?' she asked, her voice despite herself tear-clogged. 'He goes with me—then either to a school on the mainland, or in Canada, until he's fifteen, he could be educated at home, by correspondence course.' 'By whom? How will you find the time, among everything else?' she demanded fiercely. 'What I'm trying to say is,' he sounded edgy, 'if Dominic had two parents instead of one, that job would fall to his mother. If I married you, it would be . . . but, Vita!' There was raw agony in his voice now. 'I can't ask you to give up your lifestyle, the travelling you're used to—to tie yourself down to a couple of square miles in the middle of the sea with only me and the boy for company!' Heart beating, Vita began tentatively to hope again. 'I told you, I don't want or need that old lifestyle and what other company would I want if I only had you? And you know I love Dominic.' 'But . . .' 'Craig!' she said, her courage increasing as she moved towards him once again. 'I've enjoyed my independence. But I've outgrown my wanderlust. What I want now is to make, a home—for you—for us—even if that home does move to a different place every year or

so. I liked my work, travelling, but the difference is, I love you, and don't you see? What you're offering me is still adventurous—a new kind of adventure, with someone to share it.' 'One man and one boy,' he reminded her, 'and I haven't offered it to you yet.' But his arms were round her now and she could feel his rigidly suppressed desire awakening once more. 'And maybe, some day, our children?' She whispered the words against a mouth suddenly only a breath away from hers and received the glorious knowledge that with these words she had secured his final submission. Strong arms lifted her, cradled her. 'You—you never wanted children,' he murmured in her ear, carrying her into the bedroom where three curtained bunks curved around the tower walls. 'No,' she agreed, 'not until I fell in love with you. But I want your children, Craig, as I want to share your life.' The bunk bed had only been designed for single occupancy, but its confines troubled neither of them as they gloried in the nakedness of their close-pressed bodies. Craig's eyes, their grey now a warm fire, caressed the loveliness exposed to their gaze. 'That bruise on your hip?' His lips brushed it caressingly. 'The rock,' she murmured incoherently, 'when you winched me. up.'

'When I think what you've risked to come to me—those seas, the discomforts of an open boat. Oh, my love. And my mother wouldn't risk a comparatively safe flight!' 'Forget your mother. Forget everyone, everything except us.' But it seemed he must still purge all the unhappy past, his guilt. 'Can you ever forgive me for the crass idiot I was when we first met? My God, when I think how my behaviour then must have shocked and disgusted you! When I think that I might have lost you right then, before I could know ... It makes me shudder.' And a quiver did run through the strong, muscular body pressed to hers, but its cause was nearer to seek than past words and actions, its cause the tenderness of seeking hands, entwined limbs, moist, passionate mouths, their mutual need as intense as that of the sea to caress and embrace every nook and cranny of the fierce wild rocks below. Outside, the sea still ran high, but no higher than the paroxysms of the sensations that shook them, but the rearing light stood firm against the cascading waves, as Craig's strength withstood and gloried in those of the passion that engulfed them. Here, they were as solidly secure as the love they now professed for one another, as age-old stones proclaimed to the elements: 'Do with us what you will, we stand fast—nothing will change us.' To Vita, at the final culmination of their happiness, it seemed to her they were one with the sea's rushing encroachments, that they, too, rose on restless, exciting, storm-tossed crests, from fathomless depths to towering peaks, poised breathlessly in suspense, then surging onward in sensual pleasure unknown before, until the

broken waves dispersed in small murmurous echoes of their cries of love.