This Man Her Enemy

THIS MAN HER ENEMY Lilian Peake

Doubt and uncertainty flooded Doranne's mind. Should she surrender? ... follow her father's example and give up the struggle? Defying Kieran's wishes was becoming increasingly difficult. Yet she remembered his grim, angry words: "So you think you know me, do you? You'll know me one day, girl; by Heaven you will! And that's a promise I mean to keep!" The more she thought about what he'd said, the more she realized the one person she didn't know was ...herself! How could she possibly love a man who was her sworn enemy?

CHAPTER ONE THE shop door closed and the chiming bell faded into silence. Doranne turned the key and gave a quick, practised glance through the glass. Mrs Beaumont, the owner of the shop, had left long ago to keep an appointment with the local ladies' guild. Doranne's glance took in the pottery—much of it made by Mrs Beaumont's own hands—and the paintings, some of which were also Mrs Beaumont's work. Others were the creations of a handful of local artists. It had been left to Doranne to lock the shop and place the day's takings in the safe deposit of Mrs Beaumont's bank. This she did, afterwards making her way home. 'Home' to Doranne meant quite a different thing from home to other people. Home to her was a houseboat moored on the river. Home was the gentle splash of water against the hull, the skimming of wings above the ripples, the dart of a beak in the search for food. Most of all, home meant to Doranne a father, a kindly cultured, clever father who, after the death of his wife, had run away from the world. So shattered had he been that, in the face of all Doranne's protestations, he had given up his work as a college lecturer in botany and taken himself to live alone on the houseboat. The boat, with its name Watersplash painted on the side, had belonged to an old friend of his, a man called Marten Richmond. They had known each other since their schooldays. They had gone through university together and had exchanged letters ever since. When, at the age of twenty- six, Marten Richmond had married, he had invited Carlile Grayson to his wedding.

When, a year later, a son had been born to Marten and his wife, Marten had sent photographs and letters full of loving descriptions. There had followed many years of silence. Marten, Carlile had decided, was too busy bringing up a growing family to keep in touch with his old friend. Carlile himself had not married until nine years after his friend. He had been in his mid-thirties. He had not, however, contacted Marten Richmond. Nor, when a daughter was born, did he send Marten photographs and loving descriptions, as his friend had done of his own child. Carlile did not know Marten's whereabouts, and in any case, he was too busy himself now, bringing up a family and also caring for a loving, if ailing, wife. When Doranne was twenty, her mother had died. Her heart had given out at last. Carlile had taken it so badly Doranne had feared for his health. He had given up the work he loved and become a recluse, retiring into a world of his own. One morning Doranne had woken to find her father gone. A few belongings had been packed into a suitcase and a note left behind telling her that he would be in touch. At first, Doranne had not known where to turn. She had gone through his papers and come across the correspondence he had had many years before with someone who went by the name of Marten Richmond. The name had sounded familiar and she had consulted her father's solicitor. Some weeks had passed before the solicitor had rung Doranne one day at the local primary school at which she was a teacher and told her he had managed to trace her father. Carlile had not, it seethed, entirely lost contact with his old friend Marten Richmond. Now and then, through the years, it appeared that they had corresponded.

When he had left the house so precipitately that morning, Doranne's father had had a destination in mind—the residence of his old friend Marten. 'He's the owner of Richmond and Son (Engineering Worldwide),' Mr Banks, the solicitor, had told Doranne. 'They're a large firm of civil engineers and have contracts all over the world constructing bridges and building roads, particularly in the developing countries. It would appear,' Mr Banks had continued, 'that your father has taken up residence at his friend's house, his friend also being a widower.' But Mr Banks had been only partially right. Carlile was not living in his old friend's house. He was living in his old friend's houseboat, moored on the river at the foot of Marten Richmond's terraced gardens and sloping lawns. Mr Banks had managed to make contact with Doranne's father by way of the telephone at Mr Richmond's residence. 'Your father wishes me to tell you, Miss Grayson, that he's perfectly happy and that he's managing to look after himself. He's engaged on gathering material for a book on botany and on no account does he want you to worry about him. He particularly doesn't wish to disturb your life in any way.' But from that moment on, Doranne's life had been profoundly disturbed. She had gone to see her father. Mr Richmond had been out when she had called, but she had been shown to the boat by a Mr Kennard who, it seemed, managed the house. It had not taken Doranne long to realise that her father, in his solitude, had neglected himself to such an extent that it would not be long before his health began to suffer. So, against her father's wishes, Doranne had sold their house. She had given up her teaching post and had gone to be her father's companion, housekeeper and, when necessary, his assistant, in surroundings that were to her so alien it

had taken her some time to become reconciled and adjusted to them. However, she had eventually done so, and to such an extent that she had grown to love the freedom from everyday pressures which normal living conditions had imposed. Most evenings her father would go up to the house to talk with his old friend Marten, playing chess with him and discussing the affairs of the world. Only rarely did Doranne accompany him. On the occasions when she did, she found herself drawn by the family photographs displayed in the drawing-room. There was a picture of Marten Richmond's late wife, Constance, who seemed to have been a serene, dark-eyed, beautiful woman. There were also pictures from babyhood through adolescence to manhood of Marten's son, Kieran. One photograph of him kindled Doranne's animosity to such an extent that the longer she stared at it, the more she became convinced she would dislike the man on sight, if she were ever unfortunate enough to meet him. It could not have been taken many years before. He looked even then to be in his thirties, which she assumed, by calculation, that he still was. The picture was in colour, enlarged and placed in a silver frame. There were high cheekbones, a straight, no-nonsense nose and thick, well- shaped eyebrows. The mouth was full and the upper lip unmistakably cynical, as though it was often lifted sardonically at one corner. But it was the eyes that riveted Doranne's attention. They were a pale brown, heavily-lashed and coolly calculating. As they looked at her from the shining picture frame they told her that, without any doubt at all, a girl like Doranne Grayson had no part to play in the life of such a- man as Kieran Richmond.

Well, she thought, turning away at last, I wouldn't have him as a friend, even if we were lone survivors from a sunken ship and marooned for days in a dinghy on the high seas!

In the summer, in her spare time, Doranne would sketch or paint. She would try to capture with her paintbrush the singing, growing, flowing life that went on all around the boat, the lush green world of the river banks. Mrs Beaumont, her employer, had discovered in her assistant a sleeping artistic ability and under her expert tuition it was stirring to meaningful life. Doranne was finding within herself a talent she had come to prize, one which, had it not been for her employer's perception, she would not have realised she possessed. Doranne never tried to sell her pictures. She felt they were not good enough for her to accept people's money in payment for them. Instead, they decorated the walls of the houseboat, giving colour to what might have been drab surroundings. They also served another purpose—that of covering the growing signs of rust and age which here and there the boat was beginning to develop, signs which, by covering them, Doranne was able to persuade herself did not exist. It was late spring and Doranne swung down the steps which led on to the boat. After the meal which she would cook for her father and herself, she would finish the painting of Mr Richmond's flower-filled gardens. It was a fitting accompaniment to his impressive residence. The house had been built some sixty years before in rich red brick, which even now glowed mellowly in the sunshine. Its roof was redslated and deeply sloping, the windows rectangular and split into tiny diamond-shaped panes.

High up and overlooking the river was a balcony on which her father and Marten Richmond would sit and chat, when the sun was warm and insects buzzed and the scent of summer was in the air. Two men with years behind them and the bond of friendship grown strong and sturdy, like the trees in Mr Richmond's garden, as the years had passed. As Doranne set foot on board one evening, she was caught and held by a strange feeling of apprehension. Something, she sensed, was not as it should be. Instead of the customary greeting from her father, there was a throbbing silence which, in itself, was uncanny and seemed to confirm her fears. She made her way into the living quarters. Her father was there, in his usual seat at the table. But there were no papers covering it, no scrawled notes, no meticulous drawings. Nor was there a welcoming smile on his face. In fact, Doranne could not see his face at all, because it was hidden by his hands. 'Father!' she cried. 'Are you well?' She ran to his side. Slowly he moved his hand and she saw there were tears on his cheeks. 'Marten is dead,' he said brokenly. 'He died in his sleep this morning.'

It was three weeks later that the letter came. It had been a joyless time for them both. Looking at her father, Doranne realised that it would take months for him to become reconciled to the loss of his friend. She saw, with compassion, how Marten's death had aged her father, how his hair which, with neglect, had grown longer than usual, seemed whiter

now, his pale features sharper, his usually bright, alert eyes duller. Before, his build had seemed trim and wiry. Now it looked thin and bent. Often Doranne would catch her father gazing up at the balcony on which he and his old friend had sat, talking, admiring the view and putting the world to rights. Carlile had not been inside the house since the funeral, although the house manager, Mr Kennard, had invited him to do so. Kieran Richmond, Marten's son, had not been present at the funeral. It seemed they had been unable to contact him in time as he was moving around in the course of his work which had taken him into the heart of Africa. Mr Kennard had told Carlile, 'If you wish to come to the house and borrow any of Mr Richmond's possessions—his chess set, for instance—I'm sure his son would have no objections.' But, it seemed, Mr Richmond's son had every objection, not just to Carlile Grayson's presence in the house, but to his presence in the houseboat, the Richmond houseboat, which was moored at the end of the Richmond garden. The letter from the solicitor came one misty spring morning. Its contents mocked the promise of the new life breaking out on the trees, in the flower beds and along the river banks. It was a notice to quit. 'I have been instructed by my client, Mr Kieran Richmond,' the letter said, 'who is now the owner of Water's Edge, the late Mr Marten Richmond's residence, to request you and your daughter to vacate the houseboat at the earliest opportunity. You are, of course, to take with you all your belongings, but leaving all fixtures, furniture and so on, which are the property of the Richmond family.'

'What does he think we are,' Doranne exploded, having read the letter, 'thieves, swindlers?' She flung the letter on to the table where it came to rest among the breakfast dishes. 'Father, you must answer this letter. You must tell the solicitor that we've nowhere to go. If his client,' she said the word through her teeth, 'turns us out, we shall be homeless. He can't do this to us, Father, he just can't!' Carlile Grayson shook his head. 'What good would writing to the solicitor do, my dear? He's only carrying out his client's instructions.' 'Then write to him—him,'' she pointed to the client's name, unable to bring herself to speak it. 'He's the one behind it all. Tell him how friendly you were with his father, how many years you knew him, how good Mr Richmond was to you—and to me—in letting us have this boat to live on, rent free. Tell him you're not sitting here idle, but doing important work, writing a textbook.. All the time Doranne was speaking, her father had been shaking his head. 'No use, Doranne. I have an idea what Marten's son is like. Marten often spoke of him and from what he said, Kieran is a singleminded, obdurate young man, always determined to get his way, even as a boy. It seems that once he has made up his mind to do something, he does it, no matter what the cost. He's one of the top men in his father's firm and knows the work inside out. His father seemed to have great faith in his son's judgment where the business was concerned.' 'I suppose,' Doranne said bitterly, 'he wants the houseboat as a plaything for his wife and children.' Her father looked up sharply. 'To my knowledge, Kieran has none. Women friends by the dozen, according to his father, but no wife.' 'So that's the sort he is,' Doranne said disgustedly. 'With his money and his background, I suppose one should expect this sort of

behaviour.' She tapped the letter. 'You can tell what kind of man he is just by looking at him.' 'Why, Doranne,' her father asked, mildly surprised, 'have you met Kieran Richmond?' 'No, but I've seen his photograph, and that,' she said with decision, 'has told me all I need to know—shall ever need to know—about Marten Richmond's precious son.' * At his daughter's insistence, Carlile wrote to Kieran Richmond's solicitors. He appealed to them to persuade their client to change his mind. They had no other home, he wrote, no capital put by to help them buy a house. He was over sixty, he said, and had retired from active work. The little money he earned from writing articles for botanical magazines went only a small way towards buying the necessities of life. Nor did his daughter earn much, certainly not sufficient to pay any rent which would be required for rooms or an apartment, even if they found a suitable one in which to live. After this there was silence on the subject for some days, but a letter arrived from the solicitors at last. Mr Richmond, they said, had been sent a copy of Mr Grayson's letter, but no reply had been received from him. The solicitor assumed that Mr Richmond had begun his journey home from the depths of West Africa, in which area, it seemed, he had been staying for some time in the course of his work. Their letter, with its enclosure, might well be following him on his travels. No doubt it would, in due course, catch up with him at some hotel at which he might stay en route for home.

So, Doranne thought disgustedly, their future lay in the balance, in the hands of a ruthless, unknown man called Kieran Richmond, awaiting his shoulder-shrugging attention. 'Single-minded and obdurate', his father had called him. 'Determined to get his own way.' With a sigh, Doranne concluded that, in the face of such intractability, their case was hopeless. She and her father might as well start to make plans for the future. But what plans? It was no use asking her father. He was immersed in his work again, escaping from their troubles by leaving the real, everyday world to be coped with by his daughter. Doranne thought ruefully that she might as well consult the stars as consult her father. So she went to work every day, returned home to grapple with the housework and, when there was time to spare, to paint. Like her father, she played a game of pretending that everything was normal, that there was no spectre of a heartless landlord ordering them out or threatening to put the bailiffs on to them. Until another letter arrived from the solicitor. He had, he said, managed at last to make contact with Mr Kieran Richmond. He had done his best for them, but it seemed that Mr Richmond's mind was made up. They were to go and as soon as possible. It was, the letter added—and Doranne, upset as she was, detected a note of warning—in their own interests that the houseboat should be vacated by them at the earliest opportunity. Her father's hand shook as he held the solicitor's letter and read the heartless contents. It was too bad, Doranne thought angrily. Not only had his old friend died, but he was now being forced to leave his home, the home he, and even she herself, had grown to love. Doranne looked around with affection. The place was shabby, there was no denying that, and a few coats of paint were badly needed. There was rust encrusting many of the metal parts. The cooking

facilities in the galley, although old-fashioned, were adequate. In spite of all this the place, to them, was good. It was a place in which they could live in privacy and contentment, even if the refinements of a well-appointed house were missing. There was, on the lower deck, a large converted cabin which provided bath and toilet facilities. Nearby, two smaller cabins provided sleeping accommodation. All around the upper deck were plants which Carlile had nurtured and studied. In the living area, Doranne had placed wild flowers and grasses in vases to hide the faded, peeling paintwork and the many damp patches which developed as the months went by. 'This place,' said Doranne, thrusting the letter back into its envelope, 'is our home. No one is going to be allowed to throw us out of it!' 'He's the owner, Doranne,' her father warned. 'As such, he has the final word.' He said sadly, looking down at the blue and red check tablecloth, 'We'd better start asking round, just in case someone hears of any rooms available. Mrs Beaumont, your employer, she might have -?' Doranne shook her head decisively. 'We're staying right here, Father. Let Kieran Richmond do his worst!'

Carlile Grayson did not reply to the solicitor's letter. He had every intention of doing so, but he gave in to his daughter's persuasion. 'You're aware of what might happen if we ignore this notice to quit?' 'Quite aware, Father. I'm sure Kieran Richmond has his own unpleasant methods of getting his own way. But if you feel strong enough to withstand all the pressures he might put on us, I am, too.'

Her father nodded, but, preoccupied as she was with her resentment against the man who was the cause of their troubles, Doranne did not notice the faint quiver of her father's hand as he picked up the pen to continue with his writing. A few days later, as Doranne was making her way between the flower beds and fruit trees towards the house, she sensed that a change was in the process of taking place within its walls. Even before she tapped at the kitchen door and asked, as she did each day, for the morning's mail, she guessed that the cause of the disturbance was the fact that the new owner of Water's Edge was in residence. There was an unaccustomed quickness in Mrs Kennard's movements as she cooked the breakfast. There was in Mr Kennard's manner a brisk, no-nonsense attitude which spoke of more important things to be done than giving Miss Doranne Grayson her mail. 'He's home, Miss Grayson,' Mr Kennard said, his long, thin face smiling. 'Another mouth to feed, thank goodness,' his plump, busy wife murmured to herself, lifting a fried egg on to a plate to keep some sizzling bacon and sausage company. There was no mail that morning for Mr Kennard to give to Doranne, so she hurried away as fast as her legs would take her. She had no desire to be officially introduced to the autocratic owner of Water's Edge. She certainly did not share the pleasure his house manager and his cook were plainly feeling at the master's homecoming. Why hadn't he stayed where he was—deep in the jungles of Africa? Doranne had told her employer about the predicament she and her father were in, and how they were intending to put up a fight against the notice to quit. Mrs Beaumont, whose sweet face belied the fighting spirit she was capable of showing in support of anyone

whom she regarded as being maltreated by another member of the human race, said she was with them one hundred per cent. 'I'm an individualist and proud of it,' she said, 'and so are you and your dear father. He's had an unhappy time, what with losing his wife—I know how he must have felt because I lost my dear husband—then his friend and now, if that friend's son has his way, his home, too. It's too bad,' she picked up a piece of pottery she had made and dusted it lovingly, 'it's just too bad!' 'The man has so much money,' Doranne said bitterly, 'he simply doesn't know how poorer people live.' 'No one,' agreed Mrs Beaumont absently, gazing, head on one side, at a view she had painted, 'should have too much money. It does them no good, no good at all.' A customer came in and bought a large, glazed jug. Mrs Beaumont chatted with the man, but out of the corner of her eye, Doranne saw that her employer was watching the wrapping of the jug with something near to pain. Although Mrs Beaumont put the works of her own two hands on sale, and felt hurt if no one bought them, when a customer did come into the shop and carry one triumphantly away, Mrs Beaumont could hardly bear to see it go. At the end of the day, Doranne was tired. Trade had been brisk, a fact which had pleased Mrs Beaumont— didn't it mean more work for her, more painting, more time spent at her own private potter's wheel? But Doranne discovered that serving a stream of customers, answering their queries and being polite even when she felt disinclined, was more of a strain than handling a class of noisy young children at primary school. Tired though she was, Doranne knew that there was a basket full of clothes to be washed before she tackled the evening meal. The boat

had its own electricity generator, owned, like the boat, by Marten Richmond and now, of course, the property of his son. The generator had enabled Doranne and her father to enjoy many of the benefits of modern living. Whatever they had not been able to afford to buy, like a refrigerator and washing machine, Marten Richmond had purchased for them. All of which, Doranne thought with dismay as she carried the basket of wet washing outside, now belonged to the new owner of Water's Edge. She secured the washing line to two posts set some distance from each other. The days were lengthening and the evening was warm enough for Doranne to hope that the light breeze would take much of the moisture from the clothes before dark. As she stooped to pick up the empty clothes basket, having pegged the last item of washing to the line, something made her turn towards the house. She found herself looking straight into the eyes of a man whom she knew, yet did not know, whom she had seen, so many times before, caught and stilled by the camera and caged by a silver picture frame. So the time had come to meet Marten Richmond's son, the man whose photograph aroused such strange resentment but whose actual presence stirred to life something much more potent—and dangerous. Her face was flushed, not only with the effort of pegging out the clothes, but—and this she could not deny—embarrassment at having been caught carrying out such a commonplace, homely activity as hanging out the washing. Not only that—he was seeing her for the first time in old jeans and a torn shirt, with her long, dark hair flying everywhere, lifted and stranded and played with by the breeze. She was angered by the way he looked at her, the way his narrow, appraising gaze ferreted out and fastened on all the untidiness about

her she wished she could hide. His look provoked in her a smouldering fury because of the power his cold, impassive eyes possessed to stir in her such a feeling of inferiority that she longed to be able to crawl between the wooden planks which supported her weight. If she had followed her instinct she would have turned her back on the man and disappeared inside. But she resisted the impulse, which would have been an unmistakable admission of defeat. If she did so, he would no doubt believe that by a mere look he had managed to quell her. What would be easier, he would then have reasoned, than ordering a couple of strong-armed men to remove her father and herself from the houseboat? No, she must do nothing to allow the man to assume he had won. So she replaced the clothes basket on the deck, took a tight hold on her temper which, like a tethered dog, was howling to break free, and said, 'Good evening, Mr Richmond.' She had spoken clearly, making her voice ring out to reach him as he stood on the sloping lawn not far from the mooring platform. At the sound, her father, who had been reading and making notes at a small table placed in the prow of the boat, looked over his shoulder. The man Doranne had addressed did not move a muscle. His manner was relaxed, his hands pocketed in casual, well-fitting trousers, his dark green, roll-necked shirt stretched taut across his powerful shoulders. His eyes—those brown, cool, calculating eyes—were tense and still, and they rested relentlessly, penetratingly, on her. Brown eyes, Doranne thought just a little desperately, should be warm and understanding and tender. Now, seeing the man in the flesh, she was convinced that there was not a warm and tender particle in Kieran Richmond's body.

Why, she wondered in a state of near-panic, was he looking at her so intently? Was there something wrong with her face? Did he dislike her small features, her grey-green eyes with lashes so long that when she slept they cast their shadows over the skin beneath? Was her nose too well proportioned, her lips too inviting, her chin too rounded and impudent for his liking? 'Doranne,' her father whispered loudly, too loudly in his effort to make her hear, 'there he is, there's Mr Richmond. Speak to him, Doranne, ask him, for pity's sake, to let us stay.' The urgency in her father's voice moved Doranne to her depths. She knew how much it meant to him to be allowed to live on in this boat which had been his home for such a long time. There was an impossible conflict within her. To go inside or even to remain where she was would be a form of cruelty to her father which only a creature with a heart of flint could inflict. And Doranne's heart was by no means hard and flinty. On the contrary, it was soft and warm and protective. But what was the alternative? To step ashore and approach Kieran Richmond, then plead with him to let them stay? That would be inflicting on herself such humiliation she would feel quite unable ever to hold up her head in front of him again. And—her heart almost stopped at the thought —suppose she pleaded with him, and suppose he rejected her plea? Wouldn't it be wiser not to mention the subject, to carry on with her work as though her father hadn't spoken? Her better judgment cried out that it would. 'Doranne,' Carlile's voice was more urgent now, 'talk to him, my dear, at least talk to the man.' His voice lowered to a whisper. 'Use your charms ...' My charms, she thought. Where that arrogant man is concerned, how could a girl like me have any charms? Even if Marten Richmond, his

father, had liked her, and she knew from her own father that Marten had, he had been a man in his sixties, at an age when he was likely to admire any presentable young woman. In Kieran Richmond's world, a woman would have to possess sophistication, a maturity of shape and outlook and morals flexible enough to match his own. By such measures Doranne Grayson would hold no charms for him. All this time his eyes on her had not wavered. At the sound of her father's voice—even if he had not heard the words, the urgency was there—it would not require any great imagination on his part to guess what Carlile was urging his daughter to do. Her father was, Doranne thought despairingly, not so much asking her to sell her soul for the sake of their home, as her self-respect, and to Doranne her self-respect was very important indeed. But for her father's sake it had to be done. She held up her head, squared her shoulders and moved, as stiffly as if she were recovering from a debilitating illness, from the boat on to the mooring platform. Up the steps to the lawn and there he was, a mere half-dozen paces away. Rich man, poor girl, she thought, closing her eyes momentarily in her search for reinforcements to her courage. Pampered man, a playboy of a man, relaxed in posture and mind, being confronted by a girl who knew the meaning of hard work, with palms that were hardened by the effort of keeping clean the river craft on which she and her father lived. A girl whose life, until now, had been uncomplicated and, her mother's death apart, happy. From now on, her heart told her, like the disturbance of a breeze heralding the approach of a devastating tornado, her life would no longer be uncomplicated and simple.

'M-Mr Richmond?' After a moment's narrowing of the eyes at the sound of her voice, he said, 'I am.' His voice affected her as hers appeared to have affected him. It was deep, cultured—and curt. What now? she wondered, panicking. Never before had she had to plead for anything, but never before had she wanted anything so badly. Choked by a sudden, devastating emotion, she cried, 'Please leave us alone!' She had meant to remain so cool and calm in front of this implacable individual, but her other self would not be silenced. 'Allow us to stay on the houseboat. Don't make us leave. What pleasure can it give you to see us squirming under your pin, like— like -' She searched for a suitable simile, but her father's voice broke in, 'Not like that, Doranne, my dear, dear girl...' She heard the agony but she could do nothing about the words that came tumbling into her brain and spilling devastatingly out of her lips. 'Call off your hounds, Mr Richmond,' she blazed. 'You've had your fun, so stop persecuting us. Our life's a misery, not knowing what's going to happen to us from one day to the next.' She stopped, secretly aghast by the way she was behaving. But the fact that her outburst for clemency and understanding seemed to have fallen on deaf ears added fresh fuel to her anger. 'We're doing you no harm. We'll pay you rent, if that's what you want. We'll even pay you for the generator your father had installed for us—as long as you give us time to find the money. I'll do anything, Mr Richmond ...' An eyebrow lifted. 'Anything, Miss Grayson?'

'You know perfectly well what I mean,' she spat back, 'and it's not that! It was despicable of you to imply such a thing. I wish you'd keep your innuendoes for the circle of people in which you move.' 'Oh, God!' She heard the whispered moan from the boat behind her. Kieran Richmond's eyes lifted, rested on some object—it could only have been her father—on the houseboat, and returned to the girl in front of him. Now he was looking at her again, she could perceive the extent of the anger her words had aroused. Under the tan which glowed on his skin, telling of hot climates and long hours in the sun, he seemed to have paled. The hands in his pockets moved as if he were clenching them into fists. His eyes raved savagely over her slim figure, dwelling on the torn, buttoned top as if he would dearly have loved to have enlarged the tears, rip the thing off her completely and have his way with her. Only thus, his expression said, would he be able to express the fury she had, by her accusations, kicked to life in him. Nothing escaped his scrutiny, neither the faded, patched, outgrown jeans nor the brief sandals and untidy hair. He examined the finely arched brows, the straight, neat nose and the intriguing chin. He did not overlook the fiery grey-green eyes which had indicted him without even allowing him the fairness of a preliminary trial. He seemed to make some effort to control his anger and apparently succeeded. He said coldly, 'I make a point of never dealing direct with my tenants. Only through a solicitor do I contact them. That way, Miss Grayson, I do not get involved with personalities or emotions—other people's emotions' The emphasis was intentional. It was intended to let her know that he possessed none of them himself.

CHAPTER TWO DORANNE apologised to her father. She had not been able to help it, she said. It had happened so unexpectedly, that releasing of all those pent-up feelings. They had erupted of their own accord, completely escaping her control. 'I looked at him,' she explained, 'and saw him against the background of his house, and the unfairness hit me. He has so much—security, no worries, no longings he can't fulfil, everything, in fact, that money can buy. And there he was, gloating about his power over us. We've got so little, and what we have got he's intending to take away.' Her father's shaking limbs had taken a long time to still, even when Doranne had put her arms round his neck in an attempt to comfort him. 'I'm sorry, Father,' she said again, her eyes moistening because of what she had done to him, 'but I just couldn't help myself.' He sighed, his tension receding at last. 'You're young,' he murmured, 'so young,' as if that explained, and excused, everything. After that the waiting began again, the waiting for the solicitor's letter giving them final notice to leave. Doranne went each day to collect the morning's mail, but each day she hurried back to tell her father that the letter they dreaded had not come. So for another twenty-four hours they were able to relax and live their lives unmolested and unharassed. For the next few days there was no sign of Kieran Richmond. Doranne concluded that he had probably gone away again, although there was still every sign of the bustle that had begun with the owner's first arrival. There was one thing, however, that Doranne

knew for certain. She was dreading her next meeting with Marten Richmond's son. At coffee-time, Doranne and Mrs Beaumont had come to an arrangement. They took it in turns to go to the Tudor cafe along the road, so that the shop was never left unattended. Doranne usually went first, and that particular morning was no exception. After a brief glance in the cloakroom mirror, a swift touch of lipstick and a vain attempt to bring some tidiness to the straying strands of her long, unruly hair, Doranne walked down the village street, inhaling the sweet perfume which drifted from the florist's shop and glorying in the sunshine and the essence of springtime which entered and enlivened the hearts of the villagers as they shopped and chatted on the pavements. The cafe door opened with a chime. Two steps down and the patrons were wrapped about in a world of tranquillity and amiable service. The willow pattern of the blue and white crockery against the background of the dark brown wooden table never ceased to please Doranne's craving for the homely, simple things of life. You can keep, she thought with disgust, your silver candelabra, your carafes of wine on antique sideboards, your gracious, luxury living— the way of life, she told herself with spiteful pleasure, that was Kieran Richmond's. The coffee reflected back the light from the lanterns which hung at intervals around the walls. Doranne was momentarily fascinated by the bubbles which clustered around the edges of the cup. As she watched, one by one those bubbles burst. She frowned and tensed. There was a feeling of being the object of someone's scrutiny. While she watched the bursting bubbles, someone was watching her.

Her eyes lifted of their own accord, as if she had no power over their movements. He was there across the room. Kieran Richmond, she thought furiously, was manipulating her unconscious movements by means of some curious power he seemed to possess over the processes of her brain. There was coffee in front of him, too, but he was paying it no attention. As Doranne's eyes met his, it was like walking from a sauna bath into the Arctic Ocean. I've often wondered, Doranne thought, bewildered, what it would be like to be the object of someone's deepest contempt. Now I know. The idea that he thought so badly of her, hurt profoundly, shattering her composure and forcing her to seek the liquid warmth of the coffee in front of her. She gulped it, choking ignominiously, hating the tears which sprang to her eyes. There was no doubt in her mind that the man across the room was smiling at her discomfiture. He hated her. The sudden knowledge was like falling into a waterfall. Was this how he had felt when she had spat out her dislike of him the other evening by the river? If she apologised, would it make things better? But for whom? Her father, of course, who else? She cared nothing for the man sitting across the room who, by now, had seemed to tire of his examination and was drinking his coffee as if it were the most absorbing thing in the world. If, Doranne thought, I pleaded our case again, saying first how sorry I was for being so rude the other day ... No, she couldn't, she could not demean herself by asking this man's forgiveness. It was not in her to grovel. Her spirit was too proud, too independent. But if their home, their future life depended on it? How she found the courage to pull on her jacket and make her way to the dark corner in which Kieran Richmond sat, she never knew. He must have sensed her intention, because he raised his head and

watched her approach. There was no welcoming smile on his face— how could she have expected it? There was only the faintest questioning lift of an eyebrow, the slightest curl of the upper lip. The cold brown eyes rested on her. Brown eyes should be warm, she told herself again, with the same desperation. So close was she now, she could discern the lines around his eyes. Laughter lines? she thought with astonishment. When did this man ever laugh? He was not laughing now, nor even smiling. Never had she seen such a look of rejection on a person's face. Her warm, impetuous nature almost invariably brought about an instant response in people she met. 'You'll bring the customers in,' Mrs Beaumont had said smilingly, at the interview, 'especially the men.' This man? He wouldn't be seen dead talking to me, she thought, and unaccountably the idea disturbed her deeply. As she stood before him, his eyes dropped to his cup. He lifted it and without looking at her, drained it, returning it to the saucer. He began to rise, as if preparing to leave. Was he going to ignore her, was his contempt as profound as that? 'Mr -' She cleared her throat. Her voice was strangely husky. 'Mr Richmond.' He looked up, simulating surprise and sinking down into the seat again. He had not even done her the simple courtesy of rising, as she had no doubt he would if any other woman had approached him. There was a faint but unmistakable stirring of anger ,inside her, but this she quietened immediately. For once she must keep her selfrespect under lock and key. 'Yes?' His tone was chilling. 'M-may I -' she moistened her lips, 'may I sit down?'

'There's little I can do to stop you. In a cafe, you can sit where you like.' He rose again, with intent. 'If you will excuse me...' Her hand shot out and rested on his arm. 'Please, Mr Richmond -' He looked down at the hand that was detaining him, the longfingered, work-marked hand resting on the sleeve of his jacket, as if its owner were taking the most unforgivable liberty with his person that he had ever come across. Doranne blushed deeply and retrieved her hand, sinking into the seat opposite him and pressing the errant hand into her lap as if it were something to be ashamed of. 'Mr—Mr Richmond, you—you remember our—our conversation the other evening?' 'Did you really expect me to forget?' She winced at the lash in his voice. 'I want to say how—how sorry I am for saying what I did. I hope you'll forgive me.' She waited. There was nothing else to do. All her cards were on the table. But he swept them to the floor with a contemptuous gesture. 'Who have I to thank,' he taunted, 'for this apology, your father or -?' 'My father? No!' I came, she thought, in a moment of astonishing self-revelation, not for him but for myself, in the vain hope that you would think just a little better of me... 'No, I thought not. It's plain that you hold too dear a place in his heart for him to subject you to such an act of self-abasement.' She winced again. So he was not going to spare her. 'What is this, more of your tactics to get me to change my mind? Trying a more conciliatory approach? It must hurt, Miss Grayson, by heaven,' narrowly, 'how it must have hurt to bring yourself to apologise to a man to whom you

referred as despicable!' He paused, as if thinking of other ways to punish her. 'I am—I was—enjoying my coffee. As I recall from our recent—discussion, you asked me to leave you alone. I hope,' with heavy sarcasm, 'you won't take it amiss if I return the compliment?' His eyes, as they rested on her, were chips of ice. He had stripped her of all dignity and pride. She could not even hide from him the tears that welled up, tears, she told her-" self stormily, not of sorrow but of anger. With her head high, she walked from the cafe. By the time she reached Mrs Beaumont's shop, she had banished the tears and restored to herself some measure of composure. Her employer was preoccupied with her own affairs and did not notice that her assistant's eyes were a little dull, nor that her manner had a touch of despondency about it instead of the usual brightness. 'Ah,' said Mrs Beaumont, 'you're back. I'll be off. I may be just a bit longer than usual, Doranne, because I want to pop into the hairdresser's and book myself an appointment for later this week.' Mrs Beaumont went on her way, leaving the door chimes jingling to stillness. In her unhappy frame of mind, Doranne found the silence disturbing. She would rather a horde of schoolchildren had burst in than have these quiet moments in which to reflect on what had taken place between herself and Kieran Richmond in the cafe. With a sigh, she looked round for something to do. While her back was turned, the shop door opened. Carefully she took down a vase and admired its colour. The glaze highlighted the unusual and delicate mixture of greens. Mrs Beaumont was especially proud of that vase and had placed it high on a shelf in the hope that it would escape the customers' attention. Doranne turned to find the duster—and gasped. The customer was Kieran Richmond. The vase slipped from her fingers and crashed to

pieces on the floor. The colour drained from her cheeks. Her hands flew to hold her head as if preventing that, too, from following the vase. 'It was her favourite,' she whispered, 'her favourite -' 'Talk yourself out of that one,' Kieran Richmond taunted. She turned on him. 'It was your -' His hand came up, silencing her. 'I'm a customer, Miss Grayson. Politeness is the chief requirement in a shop assistant, is it not?' Coming after his curt dismissal of her apologies in the cafe, his sarcasm goaded her to rebellion, regardless of the fact that once again he was right. 'What do you want me to do,' she snapped at him, 'turn myself into 'a. doormat so that you can walk all over me again? Do you want me to salaam because you've presented yourself on the other side of the counter?' Something inside her head was urging her to close her lips and let no more abuse flow through them, otherwise heaven knew what might happen to her—and her job. 'Wouldn't it be better,' he commented icily, 'if you found a brush and swept those remains under the proverbial carpet before your employer returns?' 'Even if there were a carpet,' she retorted, 'I wouldn't do such a thing. I happen to be truthful and honest, Mr Richmond, although, thinking as badly of me as you do, you probably won't believe me.' He eyed the neat dress she was wearing, the way it followed faithfully the lines of her body, the trim waist and slender hips. 'How do you know,' he said softly, 'what I think of you?'

So, subtly and with the faintest hint of insult in those unsparing eyes, he had reduced her from a fellow human being with a brain and selfrespect to a creature of doubtful intelligence whose sole purpose in life was to satisfy a man's sensual appetite. At which point Mrs Aurora Beaumont walked in. She had returned earlier than she had expected from her coffee break, probably having discovered no friend at the hairdressers with whom to have a chat. 'I've made an appointment, dear,' she said, closing the door, 'for next -' The scattered pieces of the prized vase lay where they had fallen. She looked at them, she looked at Doranne, then down again. She could not believe it, she simply could not take in the fact that her most precious piece of pottery lay shattered on the floor. Doranne's heart hammered painfully. Of their own volition her eyes sought those of her enemy, seeking—what? she asked herself painfully. Help, explanation, soothing words? His slanted, taunting eyes met her agonised gaze. He slipped his hands into his jacket pockets and awaited events. Doranne looked at Mrs Beaumont's face and compassion flooded her. She knew just how the woman was feeling, she knew because the man who was watching them had the power—and plainly fully intended to use it—of shattering her father's and her own lives to pieces as surely as she herself had shattered Mrs Beaumont's vase. Just as she was helpless in her inability to influence the fate that was threatening her through this man's hands, so was Mrs Beaumont helpless in the face of what Doranne had done to her cherished vase. 'I'm so sorry, Mrs Beaumont, I can't tell you how -'

Mrs Beaumont took an enormous grip on her emotions, breathed deeply, squared her shoulders and began to speak —but not a word came out. She tried again, and this time succeeded. 'I know you're sorry, dear,' she said gently, so gently that Doranne wanted to cry. 'I know you're as sorry as I am. I have never known anyone as careful as you are with my possessions. Circumstances must have been extreme for you to have had such an accident.' Doranne bent down. 'I'll clear them away -' 'No, no!' Mrs Beaumont's hand came out. Even now she could not bear those pieces to be touched. They were all that was left of the vase she so valued and, broken though they were, they were still dear to her. 'I'll see to it later. We must first attend to the needs of our customer.' She managed a smile which, although it lacked much of her usual good cheer, was still a credit to her. It was plain from her questioning glance that Kieran Richmond was a stranger to her. 'Is there anything we can show you?' she asked. 'Anything that has caught your eye? A piece of pottery, or,' in a rush in case he nodded, 'a painting?' He stirred, as if emerging from watching an absorbing piece of film. He looked around vaguely. 'I understand all these products are handmade, the paintings individually produced?' 'Every single one,' Mrs Beaumont said eagerly. 'Even Miss Grayson, under my supervision, contributes -' 'Miss Grayson?' He took her up at once. 'Miss Grayson paints?' 'Only as a hobby,' Doranne interrupted hastily.

'Nonsense,' said Mrs Beaumont, 'she's an excellent little painter. As a matter of fact, hidden away in a corner,' she moved across the shop, 'here is one of hers.' 'Please, Mrs Beaumont,' Doranne said desperately— Kieran Richmond must not be allowed to see her feeble offerings, only to mock them afterwards, 'I'm not really a painter at all. I only dabble in it -' But Mrs Beaumont had the painting in her hands, and the customer was examining with a keen eye the picture in its tasteful frame. It was a painting of the houseboat, Watersplash, in which she and her father lived. Doranne remembered with an intense nostalgia the bright spring days when she had sat on the sloping lawns of Water's Edge, the canvas on an easel, the brushes and painting materials at her side, and Mrs Beaumont's teaching at the forefront of her mind. She had painted the picture when life had seemed secure, when the future was too distant and hazy to worry about and the past, with its joys and its pain, behind locked doors in her head. Her father had sat with Marten Richmond on the balcony. The air had been heavy with the scent of the fruit blossom and all around was the promise of the summer flowers to come. All that had gone and soon the subject of the painting— glowing with colour and freshness as she had seen it with her mind's eye, and in fact still did—would be gone, too, snatched away by this man who now had the audacity to study the painting with a covetous glint in his eye. 'I'll have it,' he said. 'Oh, I'm so glad,' said Mrs Beaumont.

'No, he can't, he mustn't!' Doranne cried. 'Doranne, my dear!' 'He's taking away the reality from us, he can't have the image, too...' As Mrs Beaumont's eyes widened with shock at her assistant's unaccountable behaviour, Doranne explained, 'He's Mr Richmond, Marten Richmond's son, Mrs Beaumont. He's our landlord and he's turning us out of our home. I won't let him have my painting,' she tried to pull the picture from Kieran Richmond's hands, 'it's mine. Soon, it's all I'll have left. Let go,' she cried, 'let go I' He did not let go. With ease he detached her gripping fingers and moved out of reach. 'How much?' he asked. Mrs Beaumont told him. 'Don't let him have it, Mrs Beaumont!' Doranne pleaded. 'It's mine, it's not for sale. I know what he'll do with it. He'll -' She sought about in her mind. 'He'll put it in his entrance hall and when he has guests, he'll use it to break the ice, to start up the party spirit. He'll point it out to them and they'll laugh at it because it's so amateur...' 'Doranne!' Mrs Beaumont cried, more shocked now than when she had discovered the destruction of her favourite vase. 'You really mustn't talk to a customer -' 'Don't reprimand her, Mrs Beaumont,' Kieran Richmond said coldly. 'She might be right.' He handed over a wad of notes and when Mrs Beaumont moved towards the till to give him change, he waved it away. 'Keep it all. Give the rest to the girl. Money's no object where I'm concerned. Ask Miss Grayson. The size of my bank balance seems to offend her. Maybe if I give a little of it to her, it may help her to see me in a little less of a devilish light.'

'I don't want your charity,' Doranne threw back at him. 'Give it to some of the lady friends your father used to tell us you had.' Kieran Richmond turned a face drained of colour towards her. 'One of these days,' he said through his teeth, 'I'll get my hands on you and -' 'Doranne!' shrieked Mrs Beaumont. 'I'm shocked at you, shocked...' 'Mrs Beaumont?' She turned her attention from her rebellious assistant to her customer. 'The vase,' Kieran Richmond said, indicating the pieces still lying on the floor. 'Since for some reason I seemed to be the cause of the disaster, I should like to pay for it. It might go some way towards making amends. I'm told you valued it highly.' 'Really, Mr Richmond,' Mrs Beaumont smiled shakily, 'there's no need for you to be so kind, so very kind, especially in view of the way you've been treated by my assistant, who is usually such a sweet girl. I really couldn't take -' Kieran Richmond bent down and picked up the base of the vase which somehow had remained intact. On it he found the price label, put the correct amount of money on the counter and, without a backward' glance, walked out. The painting, still unwrapped, was under his arm. Doranne, to her own astonishment and horror, burst into tears. Mrs Beaumont, misinterpreting the cause and forgetting her anger in her desire to comfort, patted her on the back. 'There, there,' she said. 'I know just what it's like to lose to a customer something you've made with your own hands and brain.'

If that was all she had lost, Doranne thought, trying to stem the flow which coursed down her cheeks, she would not have cared one jot. He had taken with him not only her painting, but her home, her sense of security—and something else besides. What the 'something else' was she could not—would not—let herself consider.

Doranne did not tell her father about the happenings of the day. It would upset him too much, she decided, and disturb the delicate balance of his work. He would wander off, content and happy, sometimes for a whole day, along the river bank, seeking specimens of plant life. He would carry them triumphantly back as the sun was setting, and then sit up half the night writing about his discoveries and expounding upon his theories. These he would eventually turn into a series of articles and these articles he hoped one day to make into a book. How far he would go towards fulfilling his ambition lay entirely in the ruthless hands of their landlord. That evening Doranne cleaned through the boat. As she scrubbed the wooden planks that made up the floor, wiped over the once polished surfaces of the fixed wooden table and upholstered benches, washed windows and mopped through the galley, she closed her eyes to the vessel's increasing signs of age. A great deal of money would have to be spent to bring it back even to the state it had been in when Marten Richmond consented to allow his old friend Carlile to make his home there. More money still would be required to make improvements, modernise the equipment and bring back to working life some of the mechanism which had already fallen into disrepair. When she had finished and was looking round at her handiwork, it came to her with a shock that her efforts, far from improving the look of the boat, had

removed much of the grime and corrosion only to reveal more clearly the deteriorating state of the structure. The following evening, while her father worked below, collating the notes he had made on his latest plant finds, Doranne changed into scarlet pants and white, short- sleeved top. Round her neck she tied a silky red and white scarf. Then she took her easel and painting materials on deck near the entrance to the boat and, with her back to the house, began to paint the riverside scene. Now and then other craft passed, rowing boats, motor cruisers and even a small yacht. During their stay, Doranne and her father had come to know a number of boat owners along that part of the river and some people waved. The sun began to set, changing the colours Doranne was struggling to capture on canvas. As twilight crept down like a curtain, so the air chilled, bringing the faintest shiver to. Doranne's lightly covered body. But there was something in the air besides the creeping coolness. She turned, quite involuntarily, and looked over her shoulder. A hand flew to her hair, untidy again because of the breeze, and she pushed long strands from her cheeks and forehead. Now she could see more clearly the man who stood, hands in pockets, his belted pants cut to fit precisely the long, strong line of his limbs. He was watching her with the almost pitiful interest of a passer-by observing a pavement artist pouring out the contents of his soul for the paltry sum anyone might offer for his efforts. Any moment, she thought with her quick-fire anger, an assortment of coins would be taken from his pocket and thrown down on to the deck at her feet. And I'd throw them back, she fumed silently, I'd throw them right back in his face!

As she watched, he made his way down the slope to the steps which led to the small jetty at which the boat was permanently moored. Then he stood before her, and the gathering darkness added a new quality to his features and physique. There was a dark and almost devilish look about him, about the flitting, sardonic smile as he eyed her flushed face, the disorder of her hair and the eye-catching outfit. He knows, she thought, he knows the effect he's having on me! Because to her he represented all that was evil in a man—wasn't he going to take their home away?—her emotions, never tranquil even when his name was mentioned, let alone when he was standing beside her, flared and roared and licked around him like flames in an uncontrollable fire. It all showed in her face as she put down her brush and stood up, but with a tremendous effort she held back the reproach she longed to fling at him. 'Do you want to see me?' she asked with a forced politeness. 'No. I wish to see your father.' Not only did his words constitute an insult to her intelligence—she was, she thought with self-righteous scorn, a mere shop assistant, wasn't she?—but to her they contained the elements of a threat. It sounded so official, as if he had decided for once to by-pass the solicitor and was about to deliver an ultimatum. Get out or else... 'Why do you want to see my father?' Her voice was high and shrill and quite out of character. 'If you must know,' he responded coldly, 'I intend to employ a surveyor to examine the boat.'

A surveyor? Examine the boat? But a surveyor would see what her eyes consistently refused to acknowledge—the rusting metal, the rotting wood, the erosion of the superstructure. It would mean the end for her father and herself. There would be no arguing against a surveyor's report— and what was more, this man knew it! 'But why?' she cried. 'No, don't bother to answer. It will make it easier for you, won't it, easier for your conscience if you can pay a surveyor to write a bad report -' His hand came up and she thought he was going to hit her. Instead, his hand gripped her hair and with it he pulled back her head so that it was upturned to the fading light. She cried out at the pain, but it made no difference. He bit out, 'What are you accusing me of now? Of sharp practice, of using devious methods to gain my own ends?' 'You're hurting me,' she shrieked, 'you're hurting my head!' 'I'll hurt you some more, a great deal more, before I'm finished with you, you little spitfire, if you don't stop abusing me.' Carlile, having heard his daughter's cries, came panting from below and saw the tableau. 'Oh, my dear heaven, what is it you've been saying now, Doranne? Please, please, my dear- -' Seeing Carlile, Kieran released Doranne, but was unmoved by the tears which he had caused and which trickled down her cheeks. 'I won't give up,' she said, looking in vain for a handkerchief, 'I won't be intimidated by your brute methods, Mr Richmond.' She rubbed her head, then found a paper tissue in her pocket and scrubbed at her face. 'It's our home, don't you understand? Humble though it is, to my father and myself it's a place to live. It represents

security. To you it's just a boat, a nuisance at the end of your garden, but it's all my father and I have got. But you wouldn't understand,' she went on bitterly, despite her father's efforts to silence her. 'You've got everything you want,' her eyes lifted to catch a fleeting glimpse of the mellow red brick of which the house was built, 'more than you want. More, in my opinion,' she persisted, 'than any single person should have. Now you want to take the little we have from us -' Her father put his hand heavily on her arm and her voice sank to a whisper. 'It's not fair, not fair...' He had stopped her at last. There was a deep silence, during which Doranne made one last attempt to dry her tears. Carlile opened his mouth to speak, to apologise, but Kieran raised his hand. 'Don't bother, Mr Grayson. I'm becoming hardened to your daughter's outpourings. If I thought she had full command of herself and really knew what she was saying, I would contact my solicitor, this time with a view to suing her for slander.' Carlile's hand shook as he took it from his daughter's arm. Once again he began to speak, but Kieran said, 'Don't worry. I told you the first time we met that I never become involved with other people's emotions. Now, if I may, I should like to speak to you,' with a cold, dismissing glance at Doranne, 'alone.' 'Let me stay, Father,' Doranne pleaded. 'This is my home as well as yours -' Kieran interrupted, 'I should like to have a rational, reasoned conversation with you, Mr Grayson. I'm sorry, but if your daughter were present that would be an impossibility.' 'Father!' she cried, her voice full of appeal. Who knew what this man would talk her father into if she was not there?

'Doranne,' Carlile said, just a little sadly, 'you'll have to leave us. I'm sorry, my dear.' 'You've lost, Father,' she said, sending a burning look at their visitor. 'You've lost before you start. It's no use appealing to our landlord's kindness of heart. He hasn't got one. You can't appeal to something that doesn't exist. Where his heart should be, there just isn't anything there.'

A week passed, a week of more waiting and more anxiety. Carlile had not told his daughter much about his discussion with Kieran Richmond. It seemed that they had considered one or two courses of action which Carlile and his daughter might take when the time came—as come it would, Carlile warned—for them to leave. He did not, however, go into details, so Doranne remained in ignorance and uncertainty. Mrs Beaumont had forgiven her assistant for destroying the green vase. 'But do be careful in future, Doranne, do be most careful,' she had urged. Doranne tried to express her gratitude at her employer's forbearance, but Mrs Beaumont merely smiled and patted her in a motherly kind of way. 'From what you've told me, you and your father have troubles of your own. No doubt that was partly to blame for what happened.' Doranne did not even try to explain who had really been the cause of the accident. Every morning, when Mrs Beaumont had gone for her coffee break, Doranne found herself watching the door and listening for the

jingling bell. She told herself that she dreaded Kieran Richmond's reappearance in the shop, but as the days passed and he did not come—why, she was forced to ask herself with honesty, should he?—there began to emerge inside her a curious unformed, yet nagging wish that he would. Only, she told herself sternly, so that she could ask him what he was intending to do now about the boat. One morning, as she was rearranging a set of water- colours, the door opened. She turned swiftly with a look of welcome which she was quite unable to disguise. She fought her disappointment and conjured up a smile. The man at the receiving end was tall, young and eager. Under his arm were two paintings and as he came into the shop he clutched them as though they were more precious than the air he breathed. 'Glad to see,' he said, with a grin, 'that you're glad to see me.'' 'Oh,' momentarily Doranne was confused, 'I thought it was -' 'Tell me,' said the young man, 'and I'll go this minute and exterminate him.' Doranne laughed as she always did when Ashley Storey came into the shop. He was one of Mrs Beaumont's crowd of hopeful artists, one whose work Mrs Beaumont liked but occasionally criticised. 'I'm not a gallery owner,' she would tell him, laughing as he presented his latest brain child with a flourish, 'how do you expect me to sell that concoction to a realism-loving public? When I say realism, I mean people who like to buy pictures of things they see around them and can readily understand.' 'Anyone can paint that sort of stuff,' Ashley would remonstrate. 'But nobody but me, Ashley Storey, can put on paper Ashley Storey's visions.'

'If you want to sell your paintings, young man,' Mrs Beaumont would reply, 'make them saleable. And if you don't know what that means by now, then nothing I can say will help you.' 'What are they this time?' Doranne asked, smiling. 'Ashley Storey's brainstorms, or Ashley Storey's sometimes beautiful interpretations of the trees, the sky, the pot plants on windowsills?' He made a face and put his offerings on the counter. 'One of each. This,' he held up a series of intermingling splashes of colour, 'is beautiful. This,' he sighed, picking up the other, 'will sell.' He looked around, seeking two empty hooks, but found none. He removed two of the watercolours and proceeded to hang his own paintings in their place, side by side. 'Compare them and tell me honestly which is the most inspired.' 'Is that painting for sale?' A customer had entered, a woman with a shape which would catch and hold any man's eye. Ashley Storey was undoubtedly one of them. The woman's hair was shoulder-length and blonde. Its shine and shaping told of dedicated attention, while the perfection of her features had been enhanced by the expert application of cosmetics. Her multi-coloured dress indicated a taste which was studiedly offbeat, just sufficient to label the woman as one who defied tradition for effect and not by conviction. Ashley's bemused eyes followed the imperious finger. It was pointing—there could be no doubt about it—at one of the paintings he had just brought with him. And the question was being asked, not of one of Ashley Storey's paintings of nature or everyday things, but of one of Ashley Storey's 'visions'.

'Yes -' said Ashley, his pale face under his fair hair growing pink with delight, but Doranne broke in, reminding him that it was she who was the sales assistant. 'Yes, it is, madam. Would you care to inspect it?' Ashley's hand came out. 'Not too near. That's it, just there! You'll get the full impact if you just let your mind fly free The elegant eyebrows rose. 'You're the painter, I assume?' Ashley inclined the long, thin, fair-haired length of him in a sweeping bow. 'I'll take it,' the woman said. To Doranne, 'Have you any more paintings of that kind?' It was while Doranne was wrapping three more Ashley Storey paintings under the astonished and delighted eyes of the artist and while the customer was writing out her cheque with a gold-plated pen, that the owner of the shop walked in. The customer turned a smile full of charm towards Ashley. 'I should be most grateful,' she purred, 'if you would carry these paintings out to my car.' Ashley, flattered as he was by the woman's patronage, responded at once to the charm. He would, he said, be delighted to do so, and when the door closed on them Mrs Beaumont said, 'There goes your new neighbour.' Doranne, puzzled, frowned and asked, 'Neighbour? There's no other boat near ours.' Mrs Beaumont laughed. 'Not exactly your neighbour, my dear. I was gossiping with a friend outside just now.' She told me that the house next to Mr Richmond's—you know, old Mr Richmond's son—had

been standing empty for some months, but it has a new owner at last. Apparently, she said, a rather unusual-looking woman from London has bought it and is now living there. As I opened the door to come in, my friend saw the customer who was in here and told me that was the woman she was referring to.' Mrs Beaumont picked up the cheque which the customer had written in payment for the paintings. 'That's right, that's her name—Milne, Elvina Milne. My friend's domestic helper knows Mrs Milne's new lady help—the grapevine in action!' Mrs Beaumont laughed. 'So the woman's married?' A little knot of tension which had unaccountably begun to form inside Doranne began to unravel, only to tie itself up again when Mrs Beaumont said, 'She was married, it seems, but is now a widow. The man she married was wealthy and many years her senior. You know the old story. She was apparently left with sufficient means to buy that beautiful Riverslea House next door to Mr Richmond's Water's Edge, and to live handsomely on the remainder of the money.' 'I wonder,' Doranne mused, half to herself, 'if they've met over the garden fence yet?' Not, she thought, that there was a garden fence between the two properties. A row of carefully nurtured fruit trees formed the boundary—Kieran Richmond's fruit trees, cherished by his dedicated gardener. 'Garden fence, my dear?' Mrs Beaumont was saying. 'They've been seen dining together at least twice in the town's most expensive hotel. Not knowing either of the people involved very well, I can only hazard a guess as to which of them made the first approach—the lady.' She busied herself with rearranging the pottery on the circular stands. 'I would doubt,' she went on, 'whether Mr Richmond, with his looks and position in life, would need to do the running.'

Women by the dozen, Doranne thought. She must have thought aloud, because Mrs Beaumont looked up with surprise. Doranne explained, 'That's what his father told my father once.' 'I imagine,' Mrs Beaumont commented, 'that, where women are concerned, the only running he would have to do is in the opposite direction!' Towards the end of the afternoon, Ashley returned with two more paintings clutched to his chest. 'From now on,' he said cheerfully, putting the pictures on the counter, 'it's Ashley Storey's visions you're going to get, Mrs Beaumont. No more painting pretty flowers and pussies and puppies ...' Mrs Beaumont shook her head. 'It's those that sell, Ashley. Don't let this morning's success go to your head. One customer delighted by the Storey visions doesn't make a stampeding horde. I know my clientele, my dear young man. Mrs Milne is unusual.' But his elation at his morning's success still coloured his mind and brightened his eyes. 'Visions, visions,' he murmured. 'Come along, Doranne. I'll walk you home. I'm treading on a cloud and I refuse to be alone up there. I want a pretty girl at my side -' 'You're wearing tinted spectacles,' Doranne responded with a smile. 'If you want a pretty girl beside you, don't look at me. I don't qualify.' 'You're a beauty!' he said, astonished by her self-denigration. 'Your figure, your face ... Don't you ever look in the mirror? Haven't you got any in that crazy boat-home of yours?' 'Only a cracked one,' Doranne laughed. 'Anyway, at the moment everything's beautiful to you.'

Ashley said, 'Have it your way, but come on. Can she go, Mrs Beaumont?' Doranne's employer nodded indulgently. 'Humour him, my dear. It doesn't come often to us, that glorious feeling of elation at our own success. Let him enjoy it while it lasts.' Ashley made a face, and waited impatiently while Doranne collected her belongings. He pulled her from the shop and as they walked along the pavement his arm went round her and because he was so happy, she did not object. They had been out together now and then, kissed a few times, but Doranne had never regarded their friendship as being at all serious. Ashley would disappear for days and sometimes weeks at a time. She knew he would be working day and often night on one of his paintings. In his absence she never missed him. Now, as they walked along the pathway at the side of Water's Edge, Doranne glanced through the trees at the newly-occupied Riverslea House. So Kieran Richmond's neighbour had already managed to insinuate herself into his world. Well, she was his kind, wasn't she, with her cultured ways and her stable financial background? They combined to place her in a class above that of Doranne Grayson and her erudite father, to whom near-poverty was no stranger, whose home was a boat beginning to decay but who asked for no more than to be left alone to enjoy life in their own way. Doranne stood with Ashley on the sloping lawn at the top of the steps leading to the mooring platform. His arm around her tightened and pulled her close. He had an idea, he said. 'What do you say to a party tonight on that leaky tub of yours?' Doranne began to shake her head, but Ashley coaxed, 'Oh, come on. I want to celebrate. I've got money—look.' He pulled out his wallet

and waved the cheques Mrs Beaumont had given him, after deducting her commission on sales. 'A small fortune. Let's go crazy for once, kid. I'll provide everything. No need for you to spend a thing.' 'There's my father,' Doranne said doubtfully. 'Ask him,' Ashley persisted, pulling her close and kissing her cheek, 'go on, he's coming up the steps now. Ask him, Doranne.' His tone was so appealing she could not refuse. It didn't last, Mrs Beaumont had said, that glorious feeling of elation at our own success... 'Father,' Doranne began, then frowned at her father's expression. But he forced a smile and she continued, 'Would it bother you if tonight we...' She faltered. He looked so tired. He should have an early night. But Ashley, even with his artist's perception, did not see what Doranne saw. He was not Carlile Grayson's flesh and blood. He could, perhaps, see beneath the skin—it was part of his training—but he could neither sense the rush nor the sluggishness of the blood flowing in the veins. 'If,' Ashley took Doranne up on her unfinished sentence, 'we had a party here tonight, Mr Grayson? I've sold four pictures and I'm so happy I could -' Carlile nodded and smiled in a kindly way. 'That was indeed an achievement. Have your party, Ashley. Enjoy your success. Don't worry about me, Doranne, I shall go to William Parkin's house. He keeps inviting me for a game of chess.' 'But, Father—'

Carlile shook his head, dismissing her concern. 'Enjoy yourselves,' he turned away, 'enjoy yourselves.' He walked slowly back down the wooden steps and disappeared into the living quarters. Ashley's arm twined like a scarf round Doranne's neck. He pulled her sideways and kissed her soundly on the lips. 'Don't look now,' he said, grinning, 'but we're being watched. Your prosperous landlord has us under surveillance.' Doranne disentangled herself and swung towards the house. On the balcony on which her father had spent so many happy hours talking to Kieran Richmond's father stood the son. His thigh rested against the rail and in his hand was a glass, which now and then he raised to his lips. Despite the defiant stare with which Doranne met his indolent gaze, his eyes never wavered. It was hers that withdrew, defeated. When Ashley had gone, promising that on his return he would bring not only the party spirit but the guests and the food, Doranne turned her back on the watching figure on the balcony. Her landlord he might be, but she owed him nothing, neither allegiance nor rent. She went inside. Her father sat, elbows resting on the wooden table, his head in his hands. 'Father!' He looked up, his eyes heavy. 'I didn't intend to tell you yet, dear. Certainly not until your party was over.' 'Tell me what, Father?' Doranne asked faintly. He gave a heavy sigh. 'I suppose it was only what we should have expected.' A painful pause. 'The surveyor came today. He said the boat was in a worse condition than even Mr Richmond had

anticipated.' Carlile gazed through the window at the sparkling ripples moving across to the opposite bank. 'He gave our landlord a verbal report, prior to the written one. As a result, Mr Richmond came to see me.' 'What—what did he say?' Doranne whispered. 'That we must leave, my dear. We must leave at once.'

CHAPTER THREE 'WE'RE staying,' Doranne cried, 'we're staying even if it means barricading ourselves in!' 'Dear girl,' Carlile rose, his hand shaking as he tried to calm his daughter, 'be reasonable. The boat is not river- worthy. The wood is rotting, the metal corroding, it's scarcely safe for us to spend a holiday on it, let alone live in it.' 'If it's in such a bad condition, why did Marten Richmond allow us to stay here?' 'He didn't know. How could he? He never visited us. It was always I who went to his house. We were the closest of friends, but even I must admit that he neglected to look after the boat. It was not meanness on his part, just forgetfulness.' 'No,' said Doranne bitterly, 'maybe not on his part, but meanness on his son's now. He's got the money. Why can't he spend some of his fortune on putting things right for us?' 'Don't you understand, Doranne,' her father persisted, 'it would be throwing good money after bad. The boat's in such a bad way it's not worth spending any money on it.' 'I don't believe it,' she replied defiantly, 'and nothing anyone can say will persuade me to change my mind. We're staying and that's final.' 'My dear,' her father sat down again, 'if I tell you that Mr Richmond has been kind enough to offer us accommodation in his home-which, incidentally, was one of the things we discussed that day he came to see me -' 'Live in that man's house?' she burst out. 'I'd rather go down with this boat than live under his roof!'

'Are you in the habit of indulging in melodrama in moments of crisis, Miss Grayson?' The coldly sarcastic tones had her swinging round to face the man who, unheard, had made his way on to the boat. She coloured deeply. How much had he overheard? "Why are you here?' she demanded. 'You have no right -' 'I have every right,' was the quiet response. 'I own the vessel.' 'But it's our home. I wouldn't walk into your home -' 'It won't be your home for much longer, Miss Grayson. I could, if I liked, use the forces of the law and have you evicted.' 'I wouldn't put it past you,' she blazed, her self-control being eaten away by a gnawing fear, 'I wouldn't put anything past you...' 'If it were not for my unbounded respect for your father,' he gritted, 'I would have you thrown off this boat here and now.' Carlile Grayson covered his eyes and groaned a little. 'I have never,' Marten Richmond's son persisted, 'come across such an impossible, perverse, ill-tempered shrew of a female in the whole of my life!' 'She's afraid,' Carlile murmured. 'I do assure you, her disposition is not as bad as it seems.' But their landlord appeared unmoved by the father's attempts to clear his daughter's character. 'What has she to fear? I'm offering you both somewhere to live. I'd put at your entire disposal two bedrooms, a living-room and for you, Mr Grayson, a study where you could continue your writings and your botanical research.' Carlile's head rose slowly and his eyes sought those of his daughter. 'Doranne?' he whispered. There was a note of hope in his voice, of a subdued excitement at the prospect of a solid roof over their heads for the first time for years.

'You can go if you like, Father,' Doranne said in a tight voice. 'I'm staying here.' Her eyes, as well as her voice, defied the owner of the boat to answer her challenge. For a few frightening seconds, a blaze lit in his eyes, showing a glimpse, like a flash of lightning in a thunder-blackened sky, of the violence of his thoughts. If it had not been for the iron control he exercised in those fleeting seconds, that violence would have translated itself disastrously into action. He turned on his heel and left. 'I'll stay with you, my dear,' she heard her father murmur, 'I won't leave you here alone.'

Ashley Storey arrived, carrying in his arms two crates of bottles. Behind him, similarly laden, trailed a dozen or so young men and women. Carlile glanced out of the window, saw the visitors and said, 'Oh, dear. This, I think, is where I leave you to cope, Doranne. No place for me among all these young people!' He shuffled his papers together, pushed them into a drawer and left the boat, nodding and smiling to Doranne's guests as he passed them. As Ashley had promised, he had brought the party spirit with him. Soon there was music and it was not long before the guests took to their feet and the dancing began. There were crisps on dishes and cheese straws and savoury crackers. Ashley, a little unsteady on his feet, took out a large sketch pad and made lightning sketches of his friends. For a man who had drunk so deeply of alcohol, his hand was surprisingly steady. He said, mischief in his eyes, 'I'll do a life sketch of our hostess.'

'No, you won't,' Doranne responded firmly. 'I'm not an artist's model, nor do I pose with nothing -' 'No posing necessary, darling.' He tapped his head with his pencil. 'I use that invaluable thing in every artist's brain—my imagination.' Doranne, incensed, tried to take the pencil from him. She succeeded, but he simply went to his pocket for another. 'Doranne!' A girl called Marie attracted Doranne's attention. 'Where do we put these empties?' 'In the waste bin in the galley,' Doranne called, still standing agitatedly by Ashley's side in the hope that she would stop him. 'Show me where,' Marie said. Reluctantly, Doranne went from Ashley, whose face held an impish grin, down to the galley. By the time she returned, Ashley was holding up for inspection the sketch of a girl whose face bore a remarkable resemblance to Doranne's. But it was not the face that had her cheeks turning pink. It was what the artist's imagination had done to the rest of her. Amidst laughter, she reached up and snatched the sketch from him. Avoiding all Ashley's attempts to retrieve it from her, she raced down the steps and into her cabin. No one had followed, so she flung the offending sketch into the waste paper bin beside the bed and returned to the party. By the time she reappeared, the incident had been forgotten, Ashley had put away his sketch pad and the dancing and the music went on. However, it seemed that the volume had not proved loud enough for some of the guests, as the sound from the transistor radio had been increased. Doranne found herself in a reckless mood. She and her father had received official, if only verbal, notice to quit their home and from

none other than the landlord himself. If he cared to utilise the services of the law, he could have them out, together with their belongings, in a matter of days. She was defying that landlord and in so doing, was in effect challenging him to do. his worst. Until he did, she would enjoy what was left of her life on board that boat, she would enjoy it to the full. So she drank the wine that came her way. The more she drank the more her eyes sparkled. They sparkled with defiance, not with the pleasure she got out of drinking the liquid. In fact, she disliked the taste. It was too strong for her palate and only a defiant, uncontrollable impulse made her drink beyond her normal limits. Was it because there was lurking in the shadows a profound dread of what might happen as a result of her refusal to quit the premises? The surroundings started to blur. She could not discover whether it was her eyes, her mind or her imagination which created the mist which was slowly descending over the faces of the people around her. The world reeled and she put a hand to her head, covering her eyes and blotting out the sight. She was on the edge of drunkenness. It was a frightening sensation, entirely new to her and one which she hated with all her might. Never again, she vowed, would she allow it to happen. Why were all these people here? she wondered miserably. She had no desire to join in the laughing and the dancing. She wanted to cry because soon her home would be taken from her and she would have no place to live. No more gentle lapping of the wavelets caused by other boats drifting by; no more bright dawns turning the river to the colours of the rainbow; no more eager flapping of wings as the water birds rose into a brightening sky. No more independence, only rooms in someone else's house, but that house would not be Water's Edge. She would never agree to living in Kieran Richmond's residence, even if it meant sleeping rough before

they found a new home. At that moment she had no thought of her father's increasing age and lessening ability to fight the inevitable. She was aware only of her youth and the strength she had within her to fight all the way, to fight Kieran Richmond and his eviction orders until victory was hers. She began to cry, huddling into a corner so as not to spoil the pleasure of the others. The tears slid noiselessly down to the corners of her mouth and she tasted the tang of salt. All these people here, she thought, they have homes and security. There are no orders to quit hanging over their heads. She hated the man who was threatening her father and herself, she hated him with a hatred that burned her up. 'Miss Grayson!' The voice was familiar and curt, the hand that was shaking her as brutal as his character. 'Will you look at me!' It was no use, she could not lift her head. It was too heavy. 'Will you order these people to be quieter and to remember there are others in the vicinity who have no desire to share their high spirits and their noise. I've had complaints from half a dozen neighbours. Miss Grayson!' 'Go away,' she mumbled, 'this is still my home." I can have as many people here as I like...' Her voice tailed off. It was an effort to talk. 'Where is your father?' Doranne resented the terseness. 'Out,' she replied, 'gone to play chess.' His hand was still on her shoulder and although it had stopped shaking her, the fingers still gripped, making her wince. She cowered into the corner and he threw her shoulder from him. He moved away

and she heard him talking to Ashley. Over the noise the words they exchanged were inaudible, but Kieran Richmond's voice sounded sharp. He was telling them to go, he was giving orders in her home! Doranne struggled to her feet and started to walk towards him, intending to tell him to leave at once. Her legs would not support her and she fell forward. Two arms caught her, two arms held her with savage strength as if they would like to crush her like paper. 'You're drunk, Miss Grayson,' Kieran Richmond said between his teeth, 'you're so incapable you can't even stand upright.' I'm not drunk, she wanted to cry, just desperately unhappy, frightened and—because of the power you have over my father's and my destinies—helpless. She was swept into those two arms and her inert body was being pushed roughly through the crowd of people. They were descending the steps now and Doranne caught the sound of Ashley's voice raised above the din. He seemed to be giving instructions... She raised her head. Where was Kieran Richmond taking her? Down to the sleeping quarters? He had no right! She struggled, but his hold tightened. 'Keep still,' he commanded, pushing with his shoulder against a door. After a swift look round, he must have decided it was the wrong cabin and crossed the narrow corridor to try another door. A light was switched on and Doranne felt herself falling from those arms, hitting the bedclothes, bouncing once and then lying still. She was not still for long. She struggled to sit up, but he pushed her down, bending over her to hold her there.

'It's not fair!' she cried. 'You're using your brute strength to force me to stay where you decide to put me.' 'I've plenty of that "brute strength", as you call it. It's about time a man exercised some control over you, my girl. Your father's much too soft with you. You wind him round your little finger.' 'My father loves me,' she cried, 'he understands me. He knows how much a home of our own means to me. Never,' she sat up, pushing the hair from her face and revealing her flushed cheeks and bright, glistening eyes, 'never in a thousand years would you understand such a thing. I love it here,' she said fiercely, 'the river, the peace, the freedom ...' It was too much, in her emotional state, trying to explain her innermost feelings to this hard man. She sank back on to the pillow, gazing up at him. Now she was seeing those brown eyes at close quarters, could she detect a softness in them she had not seen before? A lessening of the cynical curve of the upper lip, a fullness about the lower which made her wonder what the feel of it against hers would be. Her heart began to race as she dwelt on the hard jaw, wanting to lift a finger and trace the line of it... 'Mr Richmond,' she whispered, scarcely aware of what she was saying, 'please, please will you let us stay here? Please don't force us to go.' Her senses were reeling. It was not, she told herself firmly, his closeness, the tall, tough strength of him standing within a hand's touch at the side of the bed. It was the drink she had had, nothing else. It was the drink that made her act impulsively, rising and resting her hand on his folded arms. It was the drink, too, that brought an uncharacteristic humility into her eyes and a submissive pleading to her voice as she said, 'I

wouldn't trouble you if you left us alone, Mr Richmond. I'd give no more parties, I'd be as quiet as—as a butterfly. I'd do anything to please you -' She saw the stiffening of his body, the gritting of the jaw, the strange look enter the brown eyes. He loosened his arms and came slowly towards her. She saw him coming and her heart hammered. His hands came to rest on the pillow, one on each side of her head, and she felt the bed give under his weight as he lowered himself beside her. While his mouth moved towards hers he held her eyes. If she had wanted to repulse him, now was the time, but she gave no sign of discouragement. When his mouth hit hers, the kiss was hard but not cruel. Now she knew, she thought hazily, what the touch of those lips was like. She did not feel angry, as she knew she should have done. She experienced instead a treacherous rejoicing. 'My word,' he murmured, scanning her face, 'you're a tempting little witch! If I thought you really knew what you were saying, if I thought you were aware of the invitation you're giving me -' Invitation? she thought bemusedly. What invitation? His mouth came down again, harder and more demanding, as if the temptation of her parted lips was too great for him to resist. Then, as if he were imposing some limit on his own actions, he rose and regarded her, hands in pockets. His eyes strayed over the lownecked, knee-length party dress. He considered the rise and fall of her breasts as she waited, waited for his verdict. She did not flinch from his regard, intimate and masculine though it was. Had she succeeded, she thought excitedly, had she talked him into allowing them to stay? Surely, with that look in his eyes, his mood had softened and he was slowly, even if reluctantly, reconsidering his decision and yielding to her pleas?

Sitting up, she swung her legs round until her feet made contact with the floor. He moved back a few paces to give her room in the confined space of the cabin—and his foot came to rest on something. He looked down and bent to pick up the object his heel was damaging. Doranne's heart turned over. It was the sketch Ashley had made of her. When she had thrown it away it must have hit the waste paper basket and fallen to the floor. Now the sketch was in the hands of Kieran Richmond and his eyes, hard now and scathing, were examining the picture Ashley had drawn. Disgust had taken the place of the softness by the time those eyes lifted and rested on her. Dismayed, she said quickly, 'I know what you're thinking, but you're quite wrong. He drew that from his imagination. Only the face is me...' But Kieran Richmond was not listening. To anyone who was seeking it, the picture was an indictment of her morals. It seemed, by the way he looked at her, that his mind was ripping her to pieces. A revenge, she supposed miserably, for the way she had fought him constantly over the boat. 'I see,' he rasped, 'how you go out of your way to please your boyfriend.' She shook her head, but again her denial had no effect. His eyes narrowed. 'I recall how, a week or so ago, you promised me "anything I wanted" if I let you stay. Just now you said you would "do anything" to please me. Was that, in fact, what you were trying to do, with your sweet words, your heart-rending pleas and your subtle invitation? Selling yourself to me so as to make me change my mind?' His teeth clamped together. 'I'm sorry,' he crushed the picture, throwing it down, 'but for once you're up against consumer resistance. The goods on sale are too cheap!'

He swung out of the cabin and strode away towards the stairs.

Next morning, the sun shone as if all the world was happy and free of cares. Doranne, as she made her way up the steps to the living area, clung with both hands to the rails. She felt as though all those cares had been drawn inside her like dust into a vacuum cleaner, leaving the world outside sweet and clean and fresh. Her head ached, her spirits drooped and her appetite for breakfast was non-existent. Her unbelieving eyes took in, with difficulty, the fact that every trace of the party had been cleared. Glasses had been washed and put away— some in the wrong place, she noted, but what did it matter? There was not an empty bottle, nor a full ashtray in sight. She supposed she had Kieran Richmond to thank for that. These must have been the instructions he had given Ashley before he had swept her so unceremoniously down to her cabin. Her father, who was already busy with his work at one end of the table, told her she looked tired and asked if she had enjoyed her party. It was enjoyable, she told him. Well, it was, she thought, for all the others. She set the breakfast at the other end of the table from which her father was working. She hoped he did not notice how little she ate. She also hoped that he would say, as he sometimes did, Don't bother to collect the post this morning. I'll go. But he was so absorbed in his work, he scarcely heard her when she told him she was off to the house for the mail. Mr Kennard, the house manager, greeted her as she opened the kitchen door. She looked quickly round the room, but there was no sign of the owner. She supposed he considered it beneath his dignity to enter the domestic quarters.

Mrs Kennard, at the cooker, turned momentarily and smiled. Doranne, with her stomach only half filled with a meagre breakfast, found the smell of the food Mrs Kennard was cooking too overpowering to resist. She went to stand beside her and heard Mr Kennard say, 'Three letters for your father, Miss Grayson. They're on the table.' She sent an absent-minded 'thanks' over her shoulder and continued to watch the sizzling sausages in the pan. Mrs Kennard laughed out loud, her plump form shaking with amusement. 'Anyone would think,' she said, 'your father didn't give you enough housekeeping money and half-starved you.' 'Half-starves herself, more likely,' said Mr Kennard behind their backs. 'I know these young girls and their diets.' 'Who—who's that for, Mrs Kennard?' Doranne asked. 'For you and your husband?' 'Most of this lot's for Mr Richmond, plus some eggs and toast.' Doranne said with a trace of sourness, 'He doesn't starve himself, that's for sure.' There was the sound of a door opening as Mr Kennard left them. 'Mrs Kennard,' Doranne whispered, 'do you—do you think I could have one? Just one little sausage? They look so delicious and I— well, I didn't have much time for breakfast.' 'My dear child,' said Mrs Kennard, 'we can't have you going off hungry to work. Here, take one. I doubt if Mr Richmond will miss it from his plate. They're hot, mind, so use a fork.' , But Doranne did not bother to find a fork. She was too anxious to get the fat, brown, bursting sausage into her mouth. She said 'Ouch!' as

the heat burnt her fingers and she took a bite which virtually cut the sausage in half. 'Seen the local paper, Miss Grayson?' Mr Kennard asked, entering the kitchen and spreading the newspaper on the table. 'A friend of yours, isn't he, this young man? Saw him go past the kitchen last night on his way to your boat.' Holding the remaining piece of sausage, Doranne went to the table and looked at a photograph of Ashley Storey. 'Yes, I know him well.' 'Won a prize or something,' Mrs Kennard said. Doranne sat down and read the article attached to the picture. 'Yes,' she told them, 'first prize in an art competition. He's good, you know. He deserved to win. He sold four paintings at the shop yesterday, which is why we had that party last night—to celebrate.' She lifted the remaining piece of sausage to her mouth. 'He -' 'Making yourself at home in my kitchen, Miss Grayson?' Kieran Richmond stood at the door. His eyes held their customary hardness but bore also just a trace of familiarity and insult as they skimmed over her from head to foot. But how, she asked herself, could she have expected anything else from him? Only a few hours before she had been in his arms, 'offering herself', as he had so contemptuously called it. Mrs Kennard, missing the acidity of the tone over the sizzling of the breakfast, took his comment as a joke. 'We were just showing Miss Grayson a picture of her friend— you know, Mr Richmond, that artist who won a prize. He's a good painter, Miss Grayson says.' 'Good at sketching, too,' said Kieran Richmond, his eyes narrow, 'from life. Isn't he, Miss Grayson?'

Doranne, who was chewing the last of the sausage—one that he should have eaten—could only nod. 'The poor girl,' said Mrs Kennard, slipping the finished egg on to the plate, 'she came sidling up to me like a kitten wanting stroking and begging for a sausage. I couldn't refuse. You won't miss it, will you, Mr Richmond? She's half- starved, that girl.' 'Is she?' The eyes went on their journey of her shapeliness again, even more insultingly this time. 'Not in my opinion. She's ripe for the picking. You've only got to reach out, pull and she's yours, succulent and inviting, in your hand.' Doranne, incensed at the deeper meaning which Mrs Kennard could not detect, rose and seized the pile of letters from the table. Mrs Kennard laughed. 'My goodness, you're in good form this morning, Mr Richmond!' From the door Doranne said, 'I'm sorry about eating one of your sausages, Mr Richmond. You'll have to add the cost of it to the rent you're going to charge us for living in the houseboat, won't you?' She watched the anger she had provoked begin to deepen the brown of his eyes and ducked out of the back door, her father's letters clasped in her hand. That afternoon, Mrs Beaumont sold two more of Ashley's paintings. She phoned him to tell him the good news and he came to the shop at once with another painting under his arm. The picture was covered in brown paper and he put it carefully on the counter. 'Sorry about last night, Doranne,' he said. 'We didn't want to get you into trouble with your landlord. Did he turn nasty after he'd taken you downstairs?'

Nasty? Doranne coloured at the memory and turned away to busy herself with some pottery. 'No,' she said airily, 'not at all.' 'That's just as well,' said Mrs Beaumont. 'They're already under notice to quit.' 'Is that so?' Ashley's face creased in sympathy. 'Where will you go, Doranne?' 'Nowhere. We're not moving.' 'Couldn't he have you evicted?' Doranne pursed her lips. 'Let him try!' Ashley tutted and shook his head. 'If necessary,' said Mrs Beaumont cheerfully, 'she and her father will have to come and sleep in the shop.' 'Talking of Doranne's father,' Ashley said, uncovering the painting he had put on the counter, 'here he is.' Doranne swung round eagerly. 'Where? My father? You've painted my father?' Ashley held up the painting for her to see. 'Why, that's great, Ashley.' Tears came into her eyes at the likeness. 'How—how did you manage to paint him so well? The expression's right, the lines under his eyes, the wrinkles...' She drew a breath. 'If only I could afford to buy it, Ashley. How—how much is it?' 'Well, honey, much as I love you,' Ashley smiled lightly, and she knew he did not really mean it, 'it's expensive. I have to earn my living and—well -' He thought a moment. 'Look, I'll let you borrow it and take it home for a day. How's that for generosity?'

Doranne shook her head. 'I wouldn't dare. It might get damaged. But thanks for the thought.' 'Bring him in to see it,' Mrs Beaumont offered. She looked at the price on the back. 'Ashley's right—it's expensive, dear, which means that it won't sell as quickly as some of his others. As long as you bring your father soon, it should still be here.' 'He was a good subject,' Ashley said. 'He's got a certain out-of-thisworld look that I was determined to capture. And that academic air, that look of learnedness and wisdom.' 'It's all there,' Doranne said. 'The way his white hair touches his collar, the stoop of his shoulders -' She looked up. 'How did you do it, Ashley?' Ashley shrugged. 'Observation, memory, imagination.' Ashley's imagination—the trouble that had got her into! As they lingered over their meal that evening, Doranne told her father about the painting. 'It's so like you, Father. You must come and see it. But come quickly, Mrs Beaumont said, because it might be sold.' She frowned. 'I'd buy it for us if I could, but we just couldn't afford so much money.' 'I'm honoured, my dear, truly honoured that Ashley has painted me.' Carlile's eyes were moist. 'Tell him that, will you?' 'Come tomorrow afternoon,' Doranne told him, 'just after the lunch break. I have my meal at the local cafe from twelve till one, then I take over from Mrs Beaumont. If you come just after one o'clock, I'll be there.'

'Mr Grayson?' Doranne's head shot round. Her father's moved more slowly. There he stood, Kieran Richmond, relaxed, hand in pocket, dressed with executive care as if he had just returned from his working day in London—which, Doranne reflected, he probably had. It looked as though he had been standing there for hours and had almost certainly overheard their conversation. He was sorry, he said, for having taken them by surprise. He had called out but received no reply. 'I heard your voices and guessed where you would be.' 'You're welcome on board any time, Mr Richmond,' Carlile Grayson said. 'Please sit down.' He motioned to the bench seat, the fabric of which was torn here and there. 'I do apologise,' Carlile went on, 'for the state of the table, but we've only just finished our evening meal.' Kieran waved his hand as if it was of no consequence. 'I'm sorry, too,' Doranne said with a tight smile, 'that we don't dine in the state to which you're accustomed. No candlelight, no silver, no crystal glasses, no servants to wait on us.' She saw their guest's lips tighten, but she smiled boldly at him. She also ignored her father's agitated movements. 'You see, we live in a different world from you, not your artificial world, but the real world.' 'When you've seen the way I live, Miss Grayson,' Kieran Richmond responded crisply, 'you will be qualified to pass comments and make criticisms. Until then, I think it would be wiser if you were to suspend judgment on my way of life.' The turn of his head dismissed her. 'Mr Grayson, is there somewhere we could go? I should like to talk to you privately,' with a meaningful glance at Doranne, 'without fear of untimely interruption.'

Doranne rose, colouring deeply. 'Don't disturb yourself, Father. I'll go. Mr Richmond has made it abundantly clear that I'm not wanted.' With shoulders as straight, in the circumstances, as she could make them, she walked outside. It was a mild spring evening, but Doranne was not aware of it. Inside her was an emotional storm of such strength it darkened to winter greyness all the blossom and the new, young leaves. Was this the end, Doranne wondered as she walked away, was it an ultimatum? Had Kieran Richmond decided to by-pass the solicitor after all, and make the direct, and final, approach himself?

CHAPTER FOUR HER desperate fingers gripped the rail which ran around the boat. Her unseeing eyes stared at the people strolling along the towpath on the opposite bank of the river. All around the water was still, reflecting the pearl-blue sky, the tree nearby with its bough stretching out like a reaching arm over the river and on which Doranne sometimes sat, skimming the water with her bare toes. A family of ducks passed by, mother, father and offspring, leaving feather trails in the water. Even they have a home, Doranne thought, tears welling up, a nest where they live, eat, sleep. Soon, they will be better off than we are. For a long time Doranne stood there, hearing the murmur of voices from inside the boat, wondering what the discussion was about. As the sun sank behind the line of trees, the air grew chill. Doranne moved her hands at last from the metal rail—some of the rust came away on her fingers—and she brushed away the tears. When footsteps, too firm to be those of her father, came through the door, she did not turn because she could not bring herself to look at her landlord's face. She was afraid of what she might read there. 'Miss Grayson?' She resolutely kept her back to him. 'Doranne?' The voice was soft and to her dismay, her heart turned over at the sound of her name on his lips. 'If I speak to you, will you be reasonable?' Now she swung round and unhappiness made her lip tremble and her voice thick. 'Be reasonable, when my home is about to be taken from under my feet?'

He made a movement, half impatient, half long-suffering. He said bluntly, 'Your father has agreed to leave the boat and come and live under my roof.' 'He can't have agreed,' she said wildly. 'He said he'd stay with me -' 'He has agreed, Doranne.' 'So you've managed to coerce him at last, the granite hand in the lambswool glove. Force under the gender name of persuasion—get out or else!' His eyes held hers steadily. In the increasing darkness, she could not read them, but she sensed they were hard and steadfastly determined, holding not an atom of compunction at turning two of his tenants from his property. 'Aren't you being just a little precipitate in your judgment?' he asked quietly. 'There are at your disposal -' 'Leave me out of it,' she stormed. 'At your disposal,' he continued levelly, 'a suite of rooms. Your meals will be cooked for you by Mrs Kennard -' 'No, thank you. You won't persuade me. When you've gone, I'll talk to my father and he'll change his mind.' He walked across the deck to stand beside her. 'I want to ask you something, Doranne. Have you looked—really looked—at your father lately? Have you not seen that he looks ill?' Doranne balled a fist at her chest, feeling the frightened throbbing beneath. 'He's only just over sixty,' Kieran went on, 'yet he looks years older. When I challenged him, he confessed that lately he hasn't felt himself to be in full health.'

Doranne moistened her lips. 'He didn't tell me,' she whispered. 'He didn't want to worry you.' She bowed her head, regretting deeply her father's apparent lack of confidence in her. 'I'm sorry,' she said quietly. 'I didn't know. It was terrible of me to be so blind.' 'You're young.' So he was making excuses for her? That she could neither accept nor tolerate. If she admitted to herself that this man possessed humanity and compassion, it would mean that she could no longer fight him, and fight him she must. It was her only protection. She remembered with too much pleasure for her peace of mind the feel of his arms around her, his mouth on hers... 'I'm staying, Mr Richmond.' Her eyes, quietly determined, sought his in the last rays of the setting sun. 'My father can go if he likes. You won't get me off this boat. I won't agree to live under your roof, accepting your way of life, being fed by you -' He did not hear her out. He swung away and walked off the boat, up the sloping lawn and into the darkness.

'I'm sorry, Doranne,' her father said later. 'I'm truly sorry to let you down. I know how deeply you feel about our home here.' 'I should be apologising, Father,' she said, bending to kiss his cheek, 'for not noticing your state of health.' What needles me, she thought, but did not say, is that Kieran Richmond saw it but I, your daughter, did not.

'Sometimes,' her father said, 'there are things about those closest to us that we don't wish to see, therefore we don't see them.' Doranne laughed. 'You wouldn't be getting at me, would you? My bad temper, for instance?' 'You're not bad-tempered, my dear, not normally so. You're fighting for one of man's most primitive needs— territory of his own in which to live. Unfortunately,' he sighed, 'I'm unable to give you a proper roof over your head. But never mind,' he smiled, 'soon we -' 'You, Father.' She paused, hoping he would not be too upset by what she was about to tell him. 'I'm not going with you. I'm staying.' His eyes opened. 'But, my dear, Mr Richmond included -' 'I told him I wouldn't be joining you.' 'And what did he say to that?' 'Nothing. He just walked away.' 'It can only be a matter of time, Doranne, before he has you physically evicted. The law is on his side. You understand that, don't you?' 'Only too well. I wouldn't put it past him to do the "physical evicting" himself—and delighting in it.' She remembered the roughness of his arms as he had swept her into them on the night of the party and taken her to her cabin. Next day Doranne told her employer, 'My father is coming in just after one o'clock today, when I'm back from lunch break, to see the picture Ashley painted of him.'

'I'm so glad, dear. It's a wonderful likeness. What a pity you can't afford to buy it for him. It would be such a delightful surprise, wouldn't it?' 'Well, at least he can see it. Mrs Beaumont,' her employer looked up, 'when someone does buy it, do you think you could ask them their name and where they live?' Mrs Beaumont laughed heartily. 'So that you can be sure it has gone to a good home?' Doranne smiled at her own foolishness. 'Well, yes, I suppose so.' Even though she hurried with her lunch, returning to the shop a few minutes early, her father was there before her. He sat in the customer's chair, while Mrs Beaumont talked to him from behind the counter. They both looked strangely serious. 'What's wrong?' Doranne asked. Eagerly, to her father, 'Have you seen the painting?' 'No, Doranne,' said Mrs Beaumont, 'he hasn't. You see,' she paused, eyeing her assistant a little doubtfully, 'someone came in and bought it while you were away at lunch.' Doranne frowned. 'Someone bought it? So quickly? But it was terribly expensive. Who -?' 'Mr Richmond, my dear,' her father said. Doranne turned pale. 'That man? But—but why?' Carlile shook his head as if the reason was beyond him. 'He must have heard us discussing it on the boat last night. You remember we didn't hear him arrive?'

'I know why he did it!' Doranne said, her voice rising. 'To deprive us of something else we love—and without even letting you see it first. How could he?' 'You're judging him hastily, Doranne,' her father warned. 'After all, I was his father's closest friend. Perhaps that was in his mind. Who knows?' 'You think he's really as altruistic as that?' 'He's not as selfish as you make out, you know,' Carlile said. 'Well,' said Mrs Beaumont brightly, plainly hoping to calm her assistant, 'Ashley is the one to benefit, isn't he? And, Doranne, you must admit—it's gone to a good home!' After work, on her way back to the boat, Mr Kennard called to Doranne that some mail had arrived by the day's second post. As she stepped into the kitchen to get the letter, once again an intriguing smell of cooking tantalised her nostrils. Mrs Kennard was busy making an enticing cheesecake. She was surrounded by food, both cooked and uncooked. 'Surely,' Doranne commented, looking round, 'Mr Richmond isn't going to eat all this himself?' Mrs Kennard laughed. 'He's giving a dinner party.' 'For friends and acquaintances,' her husband explained. 'He's been invited out to dinner so often since he came to live here, he decided it was time he gave one to return all the hospitality he's received.' A dinner party. Doranne's muscles tightened. Something she had never attended, out of her sphere, out of her world. But it was his world, as different from hers as fire from snow. The two could never

meet. She didn't want them to, she told herself fiercely. Hers was the simple life, his the sophisticated, the cultivated, the gracious. 'Would you like to see the dinner table?' Mr Kennard asked. 'It's a real picture. Ever been in the dining-room?' Doranne shook her head. 'Not even when old Mr Richmond was alive?' 'Not even then. I only came into the hall or the drawing- room to call my father to come for his meal.' 'It looks so good,' said Mrs Kennard proudly, 'it's fine enough for royalty. Here,' she went to a table along the kitchen wall, 'take this with you, dear. I'm always feeding you, aren't I?' With eager fingers, Doranne took the savoury in aspic which Mrs Kennard offered her. Holding it, she followed Mr Kennard into the hall, through a heavy wooden door and into the dining-room. It was indeed, as Mr Kennard had said, 'a real picture'. Places had been set for twelve, five along both sides and one at each end, for the host and, presumably, the hostess. Who, Doranne wondered, with an oddly painful twist of her thoughts, would fill that place? She bit into the savoury and delighted in the taste of it. Yes, there on the table were the silver candlesticks she had so contemptuously dismissed in one of her quarrels with Kieran Richmond, there were the sparkling crystal glasses, the dark polished wood of the table, the bright gold place mats. 'Eating my food again, Miss Grayson?' So Kieran Richmond had caught her a second time! 'For someone who, only yesterday, refused the opportunity of, I quote, "being fed by me", you seem to seize every opportunity which offers itself of helping yourself to any food of mine that comes your way.'

Mr Kennard went a little red. 'It was our fault really, sir. We didn't think you'd mind us giving Miss Grayson here just a morsel now and then. My wife -' 'If you think this girl needs fattening up, Mr Kennard,' was the dry reply, 'go ahead. Although in my opinion -' his eyes made a detailed survey of her contour, 'no, I'll keep my opinion to myself. What I was objecting to was Miss Grayson's acceptance, when only last night she—as it were—threw the food I offered her back in my face.' Mr Kennard looked puzzled and edged to the door. 'If you wouldn't mind coming back into the kitchen, Miss Grayson...' Doranne stuffed the last of the savoury into her mouth, chewed it sufficiently to speak and choked, 'Back into the kitchen, Mr Kennard, where in Mr Richmond's opinion I belong -' She broke off, sensing the need to remove herself with speed from the dark anger in Kieran Richmond's eyes. She raced through the hall, across the kitchen and out of the back door, before Mrs Kennard had time to turn from the cooker and see who it was.

It was a cool, dark evening. There was no light in the sky from moon or stars, just a blanket of cloud. Doranne had left her father packing for the move into the Richmond residence. It had upset her to see him doing so. She sighed, looking around at the black shapes of the trees which, here and there, leaned low over the water. Her father's departure from the rough and tumble of life on a houseboat was a turning point.

'Rough and tumble.' She looked down at herself. The phrase described the way she was dressed. Tonight she had drawn a thickknit brown jacket over casual red shirt and well-worn jeans which were, in places, a little mud-stained. Although she kept the boat meticulously clean, the tow- path and the surrounding land became muddy in wet weather. Doranne had run a comb through her hair but had not bothered to use any make-up. She was not going anywhere, she told herself. Anyway, she had not felt in the mood for dressing more carefully, not with her father leaving next day. He might be going only a garden's length away, but to her it might as well be the distance of a foreign land. She turned towards Kieran Richmond's house and wondered whether his dinner party had begun yet. No doubt the guests were arriving in their expensive cars and were accepting drinks from the helpers Mr Kennard told her he had recruited from among the local people. A dinner party —she closed her eyes and saw the flickering candles, the table heavy with food, velvet curtains—were they, she wondered, made of velvet?—pulled across to keep out the darkness. No, they were not pulled. The curtains remained open and the lights shone out on to the lawns and rose beds, turning the spring flowers into fragrant ghosts. They beckoned, those lights, in a strangely compelling way. Curiosity, plus a stirring of something else—was it, surely it couldn't be, longing?—caused her to accept that invitation. Up the steps from the mooring platform, up the slope of the lawn and on to the level, between the flower beds, nearer and nearer she crept. Crouching behind a rose bush, she lifted her head and peeped. Yes, they were entering the dining-room, seating themselves at the table, laughing, talking, wearing long dresses and evening suits. In a few moments she was sidling along the wall of the house towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. Flattening her back to the

brickwork, she peeped again, over her shoulder. She could see the host now, his coldly handsome face more animated and warm than she had ever dreamt it could be. He was taking his place at the head of the table, talking, glancing over his shoulder, glancing round. He seemed a little restless, as though something was troubling him and he could not discover the reason. Fascinated by the scene, Doranne stared—and found her eyes ensnared by those of the owner of the house himself. Then he looked away. Had he really not seen her? She held her breath and withdrew her head. He must have told himself he had imagined it, that it was a reflection he had seen, not a person at all. She stood with her hands in her pockets, half turned towards the light that shone from the windows, a huddled, unhappy figure, pitiful in its despondency. Pitiful? There was no pity in the hands that seized her from behind, no mercy in the way they gripped her arms until the pain and terror they were inflicting had her heart crashing and floundering under her ribs. She opened her mouth to scream and one of those hands covered it, forcing back her head so that she thought she would choke. Her head came to rest against a human pillar of stone, a man who grappled with her struggling body. Inside a few seconds she was helpless within the steel bands of his arms. Then he was pulling her round, a hand still over her mouth, and pushing her towards a side entrance to the house. She stumbled and he steadied her, not with gentleness but with an angry jerk. He pushed her through the door and it swung shut behind them. They were in a short corridor which led to a cloakroom. He pushed her into the cloakroom and they were surrounded by coats.

She knew the identity of the person who was manhandling her. Hadn't she once been in his arms? He closed the door and, with his hands gripping her shoulders, pressed her backwards against him. 'What are you after?' he rasped. 'For a young woman who repudiates my way of life, my background, my possessions, who heaps insults on me at every opportunity, who has cast me in the role of ruthless and unfeeling landlord throwing two helpless, homeless victims on to the streets, and who, moreover, has thrown back in my face the offer of my roof over her head, you seem to find my house extraordinarily fascinating.' She struggled to free herself from his savaging fingers. 'Let me go!' He ignored her plea. 'I'll—I'll behave, I promise.' Slowly his hold slackened and she was free, but he moved to stand with his back to the door, as if prepared in advance for any bid for freedom she might make. She rubbed her arms where he had maltreated them, then turned—and caught the full power of his magnetism. He towered above her, the dark shade of his formal dress emphasising the cold glint in his eyes. The long, rigid sweep of the jaw led inexorably to the cruel line of the mouth. Against the mental and physical strength of him she felt like a bird crashing itself in a gale against the granite hardness of a rock and dying just before reaching sanctuary. Should she tell him the truth? But how could she, when she didn't even know it herself? His eyes had not been still while she had been looking at him. He had noted the wind-blown hair, the colour in her cheeks which her struggle with him had put there. The scarlet shirt and mud-stained slacks had not escaped, either. Was he comparing her, she wondered, with the elegance of the women in his dining-room and deep down, laughing at her appearance and her plight?

'You—you bought my father's portrait.' It was an accusation and it came from nowhere into her mind. Anything to put him in the wrong! The eyebrows rose. 'So what if I did? This is a free country, is it not? I'd have thought you would have been pleased. Your boy-friend has benefited considerably from my patronage.' 'Of course he has, but that isn't the point. You know my father and I wanted to buy the portrait, but we hadn't got the money. You heard us talking about it yesterday when you came on board.' He inclined his head. 'I did hear you discussing it.' 'Then you should have known that my father was coming to see it. But you came and took it away before he had the chance.' He looked at her steadily. She threw at him, wishing for some strange reason to hurt him and uncaring of how much she provoked, 'You did it deliberately so as to deprive him of the chance of seeing it just for a few minutes. You can't deny it. That's why you timed it as well as you did, when I was out of the shop and just before you knew my father was coming in.' Her lip curled. 'How nasty can you get, Mr Richmond?' Anger sprang, tiger-like, into the brown eyes, warming them not with humanity and compassion but with a cold, punishing fury. 'How wrong can you get, Miss Grayson? You'll be sorry you made those wild accusations, my girl. You'll take back every single word before I've finished with you.' His hand shot out and grasped her wrist." A cry escaped her from the pain, but it did not move him to mercy. 'Come with me.' She had no alternative—he dragged her behind him, out of the door, across the hall and up the stairs. The landing branched in both directions, but he

did not pause to decide in which direction to go. He knew, and he took her with him. They turned to the left and he stopped at the first door along the corridor. He threw the door open and said, 'This will be your father's living-room. Take a good look, Miss Grayson. You won't see it often. You've banned yourself from my house, have you not? You'll hardly want to make a habit of coming into it to visit your father.' He raised his free hand and pointed. 'Two comfortable armchairs, one for himself, one for a friend. Or for me, if he ever wants to play chess with me as he did with my father. A folding table in the corner. A coffee table, good quality carpet, new curtains, bookcase, desk for his work. And here,' he swung her round towards the fireplace, 'the piece de resistance, the portrait of him which your talented boy-friend painted, the picture you accused me so spitefully of stealing from under your father's very nose. I bought it for him, Miss Grayson. I've had it hung already. I said nothing about it because it was meant to be a surprise, a gift of welcome when he comes to live under my roof.' He swung her to face him. 'Now will you apologise? Now will you say you're sorry?' Doranne's head drooped. Not a word would come from her lips. 'Say you're sorry, Miss Grayson.' His voice was like ice. 'Take back every single foul accusation you made against me downstairs. You're not leaving this room until you retract every word.' Doranne could not raise her head. She shook it slowly, opened her mouth to speak, but still nothing would come. There was a lump in her throat which proved to be an insurmountable barrier. From deep inside her there rose a great flood of feeling and with it came, too, a

revelation which brought both exultation—and dismay. This man was both her enemy, and the man she loved! Now she could understand the reason for her reluctance to accept his offer to live in his house. How could she, in the circumstances, run the risk of meeting him every day, whenever she crossed the hall, went to work, came home? With her hand pressed to her throat she endeavoured to stifle a sob, but it came from her depths and shook her body. Her head turned away from him and she moved her hand to cover her face. At all costs she must hide the tears. 'Please let me go,' she said thickly, but she remained his prisoner. He had demanded her apologies and these, it seemed, he was utterly resolved to get. Fingers caught at her chin and pulled her head round. 'Have I got to force them from you?' 'You're—I'm—please...' Nothing coherent would come, only tears which streamed down her face and the sobs which convulsed her frame. Then, in a mysterious, unaccountable way, her cheek was against his chest and his arms were holding her to him. 'I'm s-sorry, I'm t-truly sorry. I t-take back everything I s-said. Please forgive me...' 'Enough,' he whispered, 'enough. Be quiet now.' His face rested momentarily on her hair, her untidy, richly black hair. 'Stop it, do you hear? Stop crying, Doranne.' 'You made me,' she sobbed, 'it was your f-fault -' She checked herself. Even now the old enmity persisted. Resentment still reared its unpleasant head, dividing them inexorably, despite the selfrevelation which had taken the breath from her lungs and the powers

of speech from her lips. What was the use? she thought despairingly. They lived, thought, existed on different planes. He let her fresh accusations go, felt in his pocket and lifted her chin, more gently this time, to dry her tears. Unbelievably, he stopped a moment. His head lowered and he met her upturned lips with his own. They rested, lingered, tasted, lifted and came back yet again. It was like someone taking an experimental bite of a new, untried food, a foreign dish perhaps, with an intriguing name and a challenge to a dulled palate—dulled by the kisses of countless women. He was tantalising her with his kisses. One by one he was breaking down the barriers she had built against him. There was his kindness to her father, his thoughtfulness and generosity in buying the portrait, and now his commiseration for the brutal way he had expressed his anger against her and for having forced from her the halting apology— and then reducing her to tears. No,- she could not forgive him. She could not, for her heart's sake, afford to forgive him, despite the sympathy— the passing sympathy—he was showing her now. The barriers remained intact, irremovable and higher than ever. She pulled herself together. It was an effort, but she managed it. 'I'm sure,' she said, moving away from his arms, 'my father will be delighted by your charity, your -' the words she chose must hurt him, 'your condescension in making him a gift of the portrait. Do you,' she put an invisible hand over the voices in her head which urged her to stop, 'do you require anything in—in payment?' Her moist eyes challenged him. 'Do you want me to—to sell myself to you again, as you so insultingly called it the other day?'

His hand lifted as if, in spite of himself, he was about to strike her. Instead, he diverted its direction and reclaimed possession of her arm. He was pale now and in complete control. 'One of these days,' he grated, 'you'll learn what it is to be mastered, woman, in a way you'll never forget!' She lifted her head and with burning cheeks she said, 'May I go now?' 'No, you may not. I haven't finished with you yet.' He led her down the stairs, keeping a few paces in front of her. They crossed the hall and reached the dining-room door. As he lifted his hand to open it, Doranne protested, 'You can't—you can't take me in there!' But he pulled her in behind him. The room, when she had seen it earlier, had been empty, silent and waiting. Now it had come to life. There was the chattering of the guests, the rustle of material, bursts of laughter. But all noise stopped, heads turned, eyes widened as their host appeared with his captive. The women's expressions became pitying, vaguely irritated or even slightly contemptuous. The men, seeing Doranne's youth, her casual and—against the elegance of their wives—her careless form of dress, her bright, frightened eyes which the tears had been unable to dim, were frankly admiring and, here and there, touched with fleeting desire. But Doranne, in her distressed state, did not perceive this. She saw only the contrast between her own dishevelled state and the dinnergowns, the carefully-tended hairstyles and the poise of the women guests. She saw a blur of faces, smelt the perfume, the cigarette smoke and the heady scent of wine which the crystal glasses held.

There, too, at the other end of the table, was the answer to the question Doranne had asked herself earlier. Elvina Milne, Kieran Richmond's neighbour and also, apparently, his friend, was acting as his hostess. Kieran's hand slid down Doranne's arm to find her hand. She was too dazed to take evasive action as his fingers closed tightly over hers. So they stood, linked like lovers, in front of the roomful of guests. He held up their joined hands. 'See, my friends,' he said, 'the reason for my sudden disappearance. May I introduce the girl who lives in my houseboat moored on the river? If it weren't dark, you could see it from the windows there.' Heads turned momentarily, but their attention returned at once to inspect the newcomer with greater interest. The women's eyes had assumed a different, rather knowing expression. The men's held a hint of envy as their host's words conjured up dreams of a freedom which was no longer theirs. One of the men grinned. 'Not the proverbial fairy at the bottom of your garden, Kieran, but a nymph!' Kieran laughed. 'You're right, Jeremy—a water nymph.' The laughter became general and Doranne wanted to creep out of the door and run to the sanctuary of the kitchen. From the look on the face of Kieran's friend and neighbour, the domestic quarters, Doranne thought, were where it was considered she belonged. Elvina's eyes, as they rested on Doranne, were filled with a cold, angry outrage. The implication behind Kieran's words began to percolate through to Doranne's dazed mind. She lived, he had told them, in his houseboat at the end of his garden. And she was there, the implication was unmistakable, whenever he required her, for him to visit whenever he wished, day or night...

Her eyes blazed at him, but he said with a mocking smile, 'Doranne, meet my friends. Elvina,' his neighbour inclined her head stiffly, 'I believe you have already met. Jeremy and Joyce Hazlitt from the rowing club of which I'm a member, Donald Springer and his wife, Connie -' Kieran went round the table and when he had mentioned the names of all his guests he pulled Doranne even closer to his side. 'This, my friends, is Doranne Grayson, my tenant and my -' He paused and turned his head to smile at her. He had had no intention, Doranne was convinced, of finishing the sentence, leaving the meaning hanging on the air. 'Your nymph,' prompted the man called Jeremy, who had described her thus a few moments before. 'Please—please excuse me,' said Doranne, speaking for the first time. 'I'm—' she looked down at her clothes, 'I'm hardly dressed for such exalted company. I—I was out for a walk and -' With her eyes she dared Kieran to dispute her statement. The women smiled, the men laughed, pleased by the sound of her voice, her halting words and the elusively untouched air about her. 'We like the looks she gives you, Kieran,' said Donald Springer. 'Keep him in order, Miss Grayson. He needs a firm feminine hand in his life to keep him in his place.' As if, Doranne thought with dismay, she had the right to do any such thing! He had given them the wrong impression, intentionally so, judging by the taunting smile on his face. He let her go at last and she made for the door, closing it behind her and hearing the burst of conversation which followed. As she made

her way back to the boat, she hugged herself tightly. A strange trembling had taken hold of her. It wasn't true, she told herself distractedly, the revelation that had hit her back in the house after he had caught her. She hated him, she didn't love him. How could a woman love her enemy?

CHAPTER FIVE AFTER Doranne had left for work next day, Carlile moved into Kieran Richmond's house. Doranne had not told her father about the gift of the painting. No doubt, she thought as she walked slowly home, he had discovered it by now. She imagined his pleasure and a great swell of wretchedness overcame her. She should, of course, be happy for her father, but the comfort that would be his from now on, instead of pleasing her, only served to emphasise the shortcomings of the home in which she would now be living alone. For him there would be a strong roof above his head and a solid floor beneath his feet. For her only the impermanence of an ageing boat on the river, at the mercy of the elements and with little more than primitive heating and cooking facilities. At night, there would be the creaking, restless movement of the vessel as it shifted in the wind. With her father as her constant companion, such things had passed her by. The boat had been their home and she had taken the discomforts—undoubtedly there were many —for granted. Life had been like a continuous holiday, a picnic with no end. Now, as she stepped down on to the deck, the emptiness hit her like a freak wave overturning a rowing boat. Such was the force of her feelings, she had to stop in her tracks and make a conscious effort to cling to her resolution to remain there, however much pressure Kieran Richmond might put on her to abandon ship, however much the comforts of his home might call. After her evening meal, Doranne decided to visit her father in his new surroundings. She changed into jeans and a white ribbed top, combed her hair until it crackled and put on a touch of make-up. If she asked herself why she had bothered so much with her appearance

she did not even attempt to find an answer. It had nothing to do with the possibility of meeting the owner of the house. She entered Water's Edge through the kitchen. As usual, Mr Kennard and his wife gave her a warm welcome. There was the smell of cooking in the air and Mrs Kennard held up a newly-baked biscuit. Looking with longing at the tray filled with them, Doranne shook her head. She could not risk meeting Kieran Richmond for a third time 'eating his food', as he called it. 'When you come back, perhaps,' Mrs Kennard said, and Doranne nodded vaguely. She crept across the hall looking neither right nor left, aware that here and there doors stood half open. Up the stairs, to the left, was her father's room. She tapped on the door and at his invitation she walked in. To Doranne's relief, he was alone. She went across to him and, in a totally childish gesture, put her arms round him and rested her forehead on his shoulder. It was as though she had not seen him for years and it was as much as she could do to hold back the tears. They stood thus for a few moments and when Doranne drew back at last, her father did not speak. In his quiet way he understood and knew that words could not convey one to the other the depth of their affection. Then he pointed to the painting which hung in splendour above the fireplace. Doranne, who, of course, had known about it, was forced to control her emotions and simulate surprise and pleasure. With an effort she succeeded, but even if she hadn't her father, in his delight, would not have noticed. 'Kieran—we call each other by our first names now, my dear— Kieran bought it for me. A wonderful gesture, I thought. He's

generosity itself, Doranne, just like his father. When I asked him why, he said, "For old times' sake." It was no more, he said, than his father would have done. My dear Doranne,' he showed his concern now, 'I truly wish you would come and join me here. What's the use of clinging to the boat now? It's old and -' 'And I love it, Father. It's no use trying to persuade me. Mr Richmond can keep his generosity.' Carlile frowned. 'But you got on well with his father and they're so alike. Why this enmity towards his son?' He shook his head, sighing. Such complicated things as tortured human emotions, were beyond the clever simplicity of his mind. Doranne did not stay long with her father. Had she done so she would, she was certain, have been seduced by the sheer comfort and elegance of the place into surrendering to Kieran Richmond's invitation to make her home in his house. Her father asked her to share his evening meal. He was not sure, he said, where he would be eating. It would either be there in his living-room or downstairs with Kieran. Kieran! she thought as she closed her father's door. How strange it sounded to hear her father speak of their landlord as though he were a friend. How strange, her mind whispered, the name would sound on her own lips. She tested the name, murmuring it as she went down the stairs. It stirred in her feelings which threatened her peace of mind, so she stilled her lips and pressed them resolutely together. It was a name that was banned from them for ever. When she reached the hall, she paused and eyed the half- opened doors. One, she knew, was the dining-room. The others? In any one of them Kieran Richmond might be lurking, so she crept across the hall towards the kitchen— only to stop, transfixed by the sight of the owner of the house staring at her from inside one of the rooms.

It appeared to be a study because it was an office chair he sat in, a chair he had swung round at the sound of her muffled footsteps. His eyes were oddly accusing, as if she had committed a crime. 'I'm—I'm sorry to be in your house again,' she said, 'but I—well, I was only visiting my father and I didn't think you'd -' He came to stand at the door. 'You can visit your father whenever you wish. I have never denied you access to my house.' 'Thanks,' she replied carelessly, 'but I don't suppose it will be often.' His eyebrows lifted at her attitude but he moved aside, gesturing with his hand. 'Come in.' She shook her head. 'You're working, so -' 'I was, until a pair of feet creeping on tiptoe disturbed me.' He smiled, but she did not reciprocate. How clever he was at putting her in the wrong! In the study he put a hand on Doranne's shoulder, turning her until she faced the wall opposite his desk. On it hung her own painting of the houseboat, the painting Kieran had bought from Mrs Beaumont's shop a few weeks before. 'You see,' he smiled, 'I didn't hang it in a prominent position as you prophesied, in order to give my guests something to "laugh at", which is what I think you said when I bought it?' 'No,' she responded flatly, 'you didn't. You hid it away here, instead.' He lifted his shoulders. 'Think whatever you like.' She looked around her and he said sarcastically, 'Yes, I work for my living. You probably thought that with all my "riches" I played my life away, and that I'm living here on permanent vacation from my job. Maybe it

will upset your totally wrong ideas of me to know that when I'm not working in London—travelling there every day by train—I'm working here in my home surroundings. Tell me, did you think I was a playboy?' Doranne frowned, uncertain of how to reply. She did indeed think he was, but she shrank from telling him so. He smiled, but without humour. 'Your face gives you away.' 'Well, if I did, it was your father who, probably unintentionally, gave that impression. He said -' 'What did he say?' She wished she didn't have to finish the sentence, but his compelling eyes forced her to reply. 'He said you had women by the dozen.' There was a taut silence. Doranne stole a look at him. 'Isn't it true?' she whispered. For some reason the answer was very important. 'I fail to see,' he answered curtly, 'how the way I conduct my private life has any bearing on my ability to organise an internationallyknown company.' So, she thought unhappily, he did not deny his father's assertion. 'What my father did not tell you, Miss Grayson,' he went on, 'was that he, my father, was no businessman in any sense and under his control, the company was going slowly but surely downhill. It wasn't until one of the directors of the firm sent for me urgently when my father died that I discovered just what a mess the business was in. I took over the top job and by my own efforts I have got the company on its feet again. I've worked virtually twenty-four hours of the day securing contracts all over the world. Regretfully, I'm unable to tell my father of the excellent result of my almost superhuman efforts.

And if that sounds like boasting, I'll show you figures to prove my point.' 'I wouldn't understand them if you did,' she said. 'But I—I believe you. Now, do you mind if I go home?' 'Home,' he said softly, but his voice held a touch of warning. 'How long are you going to cling oh to your "sinking ship", Miss Grayson?' 'Sinking?' She turned pale. 'What do you mean?' 'I used the word in the metaphorical sense, but as I'm sure you're aware—you've been told so often by me, by the surveyor and by your father—that the boat is decaying where it stands, that one day before very long it simply won't be habitable.' 'So,' with a feeling of dismay she looked at him, 'you still intend to get rid of me?' 'That's a strong expression, Miss Grayson. Get you out would, I think, be more appropriate.' Would nothing deflect this man from his course once he had made up his mind?

It was after her evening meal that the loneliness crept up on her. It invaded her mind, slowing her movements and bringing a numbing dejection to her limbs. She washed the dishes—there were few enough of those now there was only herself to cater for—and wandered up on deck. It was necessary, she felt, to get off the boat in order to find peace of mind. She walked towards the overhanging bough, sat on it and moved carefully sideways until she reached the centre. The evening

sunshine played over her drooping shoulders and her hands gripped the branch. Her legs swung slowly to and fro. Now the doubts and uncertainties came into their own, raining on her, pelting her like falling leaves in autumn. Should she give in? Should she follow her father's example, and give up the struggle? How long could she defy the owner's wishes? What would he do if she continued to do so? Have her physically ejected, then withdraw his offer— as he was quite entitled to do—of an alternative home? The river rippled by beneath her. It was shallow enough to see each pebble clearly. Last year's leaves floated, crisp and golden on their way downstream. A rowing boat passed, a young man at the oars. He was in no hurry and his interested look lingered on her. A brief glance and Doranne dismissed him. He was happy in his solitude, however much he might look longingly upon her. He could not know of the storm which was rumbling around her brain, threatening to increase in strength until her whole familiar world was swept away from under her. There were footsteps and her heart pounded, but the voice that called her name was not the one that had stirred her apprehension and, strangely, her hope. 'Brooding?' asked Ashley. 'Mind if I join you?' Doranne shook her head and indicated that there was plenty of room for him. His weight brought the bough nearer the water, but it merely gave, as Doranne had known it would. In all the time she had lived on the boat, the bough had never let her down. 'I knew your father had moved out today. Mrs Beaumont told me. So I thought you might be lonely.'

Her hand moved across to cover his in fleeting thanks. Together they swung their legs, watching the fluid movement beneath them, the occasional fish dart and shoot among the submerged weeds. They were like two children, Doranne thought, lost in their thoughts on a late spring evening. They knew each other so well words were unnecessary. Their silence was a bond, not in the way it bound lovers, but brothers and sisters. Doranne felt nothing but friendliness and affection for Ashley and she knew he felt the same towards her. He went to other girls for what Doranne refused to give him. But she valued his friendship, his happy, outgoing disposition more than she could say. Kieran Richmond—the thought wandered, nomad-like, into her mind—he wouldn't—couldn't ever sit like this beside her, dressed carelessly like Ashley, in paint-stained denims, dreaming, forgetful of the surroundings, letting the golden evening sun, the bluereflecting water and the young green leaves form into changing, intricate patterns in his mind. Kieran Richmond's mind was precise, clear-cut, without feeling. His whole way of life prevented him from throwing off the restraints and restrictions imposed by his status and his position in society. He couldn't sit like this beside her on an overhanging branch, swinging his legs. The thought nearly made her cry. The difference between them, she thought in despair, the difference between Kieran Richmond and Doranne Grayson! 'Enough of this melancholy,' said Ashley, 'come back to the boat and we'll get some things and paint the sadness from our systems.' They eased their way off the branch and walked hand in hand along the bank towards the steps. Doranne laughed as they walked. 'Why are you sad?'

'Because you are. I'm an artist, aren't I, so I feel other people's moods.' Her eyes went involuntarily towards the house, shifting to the balcony. Her heart nearly stopped. Standing on the balcony, arms resting on the rail, was Kieran Richmond. He must have been watching them down on the overhanging bough. It was visible, Doranne knew from when his father had been alive, from that balcony. 'What's the matter?' Ashley asked. 'Why the grim expression? Thinking about your father enjoying all the home comforts?' His hand released hers and his arm moved to her waist, pulling her close and hugging her sympathetically. The gesture, to an onlooker, could have been that of a lover. 'Never mind,' Ashley went on, 'you've got the boat to yourself now. Shall we fill it with people again, have another party to cheer you up?' She shrank from the thought, remembering the consequences of the last one. 'No parties, Ashley. Thanks all the same.' When she looked at the balcony as they boarded the boat, the watching man turned and went inside.

Two days later, when Doranne returned from lunch, Mrs Beaumont greeted her brightly, 'Your dear father's just been in. He's been kind enough to invite me to his little party tonight.' Doranne gazed at her blankly. 'What party?' 'You didn't know, dear? I'm so sorry. Perhaps it was a secret and he was going to surprise you. He's having a gathering to celebrate

moving into his new home. I'm taking some cakes. Mr Parkin—you know, William Parkin, his chess-playing friend and his wife—are taking a bottle of wine.' Doranne did her best to appear pleased and must have succeeded because Mrs Beaumont turned her attention to the dusting of the pottery. Her father, Doranne thought, giving a social evening without telling her? He had not only not bothered to tell her, he hadn't even invited her! It had not occurred to her before that her father had his own life to lead now. It was a kind of paradox—a standing on its head of the usual situation, of the child, grown-up, leaving home. This time it was the parent who had broken away and left home. The amusement the thought afforded her was short-lived. She knew now what it was like to be the one who was left behind. Her father was waiting for her on her return from work. He was seated in his usual position at the table. Her heart turned over at the thought that he had come back to live on the boat and that everything would be as it once was. 'I've come to tell you about my -' 'Party,' Doranne broke in. 'I know about it. Mrs Beaumont told me.' He must have detected a flatness in his daughter's tone because he said, 'I would have mentioned it, dear, but I didn't think you'd want to come. I know you don't like coming to the house,' he shook his head and scratched it in puzzlement, 'and the people who are coming— there will be four of us—are not really in your age group. I thought you'd be bored, dear, so——' 'Don't worry about me, Father.' Her tone was so controlled it was almost a rebuke.

Her father rushed to say, 'Oh, but you must just call in, Doranne, if only to raise a glass with the others and drink to our—I'm sorry, for a moment I thought you were living in the house, too—to drink to my good health and happiness in my new surroundings.' Doranne felt uncomfortable. The small slip her father had made had given away his feelings. Did he long for her to live in the house as much as she longed for him to return to living on the boat? 'I'll come,' she conceded. 'But you won't mind, will you, if I don't stay long?' He got up. 'Don't bother to bring anything, like food or drink. Just make yourself look pretty, dear,' he smiled fondly, 'that's all I ask. And please, Doranne,' she looked at him inquiringly, 'smile a little, won't you?' She forced herself to smile to please him, but his request brought her near to tears. She had been so miserable lately—and there were many reasons for that, reasons she could not possibly tell her father—that smiling had not come easily to her. 'That's better, that's better,' he said. 'My bright-eyed girl again...' He hustled off the boat, leaving her staring sadly after him. Look pretty, her father had said. For his sake, she would do her best. She chose a long blue swirling skirt and a lacy- knit white top with long sleeves. The neckline was low, showing to advantage her long throat and resting on her upper arms, leaving her shoulders bare. She had made the top herself, knitting it during the long winter evenings. Round her neck she placed the only valuable piece of jewellery she possessed—a silver pendant which had been her mother's. Doranne rang the front door bell and waited. Mr Kennard would let her in. Since this was a social occasion, she had decided against

entering the house through the kitchen. There was no reply. Mr Kennard must be busy, she thought. Perhaps she should have gone through the kitchen after all... The second ring brought footsteps and as the door swung open, Doranne gave Mr Kennard a brilliant smile—except that it was not Mr Kennard who was standing there. It was Kieran Richmond who, after his initial surprise, matched her smile with a dazzling, if slightly mocking, one of his own. As she stepped inside, her smile faded. How stupid it would sound if she said, That smile wasn't meant for you. He looked at her, his eyebrows lifting. 'Going somewhere?' 'N-no,' she answered uncertainly, 'only—only here. My father's having a few friends to celebrate his—well, coming to live here.' 'And you're joining in? A little ironic, isn't it? I could say "two-faced" if I wanted to be as nasty to you as you are to me.' She flinched at the truth in his words and coloured deeply. 'What's the matter,' he persisted, refusing to spare her, 'don't you like the taste of your own medicine?' 'I only came because my father would have been hurt if I hadn't,' she retorted. 'Nothing else would have brought me.' They were standing in the hall and a woman's laughter— Doranne recognised it as Mrs Beaumont's—drifted down. 'So,' his eyes wandered again and she could almost feel them as they slid over her bare shoulders, the slim shape, the long black hair which, even with the careful combing she had given it, still strayed in strands over her cheeks, 'you can look decorative when you wish.

Come with me,' his hand came out, 'I'll give you a drink, get you into the party spirit which,' his smile taunted, 'it's plain eludes you as yet.' She drew back. 'No, thank you, I -' But his fingers interlocked with hers and guided her towards his living- room. The room was entirely modern in its decoration and furnishing. There was long-piled, off-white carpeting. One wall was papered in a deep brown, the others echoing the colour of the carpet. A picture or two hung low, instead of high on the walls. A plant with tapering leaves reaching out stood beside the settee. A low, glass-topped coffee trolley revealed books and a photograph or two on a shelf beneath the bowl of fruit which the glass supported. He opened the doors of a cocktail cabinet and selected two glasses. 'Martini,' he asked, 'sherry?' 'Sherry, please,' she murmured, 'but I really should be going upstairs.' 'Relax, Miss Grayson.' A drink was placed in her hand. Kieran sat in the armchair beside the settee, a corner of which she was occupying. He manoeuvred the chair until it faced her, then leant forward, elbows on his knees, a drink between his palms, eyeing her frankly from the top of her head to the end of her twisting, sandalled foot. 'Let's try, if for no other reason than your father's sake, to find some common ground. For instance, what interests do we share? A love of the river? A fierce independence of spirit, a refusal to be beaten by circumstances, a determination to win?' His eyes wandered over her face and lingered on her shoulders, as if he found them fascinating, inviting ... 'Because, Doranne,' he whispered, 'I'm determined to win.' 'You mean,' her heart hammered and her voice was edged with fear, 'you're going to get me off that boat?'

'By fair means or foul I'll get you off that boat.' She put her half-finished drink on the coffee table. Rising, she said, 'Thank you for entertaining me. And for the warning of your intentions.' Her voice was brittle. 'I didn't need it. I already know just how unscrupulous you are.' On her way to the door two hands gripped her shoulders, her bare shoulders and pulled her back against the hard length of a man. 'Abuse again!' 'No,' she cried, trying not to yield to the longing to submit, 'the truth. You talked and coaxed my father out. You won't get me out that way!' 'Maybe I have other ways.' His voice had softened. His hands moved feather-light over those vulnerable shoulders, down her arms and up again, coming to rest near the base of her throat. He turned her and there was no resistance to his action. 'Our lips are not strangers,' he murmured. His hands left their resting place and moved slowly downwards, moulding her body beneath them, until they found her hips. 'You're feminine,' he said huskily, 'you're young and vital, you must have a vulnerable area somewhere in your make-up that I can penetrate.' He pulled her against him and she felt the hard muscles of his legs pressing against hers. 'I know by experience that you don't object to a man's kisses. When I kiss you like this,' his lips touched hers lightly, 'or like this,' her mouth was crushed for long moments beneath his, 'you see, no resistance, no outraged, virginal pressure against my chest to free yourself.' His eyes were alight with the pleasure of pursuit, the catching and the enjoyment of the fruits of success. 'Nor,' in a harder tone, 'do you object to your boyfriend's lovemaking.'

'If you mean Ashley,' she said, her colour high, her body straining now to escape from his hold, 'you've got it wrong. He doesn't make love to me.' 'No?' His eyebrows rose in disbelief. 'How can you deny it after that sketch he made of you?' 'I told you,' she responded, desperate in her desire to convince him, 'it came entirely from his imagination. We're friends, no more.' 'You expect me to accept that statement after the touching little scene I witnessed yesterday evening when you sat together on that overhanging bough? Romeo and Juliet -' 'You told me once,' she blazed, 'that your private life had nothing to do with me. I return the compliment. I live how I choose. Now I'm alone on the boat,' she went on recklessly, 'what's to stop me -' He thrust her away in disgust. The door opened and they were no longer alone. 'Kieran?' a voice said plaintively. 'Darling, I've been waiting so patiently, thinking you were tied up with your work. But I was wrong.' The hazel eyes moved poisonously over Kieran's guest. 'I see you're conducting an interview with one of your tenants.' There was no scorn in those eyes as there had been the last time they had looked on Doranne. Then they had seen a mud-stained, defiant girl. There was acrimony in Elvina's eyes now, a reluctant admiration and something—-surely, Doranne thought, it couldn't be jealousy? Elvina Milne was dressed for an evening out. There was no doubt as to the identity of her escort. 'Kieran darling, time is passing -' Her extended hand was ignored.

'The table's booked,' he said, his tone indifferent. 'I'm a member of the rowing club. The "reserved" notice will remain in position until we arrive.' Doranne went to the door, unmolested this time. 'I had no idea I was delaying your private life, Mr Richmond.' She made a sweeping exit, her skirt lifting and falling around her like the wash of a boat. Her father and his guests gave her a warm welcome. The colour in Mrs Beaumont's cheeks was high and she appeared excited. So, too, did her father. In fact, he was not at all the man Doranne thought she knew. He was gallant and courteous, the perfect host, considerate of his guests' comfort, talkative and full of laughter. His surroundings had indeed brought out a side of him his daughter had never guessed he had. She watched and listened with astonishment as he talked learnedly on botanical matters, while Mrs Beaumont, who was next to him, listened transfixed. Even his old friend William Parkin and his wife, whose name was Vera, listened attentively, although they had heard much of it before. 'You really must show me some of your specimens, Carlile,' Mrs Beaumont said. 'Carlile'! Doranne thought. 'I must try to capture them in watercolour. They would be a new line for me to stock and would, I'm sure, sell well. Don't you think so, Doranne?' Mrs Beaumont leant forward in an attempt to bring a silent Doranne into the conversation. Doranne smiled. 'If you could ever bear to part with them, Mrs Beaumont,' she replied, and everyone laughed. 'How pretty you look, dear,' her father murmured. 'Thank you for that.'

Doranne's eyes moistened and her hand reached out to cover his. 'You must find it a little lonely on the boat now your father's gone, Miss Grayson,' Vera Parkin said. Doranne winced inwardly. The statement was so near the truth she could not dismiss it, although she strained to deny the assertion. 'Not at all, Mrs Parkin. There's so much to do. And, thanks to Mrs Beaumont, I have my painting. I'm not very good, but -' 'Don't you believe it,' Mrs Beaumont cut in. 'I met that nice Mr Richmond the other day and he said that if I had any more of your paintings to sell at any time would I contact him. He'd like to buy them.' Doranne flushed. Only so that he can laugh at them, she wanted to say, but remained silent. Mrs Beaumont frowned. 'I should have thought you would have been pleased, dear. His friend, Mrs Milne, is filling her house with Ashley's paintings, so why shouldn't Mr Richmond fill his home with yours? A little rivalry is good for our business!' Everyone laughed again. 'Aurora,' said Carlile, 'another drink.' 'Why, yes, I think I will.' 'Aurora', Doranne thought. First- names. She experienced a strange little twist of pain. Her father was making friends fast—and wasn't Mrs Beaumont a very eligible widow? The thought of having her employer as a stepmother one day so overcame her, she rose and went to the window. She stared out of it and found that it overlooked the entrance drive. Two people emerged from the front door. Elvina Milne's arm was linked through Kieran

Richmond's. They were laughing as they got into the car. With a wide sweep, the driver reversed and drove away. Another twist of pain caught Doranne under the ribs— but this time it was a very different kind of pain indeed.

Doranne went at least once a day to call on her father. For a few days there was no sign of their landlord. 'He's in London,' Mr Kennard told her one morning as she passed through the kitchen into the hall. 'His work's keeping him there. You know, entertaining foreign visitors and so on. It all means more exports—good for the company, good for the country.' Carlile seemed to be content and well settled. If, occasionally, Doranne omitted to call, he did not seem to miss her. The fact should have pleased her. He was, she thought, and the idea both amused and saddened her, growing up at last! Growing away from her, too, like a child who had finally broken free of family ties and left home. Now and then, Carlile called into the shop. He did not come to buy, but to see Mrs Beaumont. When, one afternoon, Mrs Beaumont told Doranne she had been invited to spend the evening with her father, she knew that her suspicions were correct. There seemed to be no doubt about it. Her father must have remarriage in mind. The summer evenings were long and with them, Doranne's loneliness grew. Ashley was preoccupied with his painting. His eager customers were keeping him busy, he told her one day in the shop, both for his portraits and his 'visions'. Of Kieran Richmond there had been little sign—a glimpse at a window, a sign of him in his study as she made

her way upstairs to visit her father. No doubt like a cat watching a mouse, he was biding his time. For some time now, Doranne had been putting off the hour at which she went to bed. Sleep had been proving increasingly elusive and a delay in seeking the quietness of her cabin had seemed the only answer. One evening the lights in the boat went out. It happened suddenly and frighteningly. Holding her breath and putting a hand to her chest to still the mad race of her heart, Doranne listened. There was silence, complete and terrifying. The generator which supplied the boat with electricity had failed. It was like a heart that had stopped beating and someone— something—had died. There was a torch in her cabin, but that was down the steps and there was not even the light of the moon to show her the way. She groped, as if she were blind, at all the familiar things, finding her way down the stairs by clinging to the handrail. A few moments more and she was in her cabin, feeling for her torch. It was in its usual place on the shelf over the bed. She switched it on and found to her dismay that, being hardly used in summertime, the batteries had run low. The light the torch gave was almost useless. It was, however, better than nothing. She ran up the stairs, stepped off the boat on to the mooring platform and rushed up the wooden steps to the lawn. She raced towards the house, found the kitchen door unlocked although the kitchen was empty, and ran into the hall. She was after Kieran Richmond's blood and by heaven, she told herself, she would get it! He was not in his study, and his living-room was empty. The light in the dining-room was out. There was only one place now that he could be and that was in his bedroom.

Her father had told her that when Kieran had moved into the house after his father's death, he had occupied his father's suite of rooms. Doranne knew from the past where they were and it was his bedroom door she made for when she reached the landing. She did not pause to think whether she had the right to hammer on her landlord's door after the clock had struck midnight. She did not pause to think about anything— except that she wanted to confront her enemy face to face. The door opened as another hammer blow was about to ' land on it and she fell in, staggering to stay upright. She fell against the man who had opened it, and after one astonished look at her face, he closed the door and thrust his hands into the pockets of his thighlength quilted jacket. He looked her over lazily, seeming to enjoy her unkempt appearance, her wild look and frenzied manner. 'What's this?' he asked. 'Have you been seized by a mad desire to fling yourself into my arms? Have you come to sell me something—one of your paintings, perhaps, or,' softly, 'yourself?' 'I could,' she choked, 'slap your face for that!' 'Just try,' he said, his eyes narrow. 'I could hit you, I could -' She ran out of words, then swung from defence to offence and then to accusation. 'It was you,'' she flung at him, 'you cut off my electricity. You sabotaged the generator on the boat so that it wouldn't work. It's broken down,' she stormed, 'and now I'm in the dark!' 'Just a minute,' he said slowly. 'Let's get this straight. Are you accusing me of deliberately -'

'Yes,' she shouted, beside herself now because she had failed to move him to a fury equal to her own, 'I am! By fair means or foul, you said, anything to get rid of me. So you thought up an ingenious way of doing it—by depriving me of electricity and almost frightening me to death.' There was a tap on the door and Mr Kennard's voice asked, 'Mr Richmond, are you all right in there?' 'Perfectly, Mr Kennard,' he called. 'I'm dealing with a crazy, wildeyed female called Doranne Grayson. She would like to scratch my eyes out, but,' with a lazy smile at the girl in front of him, 'I can cope. If I need your help to subdue her, I'll call you.' There was a faint chuckle from outside and footsteps moving away. 'Now,' said Kieran, indicating a chair, 'if you would seat • yourself in that and calm yourself down...' 'Calm down? Calm down, when—' 'Be quiet!' he snapped. She was quiet. 'Now, if you'll excuse me while I go into my dressing- room and put on some clothes -' He left her and she wandered round the room. The bed, a large one, had not yet been slept in. She drew aside the curtain and could see, through the clouded night, the outline of the houseboat. So Kieran could see the boat from his bedroom, he could spy on her if he wished, even count the number of times Ashley Storey called. 'I'm ready.'

Doranne turned. He was wearing a suede jacket, a little worn at the elbows, and dark trousers. A high-necked yellow sweater brought out the golden-brown of his eyes. His appearance caught at her heart. Until now she had seen him in expensive suits whose quality put him into a world far removed from hers. In these clothes she could almost look upon him as being human, approachable—and her equal. With this man, she might—just—be able to sit on the overhanging branch, swinging her legs, his arm round her waist and her head on his shoulder ... The thought turned her legs to water and when he spoke she had to rouse herself to reply. 'A torch?' she echoed. 'Yes, but -' She showed him. 'Battery almost gone,' he said with disgust, finding one of his own. 'No wonder you panicked. Come on.' As they went through the kitchen, Kieran opened a cupboard and pushed some articles into his pockets. Doranne assumed they were tools with which to repair the generator. The beam of his torch sliced through the darkness and he preceded her down the wooden steps, flashing the light for her to follow. On the boat he found the generator and, instructing her to hold the torch so that he could see, inspected it. 'Why don't you stop this pretence?' she challenged. 'You know very well what's wrong with it. You tampered with it -' He pocketed the screwdriver with which he had been working and turned suddenly, grasping her shoulders. He shook her with such force that she cried out to him to stop, but even so it was a few minutes before he showed her any mercy. She was crying now, but he did not even seem to care.

'You h-hurt me,' she sobbed, 'you h-hurt me.' 'I said once,' he ground out, breathing deeply, 'that one day someone would have to take you in hand. If I hurt you, you asked for it, with your wild accusations and your unforgivable innuendoes. I state categorically that I have not tampered with this generator. If you think so badly of me that you could accuse me of that...' The sentence stayed unfinished, hanging in the still, dark night air. He broke the silence. 'Give me the torch.' Meekly she handed it to him. After a long time, during which he probed and prodded the generator, she said, 'I'm sorry for all the things I said.' 'Your apologies are becoming monotonous. Save your breath. I don't believe them any more.' Some minutes passed in which he continued to examine the generator. At last he put away the screwdriver and said, 'This is beyond repair.' It took a few moments for the words to make an impression, then Doranne said, unbelievingly, 'You're not going to mend it?' 'I told you, it's finished, worked out. I suppose if enough money were spent on it, it could be restored to some measure of use, but -' 'But you're not prepared to spend it, is that it?' 'You've taken the words from my mouth, Miss Grayson,' he said sardonically. 'But—but what am I going to do, with no electricity?' 'Abandon ship.'

'Because,' she threw back at him, 'you're too mean to spend any of your precious money -' In the light from the torch which he had put on the floor, she saw his eyes glitter. A hand clamped over her mouth, a hard hand, forcing her to silence. Another hand gripped her shoulder. 'When will you learn?' he grated. 'It would be throwing good money after bad, something no good businessman would do. And I'm a businessman, Miss Grayson.' She put up her hands and tore his hand from her mouth. 'That's all you are, isn't it? And I'm just a tenant. You made a vow, didn't you, never to get personally involved with tenants, never to get caught up with their feelings, their emotions. And why?' she cried. 'Because you haven't got any, you haven't got any feelings. You can't imagine what it's going to be like for me here, with no light -' She was jerked against him crushed to his body so that her head hung back. 'I've got feelings, girl, and my God, you're arousing them. You're bringing to life feelings, primitive ones, I never even knew I had. Brutality, barbarity—I want to inflict pain, to hurt you, bruise you,' his voice grew thick, 'so that in the years to come you'll remember me. You're at my mercy, woman, I could take you down to your cabin, do what I like with you, after which you'd never be the same again...' She grew frightened yet inflamed, trembling with fear yet with a treacherous delight. When his lips found hers and parted them, taking his kisses with a biting, angry passion, she submitted unreservedly. When his hands moved over her with a possession which claimed her as his own, pressing her to him and letting her know without words his increasing desire, she yielded with a wild joy.

When he lifted her into his arms and, with the aid of the torch, carried her down to her cabin, her cheek rested against his chest and her arms entwined round his neck. When he threw her on to the bed and played the torch the length of her, he must have seen her arms reaching out to him. He must have seen the untidy state of her clothes and her feverish abandon. In the light of the torch, she saw the contempt on his face and she cried out at the change in him. 'Kieran,' she whispered, 'what's wrong? I -' I love you, she had been going to say, but she bit back the words. He had thrown her down as if she were so much rubbish, so beneath his contempt that he even declined to follow up his advantage and make her his. 'The goods are too cheap,' he had once told her. And now, by her response to his passion—a response which came from her love for him and not, as in his case, merely from a barely controlled arousing of desire—she had confirmed in his mind the belief that she was easy game for any man. 'If I had a pencil,' he grated, 'I'd write one word and pin it on you. "Sold". Then I'd add a few more. "Property of Kieran Richmond. His for the taking". Only this time, I don't choose to take.' He threw the torch beside her on the bed, leaving it switched on. Then he opened the cabin door and she heard his footsteps fading into the darkness.

CHAPTER SIX DORANNE did not tell her father about the failure of the generator. She did not want to worry him. She would manage, she told herself fiercely next morning. Summer was almost here and if it grew cold in the night she would use her father's blankets as well as her own. Since she cooked by gas which, came in containers, lack of electricity would not affect her cooking. It would not be possible to use the vacuum cleaner to clean the boat. She would just have to get down on her hands and knees more often and scrub the decks. When Ashley came into the shop she told him about the generator. Mrs Beaumont was busy in the office and, Doranne hoped, unable to hear their conversation. 'You mean,' said Ashley, 'he refuses to have the thing repaired? Can't you ask your father to talk him round?' 'I'm not telling my father. It would only worry him. I'll manage somehow.' 'I'll bring you some candles this evening,' Ashley promised. 'It's no good, thanks all the same. I haven't any candlesticks, so -' 'I've plenty of empty bottles. I'll bring those, too.' As she was washing her dishes that evening, having heated the water on the gas cooker, Doranne heard from the deck outside a rattle of bottles and a loud voice demanding to know where she was. She raced out of the galley and on to the deck. Ashley stood there with a holdall full of empty beer and wine bottles. Under his arm he held a large parcel which, Doranne assumed, contained the promised candles.

She welcomed him happily and he unloaded the bottles on to a wooden seat fixed to the side of the vessel. There were so many bottles Doranne collapsed with laughter. 'To anybody watching,' she said, 'it would look as though we were going to have a drinking orgy. Thank goodness there's no one -' But there was. Her eyes were drawn of their own volition to the balcony. Lounging against the back of it, glass in hand, was her landlord. Doranne turned a deep, uncomfortable red. There was no doubt about it, Kieran Richmond was entirely convinced that those bottles were full. There was also no doubt where his thoughts were taking him. A drinking orgy, as she had jokingly said, followed by 'Ashley,' Doranne said hoarsely, 'we are being watched.' She bundled the bottles noisily back into the holdall. 'Let's go inside.' 'Frightened of him?' Ashley asked. 'He doesn't care about you. Why should you worry about what he thinks of you?' If I said, Doranne thought, I worry so much about what he thinks of me I can't sleep at nights, you wouldn't believe me. She said weakly, 'It's just that it looks bad. He—he might use it as an excuse to get me off the boat.' 'He doesn't need an "excuse". It's his boat. The law's on his side. He could get you out of here any time he chooses.' They went inside, however, and Ashley produced the candles. Some of them were too wide at the base to fit the bottles, so Ashley pared pieces of wax away. 'I'll leave you a few boxes of matches,' he said. 'When it begins to get dark, light as many candles as you want.' He put a match to two of the candles and looked round.

'Romantic, isn't it?' He stood in front of her, then bent down to kiss her. 'Feeling in the mood, honey?' Doranne's smile died away. Not another one, not two men in search of the same thing! Last night, Kieran Richmond, tonight Ashley Storey. Last night, she thought, I nearly—I would have ... But that had been a very different situation. 'Sorry, Ashley. Don't spoil our friendship.' 'All right, honey. Just trying my luck. You're an attractive girl, you know. You've got a lot I could go for if you'd let me. How long are you going to keep a man at arms' length?' 'Ashley, please...' 'Okay, I'll leave it. But a man has feelings, you know.' Feelings? After last night, the word frightened her. Then she looked at Ashley, afraid of something else. 'You—you won't stop coming, Ashley, will you? You're the only friend I've, got.' He laughed. 'As if I would! You sound so pathetic, kid, you'll have me crying on your shoulder next! Come on, I've brought a few full cans as well as empty bottles.' He felt inside the holdall and brought out a couple of cans of beer. 'Join me,' he ripped open the cans and held one out to Doranne, 'and drink the melancholy out of your system.' She started to shake her head, but Ashley said, 'I know beer's not usually your drink, but just this once?' She took the can and they drank together, then Ashley held his out. 'Here's to your continued tenancy of this decaying old tub.' Their tins clashed. 'Long may Doranne Grayson continue to rule the waves!'

They laughed and Doranne felt happier. Ashley, open- hearted and extrovert, at times endearing with his happy-go- lucky manner— Doranne wished she could feel more than friendship for him. He opened another tin and offered it to her. When she refused, he tipped the contents down his own throat. It was an extravagant gesture and he choked. She banged him on the back and he stopped, saying that if she went on he would get her for assault. He stayed for some time and they talked, about mutual acquaintances, the past and the future. 'Still selling your "visions" to my landlord's neighbour?' Doranne asked casually. 'Can't produce them fast enough,' he said, laughing. 'She's papering the ceilings as well as the walls with 'em!' 'You've been to her house?' He nodded. 'We by-pass Mrs Beaumont now, so I get the money without the commission being deducted. It was my wealthy client's idea, so who was I to argue?' He rubbed his fingers over the top of the beer can and peered at it, seeking his own reflection. 'Sometimes when I go, your landlord's there.' He looked at her and she hoped her face did not register her feelings. 'Anything between them?' Doranne made her expression carefully blank. 'Possibly.' She added sarcastically, 'They're both over the age of consent.' Ashley looked at her, tutting and pretending shock. 'Cynicism from you, honey? What's got into you? I thought you hated Richmond junior's guts?' She evaded a direct answer. 'It would be surprising if I didn't, wouldn't it?'

Ashley shrugged and went into the galley, dropping the empty beer cans into the pedal bin. Then he held out his hand. "See me ashore?' Hand in hand they went outside. Just before he left, he put his arm round her waist. 'A quick one for the journey,' he said, and kissed her on the mouth. 'And another, just in case your hard-hearted landlord's watching.' . Although he was not on the balcony, Doranne knew the boat, and its occupants, were visible from his suite of rooms. If he was watching, she thought, why should she care? And she kissed Ashley back. He whistled. 'Hey, changed your mind?' She shook her head and he. turned down his mouth. 'See you,' he said, climbing the wooden steps and leaving her with a wave.

Every evening as the light began to fade, Doranne lit all the candles Ashley had given her. She put them in windows, on tables and on shelves. She surrounded herself with them because, as the days passed, she found it increasingly necessary to boost her morale. She had even cut down her visits to her father in her effort to avoid meeting Kieran Richmond. Anyway, she told herself, her father didn't seem to need her company these days. He was content in his new home, immersed in his work and making new friends. When he had no guests there was the large new colour television set to watch. Kieran Richmond had given it to him. Kindness and generosity, Doranne thought with a pang when she saw it, to everyone but me! One evening, when the summer sun was still high in the sky, Doranne carried her painting materials out on to the deck. She set up

her easel and faced the house. Then, painstakingly slowly, she began to paint the building. It was, in a way, an act of defiance. Kieran Richmond might be able to snatch the home from under her feet, but he couldn't take away her freedom to paint what she liked, even if that included his residence. Each evening she sat stolidly on her chair until the sun had set and the air grown cool. Even when the dullness crept over her skin, making her shiver, she did not move. Now and then a curtain in Kieran's suite of rooms would be disturbed and she guessed he was watching her, probably - counting the number of times Ashley visited her and estimating the length of his stay... She awoke one morning with a throat that was sore and rough. Her head ached and her limbs were reluctant to do her bidding. During the day she did her best to hide the symptoms from her employer. Apart from commenting that Doranne looked tired, Mrs Beaumont was too busy with her work to notice her employee's lassitude. Ironically, sales were brisk that day and Doranne wished she bad more energy to cope with the extra work. Mrs Beaumont suffered a mixture of agony and pleasure as the offspring of her hand and brain were handled, admired and purchased by her clients. Every time the till registered a sale, she was pleasantly polite. If a customer walked out with one of Ashley's paintings, or even emptyhanded, her face was wreathed in smiles. How she managed to make a living, Doranne could not guess. When Doranne arrived home, she flopped into a chair. She should have been eager for her meal, but surprisingly her appetite had vanished. Nor was there any stamina within her body which motivated her into taking her artist's materials on deck for her usual

spell of painting. She traced her present indisposition to having remained outside too long after the sun had gone down. That evening she did not bother to put a match to the candles. Maybe, she thought, an early night would clear the symptoms. Without bothering to get herself a meal, she undressed and slipped eagerly between the sheets. It must have been about midnight when she stirred restlessly and awoke to discover that her forehead was damp and her cheeks burning. Her body felt as if it were on fire, yet when she pushed back the covers to get herself a drink, a shivering gripped her. Determinedly and with the aid of Kieran's torch, she made her way to the galley, where she put a match to a candle. She drank some water, refilled the glass and carried it shakily back to her cabin. There she lit another candle, got into bed—and remembered she had not extinguished the candle in the galley. But it was no use, she couldn't make it back to the galley now. The journey she had just completed had felt to her feeble legs as if she were climbing the Alps barefoot, with a loaded rucksack on her back. If the candle burned away through the night there was nothing she could do about it. She tried to sleep, but it would not come. There were some tablets in a drawer—if only she could remember which drawer. And if she remembered, would she have the strength to get there? She sat up and took another drink of water, then slid miserably back into bed. There were sounds around her, sounds she had not noticed through the nights in the past. Then, a deep healthy sleep had descended as soon as her head had hit the pillow. Now, there was the lapping of the water, a scampering— was it inside or out? Night insects buzzed and intermittently birds twittered.

Surely now she could hear footsteps! Yes, they were clear and unmistakable, and her heart began to pound. In her weak state the pounding hurt, and she pressed a hand to her chest. They were coming on board, those footsteps, down the stairs and towards the sleeping quarters. They stopped at last outside her cabin. Doranne opened her mouth, but pressed a hand over it. In her weakened state she couldn't even scream. The handle turned and a man came in, a tall man with dark hair, brown eyes and, in the feeble light of the candle, a menacing, merciless shape. Her landlord—was this the time he had chosen to evict her? In the small hours of the morning when even in normal times one's defences were at their weakest? 'Go away,' she cried, and her voice sounded strange. 'Get out of my home! You can't—you mustn't deprive me of it now.' She turned on her side away from him and clutched the bedclothes to her. 'You really think I would do that—evict you in the night?' He spoke with quiet anger. 'You're unscrupulous enough to do anything, anything to get your way. By fair means or foul, you said, you'd get rid of me!' Her voice was shrill. 'Why else did you come?' 'I saw the candle in the galley.' 'I can light candles wherever I like,' she responded querulously. 'It was a stupid thing to do. Suppose a wind-got up in the night and the candle flame touched something inflammable? Suppose the candle fell out of the holder? Imagine the consequences!'

'I d-don't w-want a lecture at this time of the night. I—I remembered I'd left it alight, but I couldn't -' No, no, she told herself, she mustn't tell him that! 'Couldn't what?' She was silent. 'Couldn't what, Doranne?' She rolled on to her back and moved her head from side to side on the pillow. 'So you watch me at night as well as the day. Do you wonder,' she rushed on feverishly, 'how many men come, how long they stay, how -' A hand came down over her mouth, stilling the flow of words. The hand must have felt the burning skin because there was a sharp intake of breath. 'You're ill. Why in heaven's name didn't you tell me?' He looked around. 'Have you a robe or a coat?' He turned back the covers, but she clung with a strength born of desperation and which, incredibly, overcame the weakness of her limbs. It was the end, she told herself, the end of her independence and her freedom and the life she loved. This man, her enemy, was unprincipled and ruthless. He had threatened her and he was choosing her weakest moments to carry out that threat. 'No,' she shrieked, 'you're not evicting me like this. I won't let you!' He took her by the shoulders and gripped them. 'My God, how can I get some sense into your head? Listen, you crazy little fool, will you listen? You're ill, you can't stay here alone. You need attention, medical attention. Is that clear?' She collapsed into a heap on the bed, totally exhausted. 'It's just an excuse,' she muttered, her words slurred, 'you're using it as a way of getting me out. I know you...'

'You think you know me, do you?' he said grimly. 'You'll know me one day, girl, by heaven, you'll know me! And that's a promise I mean to keep!' He was stripping the blankets from the bed, lifting her limp form and folding her in them. Then he hoisted her, like a bundle, into his arms and she lay inert against him, her head resting on his fleece-lined jacket. He blew out the candle beside the bed and she murmured, 'The candle in the galley.' 'I put it out on my way down here,' he answered shortly. She felt the strength of his arms as they wrapped about her, the rigid hardness of his body moving against hers. He carried her up a flight of stairs, along a passage and through a doorway. It was impossible to tell where they were going because she had kept her eyes closed. The lids were too leaden to lift, her eyes too heavy with fatigue to see. Soon they went through a door and then through another door and she was lowered on to a bed. Doranne lay passively as the blankets were unwrapped from her lifeless figure. She felt the buttons of her pyjama jacket being fastened—they must have come loose as Kieran had carried her. The backs of his hands felt rough as they moved against the softness of her skin and embarrassment stirred her to life and to a feeble protest. 'Please,' her hands went to cover his and for a passing moment his hands remained pressed against her. Even through the barriers of her fatigue came the exquisite pleasure of his touch. 'Doranne,' he said softly, 'take your hands from mine. There's no need to protect yourself from me. You're quite safe.'

Safe, she thought drowsily, safe with this man? 'No,' she whispered, 'you're my enemy. How could I be safe with you?' 'Your enemy?' For a few seconds, anger seemed to simmer, then he laughed softly. 'Long may our enmity survive ! What man would turn down the chance of being an enemy of yours?' She was too confused to work out the meaning beneath his words and in the end she accepted them at their face value. So he didn't want to be her friend? Tears welled and he drew in his breath. 'Now what's wrong?' He drew out his handkerchief and dried her tears. 'For heaven's sake, Doranne,' he said, and his voice sounded strained, 'stop crying or I'll -' '—Sh-shake me. I know. You're always sh-shaking me.' He made an irritated sound and went away. He was soon back, sitting beside her and spooning a liquid which seemed to contain crushed tablets into her mouth. She took them without a fight, delighting in the feel of his arm beneath her body as he lifted her. 'Kieran,' she. whispered, 'oh, Kieran...' If only she could stop fighting him, if only she could walk with him along the river bank, hand in hand, as they did in her dreams. 'Doranne?' There was a question in his voice which seemed to be demanding an answer. 'What are you trying to say?' I'm yours, she wanted to tell him, then his words came back to her. Sold, he had said contemptuously, property of Kieran Richmond, his for the taking... 'I hate you,' she said, forcing the words from her.

He rose, drew the covers over her and turned out the light. 'Go to sleep,' he said curtly, and closed the door.

When she opened her eyes in the morning and expected to see the familiarity of her cabin, she found herself looking upon a strange room. There was a pink-upholstered chair, a cupboard set into the wall, a bedside table and lamp. The carpet was a deep pink, as were the curtains. What surprised her most was the smallness of the room. Her watch was still on her wrist and it told her that it was nearly eight o'clock. Her eyes, dazed from the aftermath of fever, came to rest on the door. It appeared to lead directly into another room. As she looked, puzzling over which room it could be, the door opened and Kieran stood there fully dressed. Behind him she could see a bed which had been slept in, a wardrobe, a dressing-table—Kieran's bedroom! 'How are you?' Kieran asked. His tone was neutral, almost indifferent. 'Better, I suppose,' she answered vaguely. 'Where am I?' 'In my dressing-room.' He came to stand beside her. 'Where else was I supposed to take you—into my bed?' She turned her head away. 'You could have left me where I was. I didn't ask to be brought here.' 'You'd be surprised just how many things you do ask for, young woman.' She looked at him quickly, but could not read his expression.

'You were ill. Someone had to look after you. At that time of night there was no one else but me.' 'I'm sorry to be such a burden to you.' 'Stop fencing, Doranne.' He bent down and his fingers turned her head. 'Let me look at you. I think a doctor should be called.' 'No, no doctor.' She tried to struggle up. 'I'm better now, look...' The effort was too much and she fell back among the pillows. He smiled slightly at her efforts to prove to him she was no longer his responsibility. He put a palm to her forehead. She held her breath at his touch. 'Cooler, much cooler.' His fingers found her wrist. Before she could guess his intention he had felt her racing pulse and looked puzzled. His eyes raked her face, but all he said was, 'Not too good. Doctor or not, you must stay in bed.' 'Not here, please. Please take me back to the boat.' 'Not on your life,' he said, and went away. Doranne turned restlessly against the pillows. Where had Kieran gone? There was an ache under her ribs that was not entirely due to her illness. There was fear, too, because something inside her told her that this was the beginning of the end. The door opened and her head turned quickly, expectantly, but it was Mrs Kennard with a tray of breakfast dishes. 'Come along, dear,' she said busily. 'Mr Richmond gave strict instructions that I was to get as much of this into you as I possibly could. He said every time you came to his house, you ate his food, but he bet half his fortune that now it was being offered to you, you'd refuse to eat anything!' Her happy laugh rang out. 'I had a bet with him. I said you'd eat it like a

good girl, he said you wouldn't. So come along, there's a dear,' she put down the tray and helped Doranne to lift herself into a sitting position, plumping up the pillows, 'help me win my bet.' Put in such terms, Doranne could not bring herself to refuse, because by making Mrs Kennard lose her bet, she would be helping Kieran Richmond to win his. So she ate as much as she could manage of the tempting foods Mrs Kennard had provided. Mrs Kennard stood there, hands folded on her ample shape, chatting brightly and making Doranne laugh. 'There,' she said contentedly, taking the more than half- empty tray, 'I've won. Mr Richmond owes me some money. I'll get my husband to witness just how much you've eaten, and then Mr Richmond can't dispute it. Not that he would, of course. He's a good employer, is Mr Richmond.' She bustled away and Doranne was left feeling a little over-full but pleased that Kieran had been deprived of his victory. She was not alone for long. Soon her father came, looking concerned but at the same time, curiously pleased. 'You're off the boat. My dear Doranne, I can't say how glad I am to see you here.' 'I didn't come willingly, Father. I didn't choose to come here. Kieran—Mr Richmond forced me to -' Carlile looked shocked. 'My dear, he brought you because you were too ill to be left.' He looked round for a chair and found one, easing himself into it. 'It's probably some virus illness you've caught. Working in a shop, I suppose you come into contact with all kinds of infection. Plants get virus diseases, did you know? Strawberries, for instance, and tomatoes. Greenfly are one of the commonest carriers.' He rose, unable to sit still for long. 'Can I bring you anything? Books, magazines?'

She said a little awkwardly, 'There are some things I want from the boat, Father. I can't ask anyone else...' He said at once, 'But of course, dear. Just tell me what you want and I'll go straight away.' Doranne gave him a list of her requirements and he slipped it into his pocket. 'There's some food in the cupboard which should either be used or thrown away,' she told him. 'The fridge hasn't worked since the generator went wrong.' Then she remembered she had not told him about the breakdown in her supply of electricity. When he had heard the story he said, 'Oh dear, what a rough time you've been having! You should have told me, dear. I might have been able to prevail upon Kieran to mend it.' 'It wouldn't have been any use,' she declared. 'He's hard and unfeeling. He just didn't care how difficult life would be for me.' Carlile shook his head. 'I've never found him that way, Doranne. You see him in a very bad light, you know.' 'You did what he wanted,' she said bitterly. 'You left the boat and came to live here. As ,soon as I'm fit I'm going back, and nothing will stop me!' Carlile shook his head again at such obstinacy and went away tutting. Mrs Kennard returned to make the bed, bringing Doranne's belongings with her. She helped Doranne on to a chair and wrapped her employer's quilted jacket round her shoulders. 'Can't have you catching a chill on top of what you've got, can we? Mr Richmond says it was sitting out painting so late on the boat that helped you get like this.'

So, Doranne thought, I was right. He did watch me. But despite Kieran's criticisms, she hugged his jacket to her, finding the masculine aroma which clung to it exciting, reminding her of its owner. 'Where's—where's Mr Richmond, Mrs Kennard?' 'Gone to London, dear. He'll be away all day.' All day? Doranne thought, dismayed in spite of herself. And he hadn't called in to say goodbye! Which proved how irrelevant Doranne Grayson, a mere tenant, .was to his lifestyle. When Mrs Kennard had finished, she helped Doranne back into bed, then looked round for a bedjacket to cover her patient's shoulders. Finding none, not even a cardigan, she suggested that Doranne should continue to wear Mr Richmond's quilted jacket. Doranne agreed, telling herself that before Kieran returned, she would ask her father to bring one of her cardigans from the boat. Then she would be-able to put Kieran's jacket aside. She picked up a paperback her father had sent in and endeavoured to lose herself in its pages. The time dragged. Mrs Kennard brought in morning coffee and with it, Mrs Beaumont's commiserations. She mustn't come back to work too soon, her employer had said. After coffee, Mrs Kennard advised Doranne to rest for a while. Wishing to recover as quickly as possible so that her life could return to normal, Doranne agreed, but after a while she grew restless. Was she really as ill as everyone was trying to make her believe? Was it, instead, a trick on Kieran's part to ease her gently from her life of freedom and independence on the boat to a kind of imprisonment and dependence on him? Was it a trick to reclaim the vessel without the emotional upheaval which he knew would follow if he removed her from it by less subtle means?

Kieran had apparently left a message that whenever she wished, she could use his private bathroom. She swung her legs to the floor and tested them. There was no doubt about it, they felt strange. When she put her full weight on them, they almost gave way, but by making an immense effort, she overcame the weakness, crossed Kieran's bedroom and reached the bathroom. On the way back, she paused in his bedroom. His presence, despite his absence, was all around her. He was not there, but his possessions—his hairbrush on the dressing- table, the aftershave lotion, the long silk robe on the back of the door—were all part of him and held his essence, his potency and his magnetism. She hurried from the room as fast as her weakened strength would allow and collapsed gladly into bed as though a horde of Kieran Richmonds, all the different sides of his personality, had been pursuing her. Pulling his jacket round her shoulders, she seized the book she had been reading and concentrated all her attention upon its pages. It was during the afternoon, after her father had called in for the second time that day, that the book dropped from her hands and she drifted into sleep. She came out of her dream some time later, expecting to find herself surrounded by the things she had come to know and love—the shelf above the bed, the brown-stained walls of the cabin, the small window past which the river flowed in everchanging colours. When she opened her eyes and found Kieran Richmond looking down at her, she remembered where she was. It took her a few moments to adjust to reality. He was smiling and he said in a growling voice, 'Who's been sleeping in my bed?' Then in a normal tone, 'And stealing my jacket from under my very nose!'

Her hand came from under the blankets and encountered the quilted warmth of his jacket. She had forgotten to remove it before she went to sleep, thinking he wouldn't be home for hours! 'You're—you're embarrassment.

early,'

she

said,

her

cheeks

warm

with

'You object?' His eyebrows lifted and his hand felt her forehead. 'Feverish again?' She jerked away. 'Of course not. Just—just -' 'Feeling guilty?' He indicated the blue jacket round her shoulders. She pulled it off and thrust it out towards him. 'It's yours. I'm sorry I borrowed it.' She had pulled the pyjama jacket from her shoulder, too. Instead of accepting his property, he remained as he was, hands in pockets, eyes lingering on the curve of her shoulder. It was a part of her that was no stranger to the touch of his hand and it tingled now under his regard as if he were caressing it as once before his hand had caressed it. One look from her now, she was sure, would bring that hand touching down on her skin. Hastily she jerked her jacket back into place. Had she not done so, she told herself bitterly, he would have accused her of 'offering herself' again. He smiled mockingly as if he had read her thoughts. He wandered to the window and gazed out. Without turning, he asked if she was feeling better. 'Yes, thank you,' she replied at once, 'almost well enough to go back home.'

This brought him round and he saw her provocative smile, but he was not amused. 'Please regard my home as yours,' he said coldly, and went out. Sighing, she replaced his jacket round her shoulders. It was later that Doranne heard Kieran enter his bedroom. When Mrs Kennard had collected the tray after the evening meal, she had left the communicating door partly open. As a result, Doranne, who had been reading, found her eyes straying towards the half-open dressingroom door. No matter how she tried, she could not recapture her concentration. Nor could she prevent herself from watching Kieran as he crossed and re-crossed his room. He must have been aware that the door between them had not been closed, but it did not seem to worry him. Once he stood within her line of vision, peeling off his shirt. Her heart beats increased as she looked upon the muscular body, the wide, powerful shoulders and the tan on his skin which still had not faded from his stay in warmer climates. He turned unexpectedly and found her eyes on him. He came to stand in the doorway, leaning against it. 'What are you doing,' there was amusement in his voice, 'studying me from the point of view of painting my tough, manly torso? Or haven't you seen a man undressing before?' When she coloured, he laughed and, when she shook her head, his laughter grew derisive. 'No? And you with an artist boy-friend who corners you at every opportunity on the boat you call your home? And when you pose for him as you did and indulge in drinking orgies with him as you did not so long ago, then disappear below for an unspecified length of time?' She bit her lip. She could not—would not—answer his accusations. 'Believe what you like,' she tossed at him.

His eyes grew hard. 'I will, my girl, I will. Bearing in mind your failure to repulse my advances whenever we've been alone in appropriate surroundings, I'll certainly think what I like.' He turned away and she watched him draw on a shirt and button it. As he tucked it into his trousers and fixed a leather belt round his waist, her heart constricted at the sight of him. He would never know the effort it cost, she vowed, to resist him every time he took her in his arms. He tied his tie and pulled on his jacket, giving the shoulders a brief brushing. He ran a comb through his brown hair which, even when he had finished, fell slightly over his forehead. Then he came into the dressing-room and looked down at her. 'Well, do I pass your stringent test? Do I match up to your boy-friend? Of course, that would hardly be difficult,' he taunted. 'Even a coalminer at work deep in the bowels of the earth could look neater and cleaner than your artist friend.' She flared, 'Ashley is neat. He just dresses like his colleagues and acquaintances. And he's clean.' The raised eyebrows maddened her. Not only had he forced her into defending Ashley which, until now, she had felt no great desire to do, but she had made him believe that, in declaring Ashley's 'cleanliness', she knew Ashley more intimately than she was prepared to admit. 'At least,' she said, in an attempt to distract his attention, 'I can walk along the river bank with him, paddle with him sometimes, and sometimes do childish things like sitting on a branch over the river and talking, just talking.' Her tongue had run away with her. She was saying things she had never intended to say to Kieran Richmond who, without even trying, had captured her heart and yet who so plainly did not want it. She was talking to hurt him—that was it. 'Ashley's young and cheerful,' she went on, 'he's helped me when I've been unhappy and

taught me to paint. He loves the boat as much as I do, he loves the simple life. I couldn't,' she said, then told herself desperately to stop, but a stubborn streak in her refused to do so, 'I couldn't sit on a branch over the water with you!' Now she had given away to him her dearest dream, and in such a way as to make it look like an accusation. He paled, his eyes glinted, his jaw tightened—and he left her.

When he had gone, Doranne sat hopelessly staring after him. Her mind was empty. If she had filled it, it would have been with thoughts of him. His voice drifted up to her from the garden. Was it her father with him? She swung her legs out of bed and made her way to the window. It was true that Kieran was not alone, but it was not her father, it was his glamorous neighbour to whom he was talking. He could not yet have dined at home, it was too early. So he must be intending to take Elvina Milne out to dine with him—and afterwards? Who knew the answer to that but themselves? No wonder, Doranne thought with a plunging heart, he had taken such care in dressing. As she stood at the window, she wondered if it was her imagination that her legs were a little stronger. She decided firmly that she was beginning to feel better. She watched the two of them as they wandered down the garden to the river. Just imagine, Doranne thought with a tight smile, those two sitting on a branch overhanging the water! And she nearly cried at the idea. Kieran Richmond with his attractive neighbour holding fast to his arm, strolling in the warm evening sunshine to gaze at the greyblue river...

Doranne's eyes wandered from them to the boat that had once been her home. It still was, she told herself defiantly. It hadn't disappeared overnight as though a wicked fairy had waved a wand and wafted it away. Now Kieran and his companion were looking at the boat and, judging by Elvina's scornful laughter, joking about it! Kieran left the woman's side, descended the steps to the mooring platform and went on board. He opened the door to the living quarters, bent down to look inside and straightened, closing the door again. What was he plotting to do? Doranne wondered in anguish. As if he felt her regard, he looked up as she gazed through the window and he raised his hand in an ironic salute. Doranne did not return it. She moved out of sight before his neighbour could raise her eyes and look upon her with scorn, too. It seemed a long way back to the bed. For a while she rested there, listening to the voices outside fade away. When she judged that they had gone, she returned to the window to stare again at the boat. How much distance, she • tried to calculate, separated her from it? Surely only the length of the garden? Suppose I go back there, she thought, when no one is looking? Not now when there were so many people about, but later? Tonight, she thought excitedly, when Kieran was asleep, she would creep across his bedroom and go out of the door which led on to the landing. After that, it should be simplicity itself. She would be free again and back in her own familiar environment, back in residence before Kieran could make it impossible for her ever to live there again by taking away necessities like the cooker, the table and even the beds from the cabins. So Doranne made her plans. It would be essential, she decided, to settle down early in order to have sufficient sleep to enable her to

wake up in the early hours when daylight began to lighten the sky. It was with this in mind that, when Mrs Kennard collected the tray after the evening meal, Doranne manufactured a convincing yawn. 'I'm tired, Mrs Kennard,' she said sleepily, sliding between the sheets. 'I think I'll have an early night.' Mrs Kennard nodded understandingly. 'So you won't be wanting your usual milk drink, Miss Grayson?' 'Not this evening, thanks,' Doranne murmured. 'Sleep will do you more good, dear,' said Mrs Kennard, going out. It did not, in fact, take Doranne long to get to sleep. But things did not work out quite according to plan. Something must have wakened her long before she intended, a sound from the other room, perhaps. She got out of bed and went to the window. It was quite dark outside. She returned to sit on the bed, pulling a thick-knit jacket round her and wondering what to do. If she went to sleep again, she would without doubt sleep until morning, and that would be no use at all. The most important question was whether or not Kieran was in bed. With the aid of her torch, she saw that it was just after two o'clock. He must, surely, be in bed by now and, with luck, in his deepest sleep. Therefore, she reasoned, now was the time to act, and quickly. She pushed her arms into the sleeves of the jacket, fastening one or two buttons. Her coat hung in the wardrobe. Slowly she opened the wardrobe door, thankful that it did not creak, drew out her coat and put it on, buttoning it to the neck. On the floor of the wardrobe was a pair of her shoes and she slipped her feet into them, turning up the hems of her pyjama trousers so that she would not trip over them.

Holding her breath, she opened the communicating door and peered into the bedroom. It was necessary to adjust her eyes to the darkness and she stared at the bed, trying to make out in which direction Kieran was facing. But the bed was empty, he was not there at all! Her heart lurched. Had he stayed out all night with his friend and neighbour? Overcoming her dismay at the thought, Doranne crept into the room. If the owner was not in bed and asleep, then he could not be disturbed and woken. Consequently, her escape to freedom was that much easier. She thought she heard a noise and stopped, her heart thudding. It must have been her imagination, because nothing disturbed the silence. She crept on towards the door— and stopped in her tracks. The door to Kieran's private bathroom opened and he came out, a towelling robe tied loosely with a belt round his waist. He stopped as sharply as she had, lifted a hand and light flooded the bedroom. Her frightened, hunched-up figure was revealed to his astonished eyes. Surprise turned to anger and he walked slowly towards her, his head menacingly down, his hands in fists on his hips. His hair was wet from the shower it seemed he had just taken. His robe, open at the neck, revealed a covering of dark hair. His feet were bare and it was plain to Doranne's dismayed eyes that the towelling robe was all he was wearing. His eyes skimmed over her, seeing her sleep-wide eyes, the odd way she was dressed, the shoes on her bare feet. It did not seem to take him more than a few moments to work out the reason for her strange appearance, and her presence in the room. 'The explanation,' he said tersely, 'had better be good.'

Doranne took a breath, opened her mouth—but could find no words to say. A trip to the bathroom? It was so obvious that, dressed as she was, that had not been her intention. Sleepwalking? When her eyes were unmistakably aware and full of apprehension? She looked at the door, she looked at him. She felt the strange weakness in her legs. It took her two or three seconds to acknowledge that if she tried to effect a getaway along the corridor, down the stairs and out through the kitchen door—which would be bolted and locked anyway—she would be the undoubted loser. So she began to edge her way round him, intending to make for the shelter of the dressing-room and her bed. 'Oh no, you don't.' The broad, lean figure of an angry man, fists still on his hips, legs a little apart, confronted her face to face. 'There are two possible reasons why you're in my bedroom. One, you were passing through it with the intention of returning to the boat. Or two, you were intending to transfer your shapely, exceedingly attractive self from your bed to mine. The first would be too foolhardy to be true. The other,' he forced up her chin with a fist and gazed narrowly into her shadowed, fear-stricken eyes, 'in your state of health, too crazy to contemplate. Now, which was it?' She racked her tired brain for an acceptable reason, but could find none. Then, with a movement which she had not even herself anticipated—it must have been triggered off by the utter hopelessness of the situation—she overcame the weakness in her legs, swung round, lunged for the door and turned the handle. It was locked. She shook it and rattled it, but it would not give. She raised her fists to bang on it like someone trapped in a room on fire— and felt her wrists caught and held above her head by two separate grips of iron.

She shrieked with pain and he released her wrists only to swing her round by the shoulders. 'I said once before,' he grated, 'that you ask for far more than you realise. There's a limit to my restraint, and I've reached that limit. You've been asking for. this for a long time and by heaven, you're going to get it!' He unbuttoned her coat, jerked it from her shoulders and flung it aside. He pulled off the thick jacket beneath and sent that flying too. Then he lifted her and threw her on to his bed, throwing himself face down beside her. The buttons of her pyjama jacket strained open and his hand gripped her throat. He found her mouth with his, holding it and drawing from her an ardour which at first frightened, then delighted her. His hands found their freedom and fondled and caressed, discovering forbidden places. As the passion he was arousing swept her body, overcoming her feeble resistance, the desire to abandon herself completely to him was so intense it was hardly to be borne. He lifted his mouth from hers at last, only to seek out with his lips the beating pulses in her neck and the smoothness of her shoulders. Her lips were free to speak and she was able at last to give voice to the frantic promptings of her conscience—and her self-respect. She loved him, of that there existed in her mind no possible doubt. Yet her love was not only not returned by this man who was bringing her alive under his touch, but had he been told of her love for him, he would have scorned it as utterly false. How could she love him, he would argue, when she had stated unequivocally that she hated him? She had Ashley, hadn't she, he would say, with whom she was already on intimate terms? How could she love two men?

'Kieran,' she managed to say, feeling his lips making their way back to her mouth, 'oh, Kieran, please, please stop...' His head came up and his eyes blazed into hers. 'Stop? You tell me to stop when you've allowed me to go this far, when you came into my room knowing I was here, when so many times in the past you've given me so much, encouragement, stretching out those arms to me? You can't deny it!' He was right, she couldn't deny it, because she had indeed almost entreated him to return to her that night in her cabin. But only because she loved him ... And she loved him too much to let him take her in anger, with a cold, calculated passion, with absolute contempt. There must be some way of stopping him. She knew the way. Avoiding his seeking mouth, she forced herself to say, 'I hate you, Kieran, I hate you for doing this to me.' He became still. 'I hate you for so many things.' Her heart was breaking inside her. 'I hate,' she went on in a low, intense voice, 'all that you stand for, your wealth, your way of life. I hate the—the -' her voice almost broke, but she managed to control it, 'the way you walk as though you own the world, the—the way you won't come down to—to the level of people like me, people who appreciate the—the real things in life, like—like the trees, the sunrise, the simple life.' He rolled away from her and lay with his hands across his eyes. 'I hate -' Her voice thickened with tears, because she knew deep down that much of what she was saying was true, 'I hate the gap between you and the ordinary people of this world, the way you don't understand the Ashleys and the Doranne Graysons.' Tears ran down her cheeks, but she did not heed them. 'The way people like Ashley and the people like me live. We—we don't go for dinner parties and candlelight and rich guests in their fine dresses.

We go for—for the real, not the artificial, paddling like kids with bare feet in the river, getting mud on our jeans and not bothering to brush it off. We go for sitting on branches over the river -' She could not go on because she was racked with sobs. She rolled on to her face and rested her head on her arms. It had all been too much, the illness, the anticipation of returning to the place she called home, the disappointment, the discovery, the lovemaking ... her rejection of him after all that had happened between them, a rejection which, she knew, was final and irreversible. His weight lifted from the bed and she heard him moving about the bedroom as if he were pulling on his clothes. He came to the bed again and as he turned her over, she saw that he was wearing a sweater and trousers. He looked impassively into her white, damp face and saw her tear-reddened eyes. In vain she sought for compassion and forgiveness, but his face was like a house with all the curtains pulled, shut in, private and inviolable. He unlocked his door, scooped her into his arms and carried her, as if she were a patient and he an impartial doctor, along the landing. He stopped outside a door. This he opened, carrying her into the room and switching on the light. It was a bedroom, and the bed appeared to have been made up and was ready for use. He put her down next to it and she collapsed on to its softness, sitting on the side and awaiting his next move. 'This, from now on, is your bedroom. I had intended moving you into here when you were over your illness. Through there,' he indicated a door and she turned to look, 'is your living-room. In there,' he pointed to another door, 'is your own private bathroom. From now on, regard this as your home—your only home.' He went to the door. 'If you need assistance in the night, don't call me, call Mrs Kennard. Her room and her husband's is on the next

floor. There's a bell on the door to their living quarters. That is,' his eyes glinted like diamonds, 'if you can bring yourself to put yourself sufficiently above them to utilise the services of the people I employ, and for whose services I pay well and generously, thanks to the wealth that I own—and have earned by the use of my brain and by sheer hard work,' he was sneering now, 'and which you so despise.'

CHAPTER SEVEN As the days passed, Doranne grew stronger. After a fortnight's recuperation she was able to return to work. During that fortnight she met Kieran only in passing to and from the garden where she had been sitting in the sun and painting her picture of the house. Sometimes he would be in her father's room deep in conversation, but when she came in, he would make his excuses and leave at once. He would greet her coldly and go out of the door. Carlile did not seem to notice that anything was wrong. He was so pleased, he said, that she had seen sense at last and had settled down in the house. She did not tell him that she was merely biding her time. One day, when the scene was right, she would go back to the boat and live there, and nothing—no illness, no accident, no coercion—would remove her from it. When she returned to the shop, Mrs Beaumont welcomed her with arms opened wide. Doranne went into them gladly. If she had missed a mother's loving attention, she had never allowed herself to acknowledge it. 'Ashley's haunted the shop,' Aurora Beaumont said. 'He keeps asking how you are and how you're getting on. He said he didn't dare go and see you. He felt sure the owner of the house wouldn't allow him across the threshold.' 'Has he painted any more "visions"?' Doranne asked, laughing. 'If he has, then he hasn't brought them to me, only his more traditional work. I believe all his "visions" are being bought by your landlord's neighbour. Ashley is convinced she's covering the walls with them, to save herself the cost of having the place redecorated!' Doranne laughed again and Mrs Beaumont went on, 'He says Mr

Richmond is often there when he takes his paintings. It seems that that particular friendship is ripening fast.' Friendship? Doranne thought sourly. The relationship must have passed the bounds of mere friendship long ago. A man as virile and as passionate as, by bitter experience, she knew Kieran Richmond to be, would not be satisfied for long with mere friendship. Doranne had her meals in her living-room, resolutely refusing to join Kieran at his dinner table as her father did. Had she not denounced— and, by doing so, renounced— such things that night in his bedroom? She decided to spend an evening with her father. Since he had a television set, she might as well join him in watching it. It was not, she told herself firmly, any sense of loneliness that was making her do something to which she was unaccustomed. She had rarely watched television on the boat, having too many other things to occupy her attention. When she opened her father's door she heard Kieran's voice, and almost shut herself out again. But he had already risen, preparatory to leaving. 'It's—it's all right,' she said, avoiding his eyes, 'it was only something on television I thought of watching. It—it doesn't matter, really.' 'Don't go away on my account,' Kieran said, coldly impersonal. 'I was going anyway.' Doranne still had not left the doorway, which meant that, in order to get out of the room, Kieran had to pass her. Before she could move aside he was there next to her, pressing against her on his way through the door.

Of their own accord her eyes reached up, like arms stretching towards him. Look on me kindly, they pleaded, don't hold me away from you all the time, never forgiving, never forgetting. I didn't really mean all I said ... He must have seen the appeal, the silent plea, because it was written in her face like the bright, flashing lights of an illuminated advertisement. He stopped beside her, his eyes watchful, his face a mask. Then his gaze slid downwards, as if recalling the sensations that making love to her had aroused, as if remembering her responses under the intoxication of his touch. When he had finished—the entire examination had taken only a few seconds—Doranne felt humiliated beyond words. He moved away from all contact with her and went on his way. As she closed the door behind her, Carlile said in a worried way, 'Did you say you'd come to watch television, dear? Well, as a matter of fact -' 'If you'd rather I didn't, Father -' He looked uncomfortable and ran his finger round his collar. 'It's just that Aurora's coming -' 'Aurora?' 'Mrs Beaumont, dear. She's coming to paint the specimen plants. You know, watercolours and so on.' 'I remember her mentioning it some time ago,' Doranne said slowly, then turned to the door. 'I'll find something else to do.' At her father's anxious look, she reassured him, 'I don't mind, honestly. I—I just thought I might keep you company, stop you from—from being lonely.' She refused to confess that it was her own loneliness that had driven her there.

Her father smiled. 'I'm never lonely, dear. Always so much to do.' When Doranne left him, he smiled serenely and returned to the arrangement of his botanical specimens which Aurora was intending to paint. As Doranne wandered back to her rooms, she could not deny any longer the loneliness that had forced her to seek her father's company. She lingered at a landing window, looking out over the road which ran past the house. A man went by on a bicycle, a car came in the opposite direction, then there was silence. But her thoughts were not silent. There were questions clamouring to be asked. Her father's friendship with Mrs Beaumont—was that -'ripening', too, as Mrs Beaumont herself had referred to Kieran's friendship with Elvina Milne? 'Anything wrong?' Kieran's voice. Doranne turned. 'I thought you were watching your father's television?' 'Mrs Beaumont's visiting him.' She kept her voice as cool and toneless as his. 'I didn't think they wanted me to spoil their cosy twosome.' The cold brown eyes narrowed. 'Sarcasm? Jealous that your father's found a companion, someone of his own generation?' 'No to both.' She swung back to the window, presenting him with a back topped by drooping shoulders. She fiddled with the window catch, hoping he would go. Two hands settled gently on her shoulders, two thumbs massaged her neck, pushing aside the long hair. 'Doranne?' 'Yes?' Her voice was husky.

'Will you stop fighting me?' 'Why should I?' Her lips were dry, her voice a whisper. 'You know damned well why.' He moved closer so that she could feel him behind her. He moved aside her shirt top and put his lips to her shoulder. She tensed, trying to stem the flood of feeling that swept, like a storm wave, over her. 'That's why,' he said softly, his lips moving against her skin. 'Every time I touch you, you respond. You can't hide it from me.' 'No,' she flared, jerking away and facing him. 'Of course not. You've had so much experience with women, haven't you?' 'I admit I'm no novice,' he drawled, finding his pockets with his hands. The jacket of his suit draped over them. 'Women by the dozen, your father said.' He gazed at her levelly, his eyes narrow and waiting. He did not deny the statement. 'You're going out now with a woman, with Elvina Milne, aren't you?' She indicated the suit he wore, cut to fit exactly the breadth and length of him, sitting so correctly on his shoulders, the trousers revealing his leanness and strength of muscle. Again he did not deny her assertion. 'You could be that woman,' he said. 'We could face each other over candlelight and good food and wine. But you don't go for candlelight, do you?' he derided. 'You and your artist boy-friend go for back to nature living, roughing it for the sake of it. You make a fetish out of it and then quite misguidedly call yourselves superior. That's kids' stuff. Why don't you grow up, Doranne?' 'You asked me when I was going to stop fighting you,' she whispered, dismayed by his mockery. 'Well, who's fighting now?'

'You call a few home truths fighting? I was holding up a mirror. Did you like what you saw?' She hated what she saw. It frightened her. 'Kids' stuff. Grow up,' he'd said. Her father and Aurora Beaumont. Kieran Richmond and his beautiful neighbour. Kieran Richmond kissing Doranne Grayson, his caresses and his passion—passion that was fired, not by emotion—he had none, hadn't he said so?—but by mechanical, masculine reflex. The bitter taste of her love for him. If he but knew it, she was growing up fast. 'Are you,' it took all the courage she had to ask the question, 'are you going to allow me to take up tenancy of the boat again? Will you let me go back to it and live the life I love, the life I've grown used to and value above everything else?' 'No.' He spoke levelly and unequivocally. 'Then,' anger and frustration at her helplessness in the face of his determination made him swim before her eyes, 'I'll fight you to the last breath in my body!'

Ashley came into the shop. Doranne had not seen him for some time. He was as cheerful as ever, but Doranne sensed a subtle change in him. His dress was more casual, his manner more careless, his approach just a little too familiar. For the first time since she had known him, his presence grated. 'Enjoying your life of luxury, honey?' he asked, leaning on the counter. 'I'm managing to survive,' she answered with a trace of stiffness.

'When are you going back to live on the boat? Hasn't his lordship let you off the leash yet?' She resented the insinuation that she was under Kieran Richmond's control. 'Am I the sort,' she fenced, 'to be led about with a metaphorical collar round my neck?' He looked at her closely. 'Once I'd have said no, kid.' He did not elaborate, but it was what he left unsaid that said so much more than words. He glanced at Mrs Beaumont's antique clock, with its swinging pendulum and its glass case for protection. 'Coffee time. Join me over a cup?' Mrs Beaumont came in and when the door bell had jangled to silence, she told Doranne she could take her coffee break now. As Ashley took Doranne's hand, Mrs Beaumont said, 'So you've got yourself an escort today? Enjoy your chat, dear.' In the cafe, over their coffee, Ashley said, 'You've changed.' Doranne shook her head. 'I haven't changed, Ashley. It's you.' 'You're wrong. I'm exactly the same. It's you. You've lost something and gained something. You've lost your defiance, your look of daring the world to take you on—and lose. You've gained poise, a veneer of sophistication.' 'Skin deep,' she said, hating what he was saying. Another man holding up a mirror. But what a different image was reflected in it! Ashley lifted a shoulder. 'Maybe. It's your surroundings, your new environment. I suppose you had to adapt or go under. All the same, you don't look happy, honey.'

'Honey'. That familiarity again. But was it? In her heart, Doranne knew that Ashley was right, it was she who had changed, not he. His clothes were the same, his manner had not really altered. Once they had walked hand in hand, painted together, paddled together. She had not resented his familiarity then. Boy and girl, brother and sister. Now Kieran Richmond was between them, with his kisses and the touch of his hands ... She pushed back her chair. 'Mind if I go, Ashley?' There was a plea in her eyes, Stop your analysing, you're too near the truth. He rose with her. 'I was right. You're not happy, are you?' She forced a smile and lifted a hand. 'See you some time.' Trying to add the old light-hearted note, 'With your "visions".' It hadn't come off, it sounded false. 'One of them is walking off and leaving me,' he said softly. She turned a stricken face towards him and left the cafe. She had left part of herself behind, too, the part that had once belonged to Ashley.

That night, Doranne tried to recapture the image of the person she used to be. Somehow she had to prove to herself that she hadn't really changed, in spite of Ashley's assertion to the contrary. She dressed in her old blue jeans which still bore a stain here and there, a sleeveless summer top and a loose-fitting jacket. She went through the kitchen, hoping Mrs Kennard would be too busy preparing her employer's meal to notice her. But Mrs Kennard seemed to be in no hurry tonight. She glanced up from her seat at the kitchen table where, surprisingly, she was reading the newspaper.

'Hallo, dear,' she said. 'Haven't seen you in those clothes for a long time.' She laughed. 'Living in Mr Richmond's house has made you turn respectable in the way you dress. Not,' she added hastily, plainly fearing giving offence, 'that you don't look respectable now. You just look like all the other young people nowadays.' As Doranne sidled towards the door, she said, 'Going out somewhere, dear?' 'No, just—just for a walk.' 'Well, don't go far, will you,' Mrs Kennard said, 'I'll be getting your meal soon. Only you tonight.' 'Why,' Doranne stopped in her tracks, 'what about the others?' 'Well, Mr Richmond's eating out and your father, he says he's going out, too. That nice lady who comes here to see him, she's invited him to her place for a meal.' Her father, going to Mrs Beaumont's! But all Doranne said was, 'He—he didn't tell me.' 'Forgot, I suppose,' Mrs Kennard commented. 'Always so wrapped up in his work.' Doranne made her way down the slope of the lawns towards the river, wishing Kieran's bedroom did not overlook the gardens. But if he was going out—probably with Elvina Milne of whom, as rumour had it, he was seeing so much these days—he would be too busy dressing in one of his finely-cut suits, suits which made him look so distinguished, expensive and—as far as Doranne was concerned— in a different world. She had seen him dressed differently—her heartbeats hastened when she remembered the scant way he had been covered that night he had found her in his bedroom. But strangely, his lack of clothes had made

him no more approachable than the impregnable barrier erected by his costly way of dressing. It was his manner, his totally selfconfident manner, his commanding bearing and the sardonic, critical look in his eyes, that put him on a different plane from herself. Even if, she thought with a smile, winding her way round the rose beds, she were to stand on tiptoe and reach up to her fullest height, she would not be able to lay a fingertip on that aloof, remote individual called Kieran Richmond. He had kissed her, made love to her, almost seduced her, but she knew the essence of him no more than she knew the taste of the milk that was inside an unopened coconut. The boat gave under her weight, as if it had grown unused to her presence on board. It took her a moment or two to adjust to the feel of water beneath her instead of firm land. Then she walked across the deck, opened the door to the living quarters and dipped down inside. There was a musty smell—strange how she had never noticed it before. The galley looked drab, the cooker in need of a clean. Below, the cabins were claustrophobically small, the curtains faded and worn. The windows were water- splashed, the doors seemed to have warped and did not fit properly into the framework. There were a few of her old clothes still hanging in the cupboard and it almost seemed as if they belonged to another person. She looked around. Had it really deteriorated so much in the few weeks since she had left there, or was she now seeing it with eyes stripped of habit and affection? Did she now see it as it really was— as Kieran saw it—or was it the life of comparative ease to which, in spite of herself, she had grown accustomed in the Richmond household? 'What have you come here for?' The curt, familiar voice came from the top of the stairs. Doranne found herself staring up into hard,

angry eyes. 'Trying to creep back into your old skin and into your old ways? What did you intend to do, bring your belongings back one by one while no one was looking? Then you could start living here again?' Before he had appeared she had been in a mood of melancholy, of renunciation of her other self, and a surrender to the inevitable. She had only gone to the boat, she now admitted to herself, to recall memories that were dear to her, to try to recapture the happiness she had once known. To think herself back into the part of the carefree 'water nymph' he had once called her. He had misunderstood her sentimental journey into the past and she had no intention of enlightening him. Instead she perpetuated the misunderstanding by saying defiantly and coldly, 'You seem to have forgotten that this is my home.' 'Past tense. Was, not is. Your home is under my roof.' 'Only temporarily,' she said, as he came down the stairs. She ran a finger up and down one of the window frames where bare wood was showing through the paintwork. 'I'm sorry, but I couldn't possibly survive long in such a rarefied atmosphere. I couldn't live up to it for a prolonged period. I'm out of my element there, like a weed accidentally planted among prize blooms.' She had consciously incited him and knew she would have to pay a price for her provocation. But she had no conception of what that price might be. He gripped her hand and turned towards the stairs, pulling her after him. 'Stop it!' she cried. 'I'm a free agent, even though I do live in your house. You can't order me about—'

'I can do what the hell I like,' he cut in, tightening his hold on her arm just above her wrist. 'It's time you were enlightened as to my style of living, to my way of life and my way of thinking. As it really is, not as you choose to believe it to be.' He was taking her through the gardens towards the kitchen door. 'As you would discover it to be if you deigned to present yourself for dinner in my dining- room as your father does, instead of eating in splendid but senseless isolation in your own room.' Kieran pushed open the kitchen door and pulled Doranne after him. 'Mrs Kennard,' she looked round from the food cupboard, 'we shall all be out this evening. No need to cook for Miss Grayson. She's coming with me.' Mrs Kennard nodded, looking a little startled as her employer pulled an obviously reluctant young woman behind him across the room and into the hall. 'What do you mean,' Doranne said indignantly, 'going with you? I'm not going anywhere...' Kieran came to a stop in the centre of the hall. 'You recall that I told you I was a member of the local rowing club? I go there occasionally for a meal. That's where I'm going, and you're coming with me.' 'Coming with you?' Doranne was aghast. 'But—but I can't. I'm not a member.' 'You're going as my guest.' 'They—they wouldn't let me in, dressed like this.' He looked her over, and it was plain that his eyes did not miss the curving shape beneath the clothes so carelessly worn, the dark hair loose about her shoulders, the expressive mouth and the long lashes.

'They'd let you in, girl,' he said in a curious tone, 'if you were dressed in rags.' She visualised pure white table linen, wine bottles in chrome ice buckets, trolleys laden with choice sweets, and she panicked, trying to free herself. 'You go,' she said, 'you're one of them, in their class.' He drew in his lips. 'Don't talk to me about class! You've got class divisions on the brain, girl. Look at me, am I dressed formally?' His shirt was peach-coloured and unbuttoned at the neck, his brown jacket made in a light-weight material—the colour matched his eyes, she thought abstractedly. It had buttoned pockets here and there, with the belt hanging loose. His trousers matched the jacket and followed the outline of his hips, showing the muscle-movement as he walked. His intense masculinity touched off her dormant desire and she coloured deeply as she saw him watching the expressions that chased each other across her face. 'No,' she whispered, answering his question. Then he took her out to his car and showed her into it. The rowing club was large, two-storeyed and brick-built. There was an area of lawn where striped umbrellas covered circular tables, and folding chairs were scattered around, some of them occupied. Inside, there was a bar and a dining- room, but it was not there that Kieran took her. Across the entrance hall was another eating place, named, appropriately, The Eatery. It was self-service and informal and when Kieran entered, there were shouts and friendly greetings. He acknowledged them with a brief lift of the hand, then turned to Doranne.

'Take a tray and choose your food as you go. Be lavish, spoil yourself,' he smiled sardonically, 'let no expense be spared to please your palate. After all, I'm doing the paying.' He jingled lie coins in his pocket. 'Plenty there.' His hand went inside his jacket. 'Plenty in my wallet. Use a little of my wealth while you've got the chance. I'm the proverbial rich, ruthless landlord you so despise.' Despise? she thought bitterly. Hardly an appropriate description for the tumult of feeling the man aroused in her. It was the same whether he was looking at her across a room or crushing her beneath him on his bed, drawing from her a whirlwind of emotions of which she was afterwards deeply ashamed of allowing him to discover them. They sat on high stools at a counter which ran the length of the room under the windows. Their backs were to the other members of the club and there were a number of free places between them and the next people along the counter. Thus they were virtually isolated, and this isolation lent an appearance of intimacy to their relationship. Others respected what they interpreted as the desire of lovers to be alone. 'Well,' Kieran mocked, half-way through the meal, 'have I now descended from the heights where, quite mistakenly, you've placed me? Now you've eaten at my side with no sweet music, no candles, no chandeliers above, am I more human in your eyes? Am I fit, in fact, to walk with, hand in hand, along the towpath, as you do sometimes with a certain local painter of repute? Fit,' he goaded, moving nearer and placing his arm round her waist, 'to sit next to you on a branch overhanging the water—and do this?' His lips brushed her ear, found her cheek. Doranne held her coffee cup between two unsteady hands. Did he know he was hitting her where it hurt? Was he deliberately trampling all over her dreams?

'Kieran darling!' Elvina Milne lifted herself on to the empty stool beside him, and placed a graceful hand on his arm. Had he known, Doranne wondered, that Elvina would be there? Had he wanted to make his attractive neighbour jealous? Was that the reason for his kiss? 'How strange, Kieran,' Elvina was saying, 'to find you among the common herd! You've brought me to the clubhouse often enough, heaven knows, but you've always taken me over there,' indicating the dining-room, 'not here to the self-service counter.' Her eyes skipped disdainfully over her neighbour's partner. 'I must admit,' she went on, 'your companion is hardly dressed for soft lights and sweet music. So I suppose you had no choice but to turn your back on civilised eating for once.' Kieran's arm remained where it was, firmly round Doranne's waist. He contemplated the profile of the girl beside him and a malicious look crept into his eyes. 'You could say that, Elvina. I could hardly walk into the dining-room with a girl at my side who looks as though she lives in a hideout among the reeds along the river bank!' Doranne opened her mouth to answer taunt with taunt and give vent to her outrage when a hand descended on to Kieran's shoulder. 'Well, if it isn't Kieran, accompanied by his water nymph!' Elvina, tutting disgustedly, removed herself from the scene. 'Jeremy!' said Kieran. 'Good to see you. Er—you two have met, of course.' 'We certainly have,' said Jeremy. 'Otherwise how would I know she was your water nymph? Joyce is over there.' They turned and Jeremy's wife waved. 'How's life treating you, Miss Grayson? Or should I say, how's Kieran treating you?' He stroked his moustache

with his forefinger. 'Still keeping him in order with the looks you give him? Here, Kieran,' Jeremy raked in his pocket, 'a couple of tickets for the dance next week. Bring the nymph,' he bowed low, 'pardon me, Miss Grayson,' with a smile, 'your lady- friend.' 'How much?' Kieran asked. Doranne did not hide her astonishment. He hadn't even asked her if she would go with him! Kieran took out his wallet and paid for the tickets. Doranne told herself that she would not be taken for granted by Kieran Richmond. 'When—when is the dance?' she ventured. Jeremy told her. 'I'm sorry,' she said at once, 'I can't -' 'Here,' said Jeremy, as if she had not spoken, 'you take the tickets, Miss Grayson. Make sure this man of yours comes. If I give them into your safe keeping, he'll have to bring you. He can't let a lady down!' Pocketing Kieran's money, Jeremy laughed and moved on. 'Take them,' Doranne snapped, pushing them in front of Kieran. 'You paid for them. They're yours. Your friend's got the wrong woman. I'm not your lady-friend. She's over there,' Doranne half-turned, and looked across the room? 'waiting for you. Take her. Don't let a mistake on your friend's part embarrass you.' She slid down from the stool. 'I can find my own way home. Thank you for the meal— and for descending to my depths for once in your life!' She walked towards the swing doors, steeling herself not to glance over her shoulder to see if he was following. She heard his footsteps, but they stopped. So he had let her go after all. As the doors swung shut behind her, she looked back through the glass. He was talking to Elvina.

Suppressing the sudden tears, she looked around for the entrance, but could not find it. There were so many doors. A group of people entered and Doranne made for the doors through which they had come. But it was the wrong entrance. She had emerged round the back of the club. She had no other choice than to return inside the building and look for another way out. As she gazed around, she saw Kieran at the same moment as he saw her. If it hadn't been for her stupid mistake, she admonished herself, she would have got away from him. He came across and took her arm and led her towards the door which, she now saw to her chagrin, was marked clearly with the words 'Way Out'. 'I can make my own way home,' she said, then realised her mistake. It did not pass him by. 'Home,' he said with a satisfied smile, seeing her into the car and getting in himself. 'I'm glad to know that at last you've accepted the inevitable.' 'It—it was a slip of the tongue,' she bluffed, 'I meant to say -' 'It doesn't matter in the least what you meant to say. It's what you actually said that matters.' He drove the short distance to his house. 'Thanks for the lift,' Doranne said, getting out. 'And for the meal.' 'As you said before.' 'You—you can go back now to your lady-friend, your real ladyfriend.' 'If you mean Elvina, I have every intention of doing so,' he returned quickly. 'One woman walks out on me, another takes her place. That's life.'

She slammed the door and put her head down to talk through the window. 'And you can take her to the dance, too!' He smiled. 'You may be my "water nymph,"' he remarked blandly, 'but you can't dictate to me as to whom I invite or don't invite to a dance.' He drove away, his red tail lights adding their own touch of mockery as he sped into the distance.

CHAPTER EIGHT DORANNE did not immediately go into the house. She decided instead to wander down to the river, letting her footsteps take her on the familiar path to the deck of the boat. She did not think she would be able to remain much longer under the same roof as Kieran Richmond. Her feelings were becoming too deeply involved, too vulnerable, too easily bruised by his words and his deeds. Every time he spoke kindly to her, she wanted to cry with gratitude, every time his looks and words were harsh or mocking, it was as though he had touched an open wound. Whenever Elvina took an action, like placing a possessive hand on his arm, to tell the world, 'This man is mine', Doranne flinched inside as though a raised hand was about to hit her. She could not live for long so close to a man who meant the whole world to her, yet to whom she meant no more than an obstinate tenant he had been forced to take into his home. To him she was just a girl he could make love to when the fancy took him, and cast aside when a more mature and infinitely more knowledgeable woman came along. The water was mirror-calm as Doranne leant on the rail. There she was floating, her reflection gazing up at her as if entreating her to return, to throw off the more civilised, conventional way of living she had been forced to adopt while living in Kieran Richmond's house. Come back, it said, come back and be yourself again. Ask Kieran Richmond, persuade him, plead with him to let you return. She straightened and looked around her. There was no doubt about it, she belonged here, however dowdy, however much in need of repair the surroundings might be. If a small voice repeated to her the words that Kieran had used, 'Grow up, Doranne, it's kids' stuff', then she

chose not to hear them. The decision had been made. She would ask, she would plead, she would persuade with all the means in her power... In spite of Doranne's protestations that she did not want to go to the rowing club dance with Kieran, she went with him after all. He cornered her in a situation in which he knew she would find it impossible to refuse—in her father's living-room. Carlile accepted on his daughter's behalf. 'That's very kind of you, Kieran. Doranne's become a real stay-at-home, and she's far too young to be that.' 'Home,' Kieran mused, half to himself, but looking reflectively at Doranne. She knew he was recalling their conversation when he had taken her back from the clubhouse and she had denied that his home was also hers. 'It will do her good,' Carlile went on, unaware of the tensions, 'to get out into the bright lights.' So it was arranged on her behalf and although, later, she thought of a number of possible reasons for escaping the commitment, she did not actually make the effort to do so. It did not make her any happier when, after an agonising session of self-analysis, she discovered that not only did she want to go to the dance with Kieran, she was actually looking forward to it! She was glad she was ready when Kieran knocked on the door of her bedroom and walked in as though he had every right. If he had meant to embarrass her by catching her in a half-dressed state, he must have been disappointed. But disappointment was the last thing that registered on his face as he looked her over.

Doranne was aware that she had not let him down. The deep pink of the dress was mirrored in the warmth of her cheeks, adding a glow to her eyes. The straps across her shoulders were narrow, and below the deep neckline where the gentle curve of her breasts slipped into hiding, the material was gathered, provocatively emphasising the shape beneath. The skirt, skimming her ankles, swirled just above the floor. Aware of his merciless examination and of the curiously thoughtful look in his eyes—as if he had never dreamt that the girl with the mud-stained jeans and shirts with buttons missing could ever look like this—she picked up her coat and tried frantically to find the way into the sleeves. His hand came out and took the coat away, throwing it back on to the chair. Then his arms came round her, pulling her close. His eyes scanned her all over again, like a cine camera that was so enamoured of a beautiful view, it could not stop itself from filming. Slowly his lips descended, touching hers once, twice, three times, tantalisingly light, like an aperitif—but with nothing to follow. Later, his eyes promised, later... He was behaving like a lover, which, Doranne thought, trying in vain to awaken her dormant indignation, he had no right to do. But hadn't he? something whispered. Hadn't she allowed him to come closer than any other man she had known? Didn't he know more about her most intimate responses, and hadn't her truant arms reached out to him, almost begging him to make her his? 'Kieran,' she whispered, 'please -' 'The time isn't right!' he whispered. As far as you're concerned, the time will never be right.

The words were there, on the edge of her tongue, but they were never spoken. It was one thing acting a lie to this man, it was quite another speaking one. The drive to the clubhouse was made at first in silence. Doranne wished she could think of something to say, something light and meaningless, small talk in which a companion of Kieran's would be expert. But her mind was empty of any such phrases and the suncoloured evening passed by the windows of the car without a single comment to divert her eyes from contemplating it, or his from remaining on the road ahead. There was a tension within her which, she sensed but did not know why, was present in Kieran, too. Perhaps he was apprehensive after all about taking her, perhaps he thought she might let him down in front of his friends. Indignation made her cheeks catch fire and forced an involuntary movement of her body, as if somehow her anger must be expressed. Kieran shot her a glance. 'Regretting your acceptance?' he asked sardonically. 'Not in the least. Are you?' He gave a short laugh. 'Regretting taking a water nymph to a dance? Is that likely?' 'I could be gauche. I could let you down.' 'In what way?' A pause, then, 'I'm not another Elvina Milne.' 'If you were, you wouldn't be here at my side.'

'No,' she said sourly, 'you must crave a change sometimes. I'd forgotten that variety adds spice to a man's life. Especially yours.' 'Ah, yes,' mockingly, 'my "women by the dozen", as my father apparently once alleged.' He did not deny it, but the tightening of his lips silenced Doranne again. Be pleasant, that voice inside her urged, remember your promise to yourself—ask, persuade, plead with him to let you return to the boat... 'I'm sorry,' she said. His raised eyebrows asked 'why?' 'For—for my allegations. I didn't—mean it.' He laughed loudly. 'Now what are you trying to tell me—that you think I live a life purer than untrodden snow?' 'Judging by your behaviour with me,' she snapped, forgetting momentarily her promise to herself to be 'pleasant', 'no, I certainly don't think that.' 'My dear girl, my behaviour with you has been based entirely on how much encouragement I've received. And,' softly, 'I've received quite a lot of that from you. Deny it if you can.' She couldn't, and even if she could she would not have thought it expedient in the circumstances to do so. 'I'm— I'm sorry,' she said again. 'For heaven's sake,' he said a little sharply, 'stop apologising. I shall begin to think you're ill. Where's all your fight gone?' He turned into the clubhouse car park. Fight? she wanted to say. Don't worry, it's still there, but I've changed my tactics. 'You bought me a ticket to a dance,' she said aloud, 'we— we can't fight while we're dancing, can we?'

'I can think of better things to do,' he answered dryly. Doranne left her coat in the cloakroom and returned to the entrance hall. When she saw Kieran who, at that moment, was talking to another man, her heart skipped. She was his partner, for the first time since their chequered acquaintance began, Kieran Richmond had taken her out. She looked down at herself, seeing the brilliant colour of her dress. Doranne Grayson, she thought wryly, and her landlord had come a long way from the first time he had seen her hanging out her own and her father's newly washed clothes on the line across the deck of the houseboat. Kieran turned at that moment and saw her. A pause as his eyes narrowed slightly, then his hand came out, inviting her to put hers into it. She needed no second invitation and his fingers curled round hers with a possessiveness which set her heart skipping again. The man to whom he was talking seemed vaguely familiar. 'Doranne,' Kieran said, 'Donald Springer. You have met before.' He looked down at her. 'You were dressed a little— differently.' Doranne coloured, but Donald Springer's smile deepened as if the memory pleased him. 'Let me see, what was it Jeremy called her—a sylph?' 'Nymph,' said Kieran. 'Elusive and -' he paused, looking into her warm-cheeked, upturned face, 'at times, very hard to get.' The pause, Doranne knew, had been infused with deep significance. The man it had been intended to impress laughed loudly and knowingly enough to bring a malicious gleam to Kieran's eyes. Once again he had implied, in front of one of his friends, that their

relationship had intimate overtones, and once again the unspoken message had been received and understood. Her eyes sought his and burned with defiance, but he merely laughed and drew her closer to his side. 'Still giving you "looks", Kieran,' Donald Springer said. 'You must lead a cat and dog life together!' Now Doranne's cheeks burned. So Kieran's deception had been taken at its face value. She was labelled as one of Kieran Richmond's women. Connie, Donald's wife, approached. 'Hallo, Kieran.' She smiled at Doranne. 'I'm sure we've met before.' Her husband reminded her of where that had been. 'The nymph who sprang from nowhere and appeared by magic in Kieran's diningroom.' They laughed together and Doranne, not wishing to appear unfriendly, laughed with them. She could not express her anger to Kieran now, but later ... No, she reminded herself, she could not allow herself the luxury of telling him what she thought of him for his innuendoes about their acquaintance. Not until she had persuaded and pleaded and got her own way about the boat. 'Come and dance, Donald,' said Connie, pulling at his arm. With a promise that they would meet later, the two of them went off. 'Come and dance, Doranne,' said Kieran, imitating his friend's wife. But instead of pulling her by the arm as Connie had pulled her husband, Kieran placed his arm firmly round Doranne's waist and led her towards the dining-room. I must be pleasant, Doranne told herself, I must smile and smile, however much it might hurt...

'Hi, Kieran,' Jeremy called from the entrance as he followed his wife in. 'So you got him here, Miss Grayson?' 'Kieran.' Jeremy's wife, Joyce, raised her hand. 'Where's Elvina tonight?' Her husband's nudge at her lack of tact was too noticeable to be missed. Joyce coloured and put her hand to her mouth. 'My elegant neighbour,' said Kieran shortly, 'is, as far as I know, in her elegant house.' Jeremy took his wife by the shoulder and pushed her towards the ladies' room. In the dining-room, tables and chairs had been moved and a space cleared in the centre for the dancers. There was a bar at one end of the room and it was in that direction that Kieran led Doranne. 'A drink first,' he said, motioning her on to one of the bar stools. 'A sherry, good and sweet,' he told the girl behind the bar. To Doranne, with a glint, 'We must put something inside you to sugar those looks you're giving me.' To the girl, 'My usual, please.' Doranne smiled. It was spontaneous and warm, curving her lips and bringing a shy brightness to her eyes. Kieran leant sideways on his elbow against the counter, lifting his foot and resting it on the rail. His eyes dwelt on her thoughtfully and she saw her smile reflected in his face. It was almost as though they had exchanged something precious, as though a part of them had changed places, a thought, a feeling transplanted and taken root each within the other.

She thought he whispered her name, but his lips did not move. Their eyes, their smiles held and the world around them ceased momentarily to exist. 'Mr Richmond, your drinks.' The woman's words brought back the music and the laughter and Doranne returned from treading cloud to feeling the reality of the ground beneath the stool which supported her. She became aware that her heart was pounding and the hands she wrapped around the glass Kieran gave her were moist and stiff from clenching. It was not easy to force the liquid down her throat, but she did so, wishing not only to please Kieran, but also hoping that the drink would ease away some of her tension. Kieran tossed back the contents of his glass and lifted Doranne down to the floor. Then they were among the dancers and his arms wrapped around her, pulling her to him. The music was romantic and excited the senses, filling her body until she felt possessed by it. They danced in perfect unison and it was as though they were joined by an invisible thread, twining round and round them like a silken cocoon. The main lights were switched off, leaving only the lamps embedded in the ceiling to throw their muted lighting on to the dancers. Doranne was back on her cloud, treading its misty shadows, but this time she was not alone, because Kieran was with her. He pulled her chin round so that their eyes met and they were lost in each other. The music stopped, but Kieran did not let her go. There was a burst of strident laughter from across the room and Doranne's head turned quickly. 'Elvina,' she said on an indrawn breath. Was this where her evening ended, when it had only begun?

The music started again and Kieran, who must also have heard the laughter, seemed indifferent to the presence of the woman who, rumour said, was his in all but name, closed the gap impatiently between himself and Doranne. They danced on, but Doranne could no longer abandon herself to the pleasure of being in Kieran's arms. Her movements became stiff and she lowered her lids to keep her apprehension from her partner. 'Doranne?' he murmured in a puzzled tone. It was no good, she could not look at him. Her cheek found his chest and no matter how softly he whispered her name, she would not lift up her eyes to his face. When the music stopped, Kieran asked, 'Is there something wrong?' Doranne gazed stonily into the distance. 'Your neighbour has come. If you want to go to her, I won't stop you. Forget you brought me. I can slip out quietly -' 'What's the matter,' sarcastically, 'don't tell me you're jealous?' 'Jealous? Of Elvina? You must be joking!' Her voice came out unbelievably harsh and his response was to jerk her against him. For a few moments they danced, then he said tersely, 'Come on, we're going places, you and I.' 'Kieran darling!' Elvina, enveloped from shoulder to ankle in a brilliant green, stood in their path. Kieran eyed. the french windows for which they had been making. Elvina's arms lifted with a little pouting, self-promoting movement. 'Dance with me?' she murmured to Kieran. Look at me, her eyes were saying, compared with the girl beside you. Remember my knowledge against her ignorance, my maturity against her innocence.

Doranne proceeded to untangle her hand from Kieran's. 'Please excuse me. I must -' Her hand was reclaimed in a bruising grasp. 'Thanks for the invitation, Elvina,' Kieran responded crisply, 'I'll take you up on it some time.' He did not stay to see the anger that blackened Elvina's expression. Doranne, being pulled behind him, received the full force of it. The darkness outside was silvered by the full moon riding high above the clouds. 'Where are you taking me?' Doranne asked with a tremor in her voice. 'You'll see,' was the curt reply. From lover he had reverted to enemy. Once she had delighted in defying him, but all that had gone. Now she wanted only his friendship and his caresses, his kindness and his kisses. Kieran was leading her towards a building which appeared in the darkness to be a large wooden structure opening out on to the river. They reached it and he released her hand to untie the rope attached to one of the many boats which sheltered under the high, sloping roof. It was, as she had expected, a rowing boat he was releasing, and in the lights which were suspended from the wooden beams, she saw the name Watersplash painted on the hull. Even in her agitation she smiled a little. It was as though the 'mother' houseboat, called Watersplash, had given birth to a miniature version of itself, and which, with the privilege often given to the firstborn, was named after - it!

Kieran stepped into the rowing boat, steadying it and holding out his hand to help Doranne down beside him. She had no choice but to follow. 'Record this in your memoirs,' Kieran said caustically. 'A moonlit row on the river with a man you hate. Since you've gone out of your way not to cultivate the attentions of rich men, this may never happen to you again.' 'But, Kieran,' she protested, 'I haven't a coat, I'm feeling cold already, it will ruin my dress -' 'If that's all it ruins,' he responded grimly, 'then count yourself lucky.' He removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He lowered himself on to the central seat which spanned the boat and motioned to Doranne to take her place in the stern. 'Your job,' he said, 'is to control the direction of the boat by using the tiller.' With brief instructions in the art of steering, he turned his attention to the oars. These he lifted and swivelled in the rowlocks until they were lying on the surface of the water. Then they dipped beneath the surface and Kieran's arms moved rhythmically backwards and forwards. The muscles in them moved strongly, too, telling of the hours he must have spent in the past rowing his boat along the river. Had he always been alone? Doranne wondered. How many women had he instructed in the art of steering the boat while he rowed them to—what destination? Her attention wandered, noticing how the moonlight tipped the waves created by Kieran's oars and how the trees turned into silvered shapes. In the semi-darkness, Kieran's arms assumed a strength greater than they seemed to possess in daylight. His face, whitened by the moon's muted light, was remote and unapproachable.

'Where are we going, Kieran?' 'Into the bank if you don't attend to the steering,' was his caustic comment. Doranne apologised and corrected the angle of the tiller. Kieran paused, resting on the oars and untying his tie. He threw it towards her, telling her to push it into his jacket pocket. As she obeyed his command, she felt that the act of putting his tie away was like an intimacy reserved for lovers. He turned to look over his shoulder as if assessing the distance they had to go and she lifted his jacket and brushed it swiftly against her cheek. When she lowered it, she discovered that she had not been swift enough and he had seen her secret action. She stiffened, suddenly afraid of what he might think, but he merely smiled. It was a smile so inscrutable it worried her more than his mockery would have done. She coloured, hoping the moonlight would hide the warmth in her cheeks, but he smiled again, as if he could see her embarrassment. 'Where are we going, Kieran?' she asked uncertainly. 'To an island. It's small, little more than a handful of footsteps across.' He glanced over his shoulder. 'It's there. Steer to the left, more ... a little more ... Now straighten. Right, we'll drift the rest of the way.' He turned the oars until they were in their resting position and a slight bump brought them up against the island. His hand caught at a branch, the boat rocked then it was steady. He tied the rope to the branch and stepped ashore, holding out his hand. 'Come along, nymph.' His mood had softened. Was the moonlight having a mellowing effect?

With her hand in his, Doranne climbed the slope of the bank, lifting her long skirt free of entanglement with her feet. She looked around and shivered. 'Kieran, I'm cold. I told you before we started out -' 'You won't be cold for long, I promise you. Here,' his arms went round her, 'take the warmth from my body and wrap it round you.' He was strong—she had seen the muscles stand out as he rowed—and her strength was no match for his. Even her strength of mind deserted her. She wanted his warmth, she wanted it to set her alight as it had done before. How, in such circumstances, could she hide her feelings for him? The dark hairs on his arms were rough against the bare skin of her back, his hard, cool lips explored her throat, finding her mouth at last. She clung to him and he lowered her gently to the ground. 'Kieran,' she whispered, fighting for control but knowing it to be a losing battle, 'why have we come here?' 'To have you to myself. To bring our hostilities to an end once and for all, to the only possible, logical end between two intelligent people. Why,' he kissed her eyes, her nose, her chin, 'should I go on fighting a beautiful young woman, full of spirited charm, when I could make love to her instead? Not only that. You say you hate me, my sweet ^ nymph. That's a challenge in itself.' She turned her head away and the bracken crackled beneath her ear. 'Let me see your face, my sweet.' His voice was as caressing as his hands. Slowly she turned towards him.

'I see no hatred in the moonlight.' He traced her brows. 'I see a shy encouragement. The moon is pouring its magic into you and turning your hate into love. Take me, your eyes are saying, make me yours.' His lips touched hers fleetingly. 'Is that right?' She moved her head from side to side, like someone racked with fever. She was in a fever—of love, of desire—of fear. But he must have taken her wordless denial as a challenge again, because he whispered, 'Come, nymph, we aren't strangers to each other. I know far more about you than you care, or dare, to admit. You know my lovemaking, you know how I am when my desires are inflamed...' He moved aside a shoulder strap and explored with his lips the bareness it revealed, moving down and finding the valley between her breasts. His hands became possessive and like someone dying, Doranne was counting the moments until the time when the barrier that now separated them was broken down for ever. It was, as far as she was concerned, an irrevocable and impermissible step. Because she loved him, she could not let him take her thinking she was his— and any man's—for the asking. With a strength that she dredged from her depths, she began to brush at his hands and twist from his lips. He seemed to grow taut and a little angry. To placate him she gave a small laugh and whispered, 'Kieran, I have something to ask you.' It had come to her, out of the mists, that this was the moment to ask, to persuade, to plead, to make full use of her physical attraction for him. That was all it was, she told herself sadly, there was no love involved in this lovemaking of his.

'Please, Kieran,' she spoke in her softest, most winning voice and hated herself for doing so. 'Yes, nymph?' His voice was husky and indulgent. Wasn't that how she wanted him to be? 'Please, Kieran,' she paused, took a breath for courage and plunged on, 'let me go back to the boat. I want you to let me live there again...' Now it was out, she detested herself for so blatantly and unsubtly using the situation to gain her own ends. A man as intelligent and experienced as he was would know what it was she was doing— using the oldest feminine trick of all. Trying to rationalise and to defend her action, she told herself that if she was being unscrupulous then so was he, in bringing her here to the island from which there was no escape. And hadn't he vowed to stop her from returning to the houseboat? By fair means or foul, he had said, and meant it. But, her other self whispered, right was on his side. The boat, after all, was his property. He rolled off her to rest sideways on his elbow. The action revealed to her, as well as to him, the disorder of her clothes. She lifted her head from the bracken and gazed down at herself. She saw, in the moon's mellow light, all that he, with his lazy eyes, was seeing. Hastily she pulled the shoulder straps into place and looked up at him. Now his eyes were narrow and calculating, but only for a moment, because he smiled almost immediately and the warmth seeped back into his features. The smile dispersed the doubts which had begun to take root in her mind—but not entirely because fragments of uncertainty lingered on. Was the smile sincere and genuine? If only

the sun was up there instead of the moon, how much she would see then! His hand lifted idly and he stroked the hair from her face. His words shocked her back into her uncertainty and apprehension. 'What,' he asked slowly, 'would you give me if I said yes?' He did not wait for her answer. He was on to her again, his body hard and unrelenting in its pressure. His lips— were they angry now?— parted hers and took possession of her mouth. His hands were bruising, finding the shoulder straps again and pushing them roughly aside, caressing the softly curving shape beneath and bringing her to a height of dinging ecstasy. At last, when, if he had asked, she would not, could not, have said 'no', he lifted his head and looked down into her face. She could feel his breath, quick and shallow, fanning her skin; she smelt the lotion he must have used after shaving. There were faint cracks in the hard line of his lips, soft hairs around his neck near the hairline. All these intimate things she could see about him, and it was as if they were already one, indivisible by circumstance or time. But it was all illusion, her mind told her frantically. They were not destined for each other. Their ways would part because their worlds would lead them into opposite directions. Overhead the moon rode high, the stars glittered, hard as diamonds, hard as his eyes, like the set of his jaw and the sound of his voice. 'So,' he mused, kissing each side of her nose and the corners of her mouth, 'you want to live on the boat again?' Had she won? 'Yes, Kieran, oh, yes!' You must escape, the voices clamoured, you must put a universe between yourself and this man!

'I might—just—allow it,' he murmured, 'for a consideration.' She held her breath. He was silent, tantalising her, dropping light kisses all over her face. When he spoke, his mood seemed to. have softened. 'Will you come to my room,' he murmured, 'tomorrow night?'

CHAPTER NINE THE breath she was holding would not leave her throat. She could not speak, she could not think. 'Doranne?' His voice was soft, persuasive. Was this the price she would have to pay for her freedom from this man? But, she wanted to cry out, it would enslave her even more. What would such an act on her part mean to him? Another woman to sleep with, to take and forget? To her it would mean giving so much more than her body. He would be her first—and only—love. She would carry the memory of him with her to the end of her days, no matter whom she might marry she would not forget the first time. It would spoil her for any man with whom she formed a permanent relationship. But, she asked herself agonisingly, didn't she love this man? Would it be so wrong to let him love her once, once only out of a lifetime? Wouldn't it be a memory to hold and cherish for a few passing hours? Better to have the memory than to have regrets! 'Well,' he asked again, 'what's the answer, my nymph?' 'Oh, Kieran, I -' She turned her head away, a sob catching in her breath. She knew it would be wrong—for her, not for him. It would be agony parting from him when daylight came clearly and cruelly into the room and she realised what she had done—how much she had committed herself to him. 'Kieran, I -' 'So you will? Say you will, my sweet, and I'll grant whatever you ask of me.' She nodded, unable to speak the words.

He gathered her into his arms. 'So be it. I'll have patience now and wait until then.' When they returned to the boathouse, Kieran did not take her back among the dancers. He told her to get her coat from the cloakroom and he would take her home. She obeyed and it was not long before they were back at his residence and he was leading her up the stairs. He stood with her outside her door. For the last time that evening he kissed her, gently, lingeringly, pressing her against the wall and for a few moments, imprisoning her there. 'Till tomorrow, nymph,' he whispered. 'I shall be in London for much of the day. But tomorrow night, we'll meet again.. Then he was gone. Some time later, as she stared unseeingly through the window, Doranne heard his car engine fire and the wheels scratching on the gravel. Was he returning to the dance? Did he intend to persuade Elvina to stay with him tonight? Was that why he had asked her, Doranne, to go to him tomorrow night? Whatever the explanation, she thought bitterly, if she wanted to secure his permission to return to the boat, she had to keep her promise. She threw herself on to the bed and as rationality returned, so the regrets piled up, like drifting snow blocking the exit from a door. She should not have agreed, she should have possessed sufficient strength of mind, in spite of his kisses, in spite of her love for him, to refuse to give in to his persuasiveness. It was impossible, she decided. She could not do it, she couldn't lower herself in her own estimation by exchanging her self-respect for her freedom. Restless now, she went along to Kieran's room to tell him, only to remember as she reached his door that he was out. Tomorrow morning, first thing, she promised herself, before he left

for London, she would go and see him and tell him she had changed her mind. Her father came up the stairs as she walked towards her room. Hearing him puffing a little with the exertion, she turned to greet him. His eyes were brighter than she had seen them for years, his face was animated and, as his hand extended to open his door, Doranne noticed that it was shaking a little. Fearful that he was ill— did he have a fever?—she went towards him. No, it was not illness that caused the flushed cheeks and the shaking hand. It was excitement. He called her into his room. 'My dearest Doranne,' he felt for a chair and lowered himself into it, 'I have something to tell you. Since your very dear mother died—four years ago now—I've been a lonely man—' 'But, Father,' Doranne rushed in, strangely afraid of what he was about to say, knowing with certainty what it would be, 'I've always been here whenever you've wanted me. On the boat, you seemed happy -' 'And I was, dear, I was. But you're of such a different generation, I doubt if you'd even begin to understand. However, all that is past because Aurora has agreed to become my wife. You will soon have a stepmother, Doranne. Tell me you're pleased, my dear, tell me it makes you happy.' Now the reality was upon her, Doranne was too stunned to speak. She had thought it might be coming, had wondered vaguely from time to time, but it had never really seemed likely to materialise. After all, people of her father's age ... Then she reproached herself for being so naive. What was sixty these days? Nothing, nothing at all.

'Tell me it makes you happy, Doranne,' her father prompted, and now there was a trace of anxiety in his voice. She stirred, forgetting her own troubles and going to him, putting her arms about his neck and hugging him. 'I'm delighted for you, Father, and for Mrs -' 'No, no, dear, Aurora now.' Doranne shook her head. 'Not yet. It's too soon. She's still my employer.' Carlile laughed, and it was a carefree sound. It moved Doranne to her depths that her father was so happy. It also served to reveal to her how profoundly unhappy she herself was, torn with doubts, hating herself for having agreed so easily to Kieran's stipulation for granting her access to the boat again. But it was only her love for him, she argued, that had made her agree. 'Mrs—Mrs Beaumont will come and live here, I suppose,' Doranne said. 'Here, my dear? No,' her father's voice was firm, 'I shall go and live in her flat above the shop. It's comfortable, warm and well furnished. I can't continue to live here under Kieran's roof once Aurora and I are married.' Doranne was stunned. Where did that leave her? Still 'under Kieran's roof'—or, having paid the price, back as his tenant on the boat? It was imperative that she had a chance to think things out. So, with another hug and a warm kiss on the cheek, she left her father and returned to her room. She sank on to the floor beside the bed, her fingers entwining agitatedly with the pile of the lambswool rug. The trap was closing

about her. Once her father had gone, she could not stay in Kieran's house. She had nowhere else to go. There was only the boat left—and she knew the forfeit she would have to pay to be allowed to live on that again. That night she had little sleep and she awoke with a headache. She had set her alarm to ring early, intending to talk to Kieran before he left for London to try to persuade him to see reason and release her from her promise. She was too late. He had left at daybreak, Mr Kennard told her. When Doranne arrived at the shop, the jingling bell which usually struck a cheerful, responsive chord within her jangled on in her brain, making her headache worse. But the moment Mrs Beaumont appeared from the office behind the counter, Doranne had to pretend that all was well. Aurora went across to her assistant, soon to be her stepdaughter and flung her arms round her neck. They hugged each other and when they parted, their eyes were moist. 'Tell me you're pleased, Doranne. Your father has made me so happy. He's a good man, you know.' 'And you'll be good for him,' Doranne returned, matching her employer's smile in spite of the effort it cost her. 'Of course I'm pleased, Mrs -' 'Ah,' Mrs Beaumont's hand came up, 'Aurora now, my dear. We're so nearly part of the same family. You must begin to look upon me as your mother. That is,' humbly, 'if you wish to. I shall never expect to take the place of your real mother, dear. I know that you loved her dearly.' 'I shall love you dearly, too,' said Doranne with a smile. 'In fact, I already do.'

They laughed together and for a few precious moments, happiness came stealing back into Doranne's mind. But the headache persisted and, although she did not tell Aurora, it grew even worse. The bell jingled and Doranne shrank a little at the sound. Ashley walked in. 'Hi,' he said. 'Light of my life, where have you been?' Doranne was in no mood for Ashley's banter. 'Here all the time,' she snapped. 'Where have you been, you mean?' 'Tut-tut!' Ashley pronounced the sounds irritatingly clearly, shaking his head. 'Living in the lap of luxury has corrupted you, my erstwhile playmate.' Lap of luxury? The expression hurt, like someone standing on her toe. If only she could tell Ashley just how she wanted to escape from it, and of the impossible barrier she had to overcome in order to be allowed to return to her life of freedom. He leant against the counter, looking into her face. 'You've changed.' 'You said that before.' He held her chin and studied her features. 'You look older, wiser, just a little disillusioned.' He let her go. 'You haven't -?' 'No, I haven't -' Yet. The word almost slipped out, but she managed to restrain it. Ashley rubbed his cheek reflectively but said nothing. If only, she thought, he was not so discerning! To distract his attention she asked, assuming a lighter tone, 'Sold any good visions lately?' 'A large number.' 'To—to Elvina Milne?'

'She's still a patron of mine, yes. Why?' 'I suppose -' She moistened her lips. 'I suppose when you go round there, her boy-friend is there?' Ashley's eyes became thoughtful. 'You mean your sworn enemy, Kieran Richmond? Why are you so interested?' 'I'm not—particularly,' she tossed at him, but he was not fooled. 'So that's how things are!' 'No, they're not,' she cried, 'and will you mind your own business?' Ashley laughed. 'So the old spirit's not entirely gone? It might be suppressed beneath layers of apparent conformity, but the girl I used to know, the girl I used to walk along with, hand in hand, still lives on even if, on the surface, she's altered almost beyond recognition.' Mrs Beaumont came downstairs from her flat and greeted Ashley with open arms. Ashley, astonished, stepped back after receiving a warm kiss on his cheek. Doranne, laughing in spite of herself, explained the situation, and there were congratulations all round again. 'At last,' Ashley said with a sly grin, 'you're going to have a motherly shoulder to weep on. Because, when I came into the shop just now, it looked as though you were going to do just that, and copiously, on mine.' He lifted his hand. 'We must all get together and celebrate some time.' The door bell was still after he had gone and Aurora turned Doranne towards her. 'My dear, are you unhappy? About your father and me, I mean?'

'Of course not,' Doranne assured her. 'It's—it's just that I have a headache. It'll go off, I expect.' 'Well, if it doesn't, dear, you must go home and rest.' Go home? That was the last place she wanted to be today, knowing the terrible decision that was still facing her, the problem she still had not resolved. But after lunch, Mrs Beaumont inspected Doranne's face again. 'You're paler than you were this morning, dear. Off you go, I absolutely insist. You must forgive me if I start taking a motherly interest in you even before I am your mother!' Spontaneously, Doranne put her arms round Aurora. She wanted to sob her heart out on her stepmother-to-be's shoulder, ask her what she should do and how to cope with the almost insoluble problem which had to be dealt with before nightfall, and which each passing minute brought nearer. Aurora patted Doranne and said, 'There, there,' as if to an unhappy child. 'It's terrible what a headache can do, dear. Just you go and lie down on your bed and let the rest of the world go by. I'll cope for the rest of the day. I have a pile of Ashley's paintings to sell. I shall push those in front of the customers, so as to keep their minds off my little offerings!' It brought a smile to Doranne's face as Aurora had plainly intended it to do. The walk home was slow because Doranne still needed time to think. She was within sight of the Richmond residence when she came to her final decision.

She couldn't do it. She couldn't walk into Kieran's bedroom, stand there and await his wishes. 'Selling herself', he had once contemptuously called it. If the mere idea aroused such contempt within him, what effect would the actual reality of it do to his opinion of her? Doranne took out her key and opened the front door. There was no need to enter the house by the kitchen any more. As she stepped into the hall, she met Mr Kennard. He looked a little shaken when he saw her, and she realised that his surprise was due to her early return from work. She smiled. 'I've got a headache,' she explained, but to her surprise he did not say he was sorry to hear it or show any sign of sympathy. He merely continued to look startled. Doranne smiled to herself and went slowly up the stairs. Her appearance at such an unusual time of day really did seem to have thrown out his schedule. She put her head round her father's door, but he was missing. He had no doubt gone wandering along the river bank in search of botanical specimens. Doranne went to her bedroom, intending to do as Mrs Beaumont had suggested and take a rest, hoping to lose her headache that way. It was a vain hope, she knew, because as the day progressed, her problems multiplied rather than decreased. Every passing minute brought her nearer to the moment when she would have to go to Kieran's room and confront him, telling him she had changed her mind... Idly she wandered to the window, closing her eyes momentarily against the over-brightness of the sun. When she opened them again, it took her a full minute to accept what her eyes were telling her. And even then she did not believe what she saw.

It was her headache, her brain was playing tricks. She was not seeing that pile on the lawn, the pile of personal belongings which she had left on the boat, a collection not only of her clothes, but also of kitchen utensils, blankets and curtains, all the things that served as the remaining link between herself and the boat, personal items she had deliberately left behind to reassure herself that one day she would go back to the life she had loved. There was not really a man—was there?—untying the mooring rope and securing it to a boat with an outboard motor. She wished her eyes were not so hazy, she wished the mists would clear. Then she could reassure herself that it was the headache that was deceiving her, deluding her into thinking that the man appeared to be in the process of towing the boat away, her boat, her home, the only roof she would soon have over her head ... The truth hit her hard, sending her reeling. Now she knew the reason for Mr Kennard's surprise and anxiety at her unexpected return. They had hoped to hide it from her until it was too late for her to take action to prevent it. This was Kieran's doing, this was his way of ending once and for all the irritation of her constant pleading with him to let her take up residence there again. He was having the boat removed and at a time when, if things had been normal, if Mrs Beaumont had not sent her home early, she would not have been there to see what was happening. It was his cruel deception that caused her such anguish, his falsely passionate kisses and endearments of the evening before, his pretence that if she would give him everything he wanted—herself, in her entirety—he might consider allowing her to leave his house and take up her old and beloved way of life again. And all the time he had been misleading her, deliberately raising her hopes...

She flung out of the room, down the stairs and across the hall. She burst into the kitchen, leaving Mr Kennard staring after her, aghast. She wrenched open the kitchen door and hurtled down the sloping lawn to the mooring platform. The man looked round, glancing at her idly, then, as she threw herself towards him and tore the rope from his hands, with astonishment and complete bewilderment. 'Leave it!' she cried. 'Leave the boat where it is! It's my boat, my home, mine to live in, not yours to take away.' The man said, shaking his head, 'We're only acting on orders, miss. Mr Richmond in there,' indicating the interior of the boat, 'he said -' So that was where he was, her enemy, Kieran Richmond! Doranne dropped the rope, ran along the platform and leapt on to the boat. It rocked under the impact and she was forced to steady herself. She flung the door open and stared around. The owner was not there. The cabins, she thought feverishly, that's where she would find him! Each stair protested as she hammered her way down to the sleeping quarters. Her own cabin door stood open and she threw herself inside. Yes, there he was, and in his hands was her painting of the house. Stunned by the sight of him calmly inspecting one of her creations, a work which had been torn from her heart because it meant so much to her, she was roused to an unreasoning fury. He was about to deprive her of the home she had loved, had even given the order for it to be towed out of her life, taking with it the happy memories, the almost-forgotten freedoms, everything that had once meant youth and nonconformity and independence. Yet he stood there unmoved and totally unconcerned about the havoc he was

creating in her mind, her heart, in the very meaning and direction of her life! 'Give me that painting!' she shrieked. 'You're a thief, a double-dealer, a two-faced confidence trickster!' She snatched the picture from his hands and threw it on to a chair. '"Come to my room tonight,"' she mimicked him. '"I might grant your wish."' Her voice rose hysterically. '"Give me yourself and I'll take everything from you, your body, your virginity, then, when I've had enough of you and thrown you aside, when you've crawled out of my bed into your own, I'll have the boat towed away and leave you with nothing, nothing..."' She threw herself upon him. Her two hands grasped his hair and began to pull... He put up his hands and gripped her wrists so hard she cried out, but still her bitter fury would not allow her to let go. His finger nails made indentations so deep they drew blood and she screamed, releasing him. But still her rage had not spent itself. She made her hands into fists and began to batter him, laughing and coughing and crying and choking, her emotions now quite outside her control. A hand was lifted and there was a stinging, punishing slap against first one cheek and then the other. She drew a strangled breath and slumped to the floor, collapsing forward and lying with her hands clutching her head, sobbing helplessly as the hysteria drained away. Moments later, she knew she was alone.

Doranne did not know how long she remained there. She lifted her head, but her hair was over her eyes and she could not see, except to become aware that it was growing dark. It must be late, she thought, I must have slept.

She remembered with misery the scene leading up to her present state and shivered. It had turned cold and she was hungry, but she didn't care. Nothing mattered any more. She lifted herself to her feet but sank down immediately on to the bed. The blankets had gone, there was nothing there except the mattress, but it was more comfortable than the floor. She curled into a ball and thought—and thought... And the tears began again. What a mess she was in! Even if Kieran had had second thoughts about removing the boat, it was only because she was occupying it. Soon, it was plain, it would be gone. Soon, too, her father would marry and go to live with his new wife. And the very moment that happened, she, Doranne, would be rendered homeless, without a bed to sleep in, or a table at which to eat her meals. So her thoughts led her by the hand through a life of pure misery, and the growing darkness paradoxically illuminated in a dazzling, overbright way the predicament she was in. There were footsteps and she tensed. Was it her father come to reason with her? Aurora Beaumont, come to comfort her? Mrs Kennard coming to feed her? Kieran Richmond filled the doorway, but he did not come in. He leaned sideways against the frame, hands slipped into the leather belt around his waist. She could see by the light of the moon—the same moon that had shone on their clinging bodies last night on the island—that his shirt was short-sleeved and checked and a couple of buttons were open at the neck. A picture flashed across her mind of this man by her side, walking hand in hand with her along the towpath, sitting beside her on the overhanging bough, talking to her as Ashley had done, no longer her superior in status and background but her equal, her friend, her lover, her husband...

She moaned and buried her face in her arms which rested against the mattress. Never in her life before had she sunk so low in her own estimation. The names she had called him, the accusations she had made! If he took it into his head right now, low as she was, to hit back and make her squirm, she could not blame him. For a long moment he stood there watching her. She lifted her head and saw through the strands of hair she did not bother to push from her face that a sardonic smile played over his mouth. It was almost as if he were enjoying her plight. Her head sank back to the bed. 'Well, have you come to your senses?' The voice was hard, unforgiving. 'Have your animal passions been tamed, your vicious tongue stilled, your venom been fed an antidote and rendered harmless?' He was gloating and there was nothing she could do to defend herself. 'So,' he went on relentlessly, 'in the end you were willing to come to me, to "sell yourself" body and soul, for this' —his hand lifted—'this wreck of a vessel.' 'It was the freedom,' she muttered thickly, 'the independence that went with it that mattered. What did it matter to me that it was decaying and even falling to bits? It would have made a home for me.' 'Was', 'would have'— already she was talking in the past, as though the vessel had already gone and it was a ghost-boat they were on. 'And anyway, I -' She stopped, took a breath and continued, 'I changed my mind. I'd decided to go to your room and—and tell you I wouldn't—I wouldn't do what you wanted.'

'That I can't accept,' he responded. 'The fact that you would have come to my room would have been sufficient for me. I would have kept you there. It would have been easy. I'd have turned the key and you wouldn't have resisted. Be honest, woman, admit you'd have let me make love to you.' Her fingers clawed at the softness beneath them. 'If I had,' she choked, 'it would only have been because I -' What was she saying? Her head came up, in the moonlight her eyes sought his. There was no mockery, no derision, only a strange look of triumph, of pleasure, of—something else. He lifted himself upright and went towards her slowly. He seized her by the shoulders and jerked her up. Had he still not forgiven her? 'Tell me,' he sat beside her but his grip did not lessen, 'tell me why you would have allowed me to make love to you. Tell me, Doranne!, She had no choice, she told herself. What had she to lose now, if she admitted the truth? She could sink no lower in his estimation than she had already. If he scorned her for her admission, spurned her after relishing his conquest, what did it matter any more? Her head dropped and her hair hung down. She did not move it aside. It was a curtain to hide behind. 'Because,' she whispered hoarsely, 'because I—I -' She had to get it out! 'I love you.' She twisted from his grasp. 'Now you've made me bite the dust, will you go, go!' He said, tonelessly, 'You want me to go? You really want me to leave you?' It was as though lightning had struck and in a few seconds she had grown up. She turned into a passionate, demanding woman and there was no sense of shame when she cried out, admitting her absolute

need of him, 'Oh God, no! I want you to stay so much I think that if you went now, I couldn't stand the pain!' He gathered her into his arms and she went to him in unquestioning compliance. He pushed aside her hair, kissing her tear-stained eyes, her grief-swollen lips, caressing with the back of his hand—the hand that had earlier struck her so hard—her burning cheeks. 'Why did you do it?' she whispered brokenly. 'Why were you having the boat taken away without telling me? Why did you persuade me to come to you, pretending that by doing so, you'd relent and let me live on the boat, knowing all the time that you had no intention at all of doing so?' 'My darling,' he said, and she stirred restlessly in his arms at the endearment—if only he meant it!—'you've asked me two questions. I'll answer the second first. My "persuasion", as you call it, was in a way a test. Knowing your character and your integrity, both of which I've held in very high regard,' she looked up at him unbelievingly and he laughed and kissed her swiftly, 'I knew with complete certainty that you would never have agreed to come to me without loving me. This evening you've told me you love me, so you see, I was right.' She noticed that he did not say he loved her in return. 'In answer to your first question, unfortunately my plans went a little wrong. I had intended, after having this old wreck towed away, to have put in its place a brand new boat. The original idea was to have it delivered this morning and for the exchange to be completed before you came home from work.' 'And instead,' she lifted her head from the comfort of his chest and looked up at him, 'I came home early and spoilt things.'

'Not only that,' he went on, 'the new boat failed to be delivered on time but, having got the dealer here to take this boat away, I couldn't upset his plans by asking him to wait another day. Although in the end,' he smiled down at her, 'I was forced to. If you had returned home at the usual time, the boat would have gone, but I would have been in the house to meet you and explain.' Her cheek pressed against him. 'Will you ever forgive me for all those terrible things I said?' He laughed, tipping up her face. 'I'll have a good try. And if you keep on looking at me like that, I'll not only forgive you, I'll make love to you.' She turned and reached up with her arms to link them round his neck. His brown eyes are warm, she noticed happily, as warm as brown eyes should be! With a murmured endearment, he claimed her mouth and pressed her to him. 'You're irresistible, my love," he said softly. 'You're enticing me, you witch. If I don't keep talking, I shall start acting, and this boat won't see the last of us until dawn.' 'Keep talking, Kieran,' she whispered, 'for the moment.' 'I detect,' he murmured, 'a promise in those last three words. Shall I tell you why I wanted you off this boat? Why I inveigled your father off it first, hoping you would follow? Because I wanted to get you into better living conditions, to give you a better life under my roof.' 'Why, Kieran?' she asked, bewildered. 'Can you really not guess, you minx? Why do you think I bought your picture of the boat? Because you painted it. Why do you think I forced you that evening to come into the dining-room while I was

giving that dinner party? To let the world—and particularly my persistent neighbour— know that you were the woman in my life.' He smiled into her eyes. 'Still that frown? How many times and in how many ways do I have to tell you I love you?' He saw the happiness flooding into her face, the relief, the incredulous joy. He laughed, kissing her again. 'Just how dense can a daughter of Carlile Grayson get? From the moment I saw you I wanted you for my wife. I admired you deeply for your courage in overcoming your instincts and approaching me because—and only because—your father urged you to, and for the way, although I could see how much it went against the grain, you pleaded with me to allow you both to stay. 'You were like a breath of fresh air because you were so different from any woman I had ever met. It was your quality of elusiveness that caught me and ensnared me.' 'But, Kieran,' she remembered the girl she used to be and compared her with the girl she was now, 'I haven't changed, deep down. You may think I have because I dress more carefully and behave in a more civilised way, but you're wrong. Kieran,' she looked up at him, played with a buttonhole on his shirt, 'I'm not in your world.' He frowned, 'What is this strange line you keep drawing between us, this fence you keep putting up, with yourself on one side and myself on the other?' 'I mean,' she hesitated, then said, 'I mean your kind of gracious living, the people you mix with, the—the standards you live up to.' He shook his head. 'You call my way of living "gracious". I don't know what you mean. I live simply. Ask Carlile, your father. He

should know. He's shared it with me for some time. My friends— well, you've met them. They're ordinary human beings. My standards—as high, I hope, as yours.' She shook her head. 'Much higher. That's what I meant when I kept saying I loved living on this boat, because of the freedom it gave me from the need to conform, to dress as I wanted...' 'Tell me, my love, how you think I felt when I used to watch you and Ashley Storey—yes, I did, from my windows—when you walked along holding hands, boy and girl and, as I thought, madly in love.' 'On my part,' she replied, 'brother and sister, no more.' She sat up as a thought struck her. 'You weren't jealous?' He pulled her back against him. 'Jealous? I could have torn his long blond hair out! I used to try and imagine what it would be like to take his place -' She struggled to sit up again. 'But they were my dreams, too—you by my side instead of Ashley.' They were silent with wonder at the similarity of their desires. Kieran was the first to come to life. 'I've stopped talking, nymph,' he said with a smile. 'The "moment" you talked about has passed. I love you, my darling. Soon, very soon, we shall be husband and wife,' he murmured huskily. 'We're no strangers to each other. You've been in my arms many times. How much longer do you intend to keep me at arms' length?' She sighed and surrendered to his seeking mouth. The moon rose higher in the sky. It shone into the cabin window and if it saw two people revealing to each other the depth of their love, it kept its own counsel and turned its face discreetly away.