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  “Better send someone up to check his room,” said Max, looking grimmer by the minute. “Looks like he’s done a runner.”

  He had, reported Grace five minutes later, by which time Max had ruthlessly extracted the story of the missing checkbook from Holly.

  “Christ, you’re gullible,” he snapped. “And what on earth were you doing when he and his suitcase slipped past you in reception? Daydreaming, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” agreed Holly unhappily. At least Max didn’t know—would never know—that the subject of her daydreams had been himself. And he was such a bad-tempered old bastard that she sometimes wondered why she even bothered.

  “You’re hopeless,” he went on, with a disparaging glance at her tailored, dark-blue suit and crisp white shirt. He couldn’t help comparing her with Francine Lalonde, who exuded so much femininity without even having to think about it. She would certainly never be seen dead in an outfit like this, he thought with renewed longing for the beautiful woman whom he now hadn’t seen for two long months. “Efficiency is in the mind, Holly. Not the wardrobe. And my coffee percolator’s broken. If it’s not too much to ask, I’d be grateful if you could organize a replacement right away. Some of us,” he added cruelly, “have work to do, after all.”

  Chapter 10

  The painting was coming along well. Tessa, stepping back from the canvas, allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. After seven hours of intense application, the picture was three-quarters completed. The scene, recognizably set in the ballroom at The Grange, was—as Ross had requested—that of a party in full swing: bright, colorful and buzzing with laughter and high spirits.

  She was definitely pleased with it. The composition, which could have been tricky, had worked well and, although she had included no recognizable faces, the eye was drawn naturally to a single figure, glass in hand, lounging against the huge fireplace. A back view of a tall, dark-haired man in a dinner jacket, the casual stance was unmistakable, the slight tilt of the head as recognizable as any face. Ross would be amused, Tessa thought, to see himself depicted as the dark stranger, alone in a crowd. If he even recognized himself, of course. It was hardly a view he would be familiar with, after all.

  It was midday before the mail arrived, and the mailman’s progress impeded by the weather. No snow had fallen for three days, but sunny days and freezing night temperatures had resulted in lethally icy roads. Tessa felt particularly sorry for him when he was forced to make his hazardous way to her isolated cottage with nothing more riveting than banking circulars.

  When she went to retrieve her mail, however, she was glad he’d made the effort. Ripping open the gray envelope addressed in flamboyant magenta ink, the first words she saw were: “…so I’ll see you at one thirty on Thursday.”

  It was absolutely typical of Dominic, she thought with a mixture of exasperation and delight, to invite himself to stay for an unspecified period without giving her a chance to object. Not that she would object, but it wouldn’t even occur to him that there might be reasons why he couldn’t stay with her. That wasn’t the way Dominic’s mind worked.

  Skimming through the rest of the letter, she caught up with a year’s worth of news in just under a minute. He was thinking of getting married again, but his current wife was behaving in a most unfeeling manner and refused point-blank to divorce him. His life-size sculptures were much in demand and selling well through a small, but prestigious, gallery in Truro, Cornwall. He had fallen from a step ladder and sustained a broken leg, which was very boring indeed. He had therefore decided to get away from it all for a while and recuperate in the company of the most gorgeous piece of skirt in the southwest…apart from the woman he was going to marry, naturally. He would travel up by train, arrive in Bath at one thirty on Thursday, and hitch a lift or something out to her place. And if she could rustle up some food, great. If not, he’d take her out somewhere cheap, fun, and noisy, and they could get drunk together. Maybe he’d break his other leg…

  • • •

  Dominic Taylor hadn’t changed a bit. Apart from the off-white plaster cast encasing his left leg from ankle to thigh, he looked exactly the same. With his bright-blue, permanently laughing eyes, very short, white-blond hair, and thin, brown face, he echoed every girl’s dream of a Scandinavian god. Tessa was always amazed that although he was of only medium height he gave the appearance of being tall. His scuffed leather flying jacket, when she hugged him, bore the faint scent of the sea.

  “Tessa, you’re fat!”

  Bone-thin himself, and as acutely perceptive as ever, Dominic registered the addition of those few extra pounds at once.

  “And you’re a temporary cripple,” retaliated Tessa, tapping his plaster cast with her knuckles. “So watch what you say. A girl can take offense, you know, to those kind of remarks.”

  “You look gorgeous.” He kissed her. “And I certainly didn’t expect you to come and meet me. I hope you aren’t planning to take me home on a bicycle built for two.”

  “Don’t mock. I’ve gone up in the world.”

  “A car?”

  Tessa smiled. “Yes, a real car. And there’s no need to look so surprised; you aren’t the only great and successful artist in England. Since my last one-woman exhibition I’ve been rich beyond my wildest dreams.”

  “Bloody hell!” declared Dominic when she unlocked the passenger door of the white Mercedes and gestured for him to climb in. “You were being serious.”

  Tessa, taking his crutches from him and throwing them onto the backseat, was enjoying herself enormously. “Why? Didn’t you think I was talented enough to be a success?”

  Having levered himself into the passenger seat at last, he blew her a kiss. “Of course you’re talented enough,” he said, turning up the quadraphonic stereo and getting blasted by Rachmaninov at full tilt. “I just can’t get over the fact that you’ve been more successful than me!”

  • • •

  Max, who had spent a pleasant lunchtime in Beaumont’s wine bar in Bath with a couple of friends, wasn’t too surprised at first when he stepped out onto the pavement and spotted the familiar white Mercedes parked on the other side of the road on double yellow lines.

  When he drew closer, however, and saw an unknown, fair-haired male lounging in the passenger seat smoking a cigarette, his suspicions were aroused. Ross had a habit of abandoning his car in the city for two or three days at a time when he didn’t need it; now it appeared that a couple of joyriders had taken advantage of his generosity.

  “Who’s driving this car?” he demanded, addressing the blond passenger through the half-opened window.

  Dominic, quite unperturbed, returned his steely dark gaze with faint amusement.

  “A stylish, stunningly attractive, outrageously talented girl, since you ask. Why? Did you want to hitch a lift?”

  “Now look,” began Max, fully prepared to act first and ask unnecessary questions later. “This car belongs to—”

  “Hello, Max,” said Tessa, coming up behind him and sizing up the situation at once. Max clearly had no idea that Ross had passed the car over to her.

  “Tessa.” He acknowledged her with a curt nod, his thick black brows drawn into a ferocious line. So the car hadn’t been stolen, he surmised rapidly. But he’d still like to know why Tessa was driving it, and who the bloody hell her companion was, jumped-up little smart-arse.

  Her arms full of groceries from the Italian delicatessen across the street, Tessa stood her ground, casting around in her mind for the most tactful way of explaining Ross’s ludicrously extravagant gesture, then wondering why on earth she should bother. What Ross chose to do with his own car was, after all, none of Max’s business.

  “He wanted me to have it,” she said, in reply to the unspoken question hanging between them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dominic’s triumphant smile and knew that it was also one of relief. No artist liked to know that a
fellow artist was making that much more money than themselves.

  “He gave you this car?” Max looked neither triumphant nor relieved, but downright disgusted. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  Tessa had never had any intention of keeping the car. As soon as the snow and ice melted she was going to return it to Ross. But Max’s nasty, suspicious nature and complete lack of humor infuriated her beyond belief.

  “At least I refused to marry him,” she said, opening the rear door and dumping the bag of groceries on the backseat. “Think about it, Max. What’s more important, your car or your freedom? Ross got off lightly, and you of all people should be pleased. Giving me the Merc was a small price to pay, don’t you think?”

  • • •

  “You shouldn’t have put your hand on my knee just as I was driving away,” she reprimanded Dominic much later as they sat in front of the fire finishing off their meal.

  “Why not?” countered Dominic, his eyes glittering with mischief. “He was a pompous bastard.”

  “I know.” Tessa smiled. “He still is. But you still shouldn’t have done it—he’s going to get the wrong impression and go around bad-mouthing me to anyone who’ll listen.”

  “And who’s going to listen? Someone called Ross, presumably. Is he as shitty as his brother?”

  Tessa gazed into the flickering flames of the fire. “Not quite as shitty. He has his moments. Max is convinced that I’m an evil, scheming bitch; at least Ross doesn’t think that.”

  “You’ll notice,” said Dominic, with an ostentatious glance at his watch, “that six hours have elapsed since we met. I’ve been very good, very patient. But I think it’s time you finally told me what’s going on. Pass me my wineglass—no, refill it first—and start from the very beginning…”

  • • •

  It was almost midnight before Max bumped into Ross in the hotel bar. Waiting until Ross had disentangled himself from a group of overbright theatrical types, he then moved across to join him.

  “I saw your car today.”

  “And?” Ross outstared him, a belligerent expression on his face.

  “And, coincidentally, Tessa was driving it. If you ask me, you’re making a bloody fool of yourself.”

  “Look.” Ross put down his drink. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Tessa needed a car. What you don’t realize is that she was knocked off her bicycle the other day. She’s lucky to be alive. And as long as she’s carrying my child, I’m going to make sure she has a safe mode of transport. I just don’t want her to get killed, OK?”

  “Fine,” countered Max. “Very commendable. So long as you realize that she’s using your lifesaving car to jaunt around town with her smart-aleck boyfriend.”

  • • •

  Mattie couldn’t believe she was doing this, sneaking into her daughter’s room to read the secret diary she knew existed but which she’d never yet set eyes on.

  But Grace worried her. Severely. And when her daughter had casually let drop the information that Ross had—in no uncertain terms—admired her figure, Mattie’s anxieties had reached such a pitch that she realized she had to intervene.

  According to Grace, Ross was demanding that she—and only she—brought him coffee every day. That he talked to her far more than he did to any of the other waitresses. And that he was definitely displaying a more-than-casual interest in her.

  It didn’t take Mattie long to unearth the crimson, leather-bound book she was looking for. Hopelessly untidy herself, her daughter’s passion for neatness and order never failed to amaze her. It also made it ridiculously easy to find anything she wanted. The diary was on the bottom shelf of the bedside table, beneath three copies of the Caterer and a box of peach-shaded tissues.

  • • •

  When Mattie had finished reading, she shuddered and closed the diary on her lap. Looking up, she was confronted by her reflection in the wardrobe mirror, pale and resigned and suddenly looking older than her forty years.

  It was no good; she would have to act. Teenage crushes might be a normal phenomenon, but now that she knew the extent of her daughter’s infatuation with Ross, she couldn’t afford to take any chances.

  Grace had to be told that Ross Monahan was her father.

  Chapter 11

  “Max!” cried Francine, pushing back her wide-brimmed straw hat and flinging her arms around him with such enthusiasm that he could feel the warm swell of her famous breasts pressing against his chest. “My God, you came to rescue me from hell! You are a true knight in shining armor.”

  He couldn’t help it. When she had stopped hugging him he slowly removed her sunglasses. Her sherry-brown eyes danced, while members of the film crew and assorted extras looked on with interest.

  “Yes, it’s really me,” she assured him, still clutching his arm. “And I promise not to behave badly this time. I’m much too glad to see you to behave badly…”

  It was all very gratifying. Being called in at twenty-four-hours’ notice to replace a temperamental scriptwriter was certainly lucrative, but it wasn’t Max’s favorite pastime. He didn’t care for office politics, nor for the personality clashes that notoriously abounded on film sets—particularly when the filming wasn’t going well. The new writer inevitably became enmeshed in the jealousies, arguments, and power struggles. It was far simpler to say that you were committed elsewhere and to refuse the offer with polite regret.

  But when Jack Weston had called him yesterday from Amalfi and told him that the star of his troubled film had personally recommended Max Monahan for the job, he hadn’t put up too much of a struggle. Astounded that she had even remembered his name and with his self-confidence boosted no end by her evident trust in him, he realized how badly he needed to see her again.

  And the thought that she wanted to see him again was, of course, an intoxicating one. Whether she wanted him as a scriptwriter or a lover was another matter. Hoping that it would be both, Max had agreed to fly out right away.

  And now he was here on the Neapolitan Riviera, in a small, sunlit piazza with Francine in his arms and a harassed but evidently relieved director in a pink baseball cap bearing down upon him.

  “You must be Max.” He stuck out a damp, hairy hand. “Thanks for coming. If nothing else,” he added wryly, “you look as if you might be able to cheer Francine up. She hasn’t exactly been a ray of sunshine around here recently. She didn’t hit it off with the scriptwriter, I’m afraid.”

  “Hit it off?” echoed Francine, her dark brows lifting. “If I had a gun I would have shot it off, no problem! Jumped-up little pansy,” she declared, outraged. “He was jealous because his boyfriend preferred me. I didn’t want his ugly boyfriend, but he went crazy every time he saw him looking at me. And he kept changing the script, giving me more and more stupid lines. My character would never even think such lines… Oh, Max! This morning he flew back to London, and now you are here to make me better again. I’m so glad to see you…!”

  “You’ll have to see him later, Francine,” said Jack Weston firmly. “The script comes first. Max and I can start work on it over lunch.”

  They sat at a long, bleached-wood table outside the Ristorante il Saraceno, untidy piles of much-corrected script spread out before them amid bowls of steaming garlic-drenched pasta, carafes of local red wine, and a profusion of glasses. Far below them, beneath the spectacular rocky cliffs and pastel pink-and-yellow houses, lay the Bay of Salerno. Aquamarine water glittered in the February sunlight. Small fishing boats chugged lazily into port and out again. In bars and restaurants all over the picturesque town, Italians were eating, drinking, meeting friends, and making the most of their lunch break.

  Max barely had time to notice, let alone appreciate, the stunning beauty of his surroundings. There was no time at all to linger over the exquisite food laid out before him. The wine remained untouched in his glass as he scrutinized the messy script and lis
tened to Jack Weston’s verbal synopsis of what the story line was meant to convey and the myriad reasons why it had managed to veer so wildly off course.

  Francine had undoubtedly worsened the situation by clashing horns with the talented but volatile young writer, but she had been right about the changes he had been making along the way. By subtly altering her character the impetus of the plot had been lost, and as a result the credibility of the story line was floundering badly. At a conservative estimate, reckoned Jack Weston as he pushed his plate to one side and re-lit a plump, well-chewed Monte Cristo cigar, they were running three weeks behind schedule and maybe half a million over budget.

  “A hiccup’s a hiccup,” he told Max, his tanned face creasing with pain as he kneaded his chest, “but figures like that give me indigestion. The trouble with Francine is that she’s so damned stubborn. Once she makes up her mind about something, that’s it. And she wants her character to go the other way, grabbing all the sympathy… It just wouldn’t work. She’s hell-bent on protecting her image, but I’m the one who has to protect the film. Can you make her see sense, Max? Can you rewrite her part so that we’re all happy?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Max honestly. Francine was an enigma to whom he was hopelessly attracted but unable as yet to figure out. Taking a sip of bitingly strong espresso, he grinned reassuringly at the director. “But give me the rest of the afternoon to start work on the script. This evening I’ll speak to Francine. One way or another we’ll give it a bloody good try.”

  • • •

  “OK, I understand,” she said finally, tilting her head to one side and biting her lower lip like a small child. “I really do, Max. You’re telling me that my character has to be sometimes a bitch otherwise she will be too sickly, like a rum baba, and make the audience want to vomit.”