CHAPTER ONE

      BIANCA FRASER woke up on a cold, raw February morning and remembered with a sinking heart that it was her fortieth birthday. Outside, it was raining; inside, it was cold, because the central heating hadn’t yet automatically switched itself on; it was set to come on at seven; and it was dark because it was only half-past six and the sun hadn’t yet risen.

      She didn’t have to get up yet; her alarm was set for seven-thirty because this was just another working day. She had to shower and dress, get breakfast, drive Tom to school and Vicky to work and then get to work herself by nine. The day stretched out bleakly in front of her, heavy with responsibilities and chores, and she did not feel like getting up.

      Turning over in the warmth of the bed, she found herself reaching out towards the accustomed hollow in the centre, but it was empty, as it had been now for over three years.

      Closing her eyes on a wave of misery, she pressed her hand down into the mattress where Rob’s body had lain beside her for twenty years. They had gone so fast, those years; it only seemed like yesterday that they had met, fallen in love, married. Time flashed past her closed eyes, under her lids, images vanishing into oblivion.

      ‘Oh, Rob,’ she groaned, remembering the feel of his body close beside her all night.

      She missed him most of all when she was in this bed, alone. Her body ached for his; she quivered and groaned at the memory of his touch, his passionate mouth, his body coming down on her. It was so real; she put her arms out to hold him and felt his warm, naked skin under her hands.

      ‘Oh, Rob!’ she whispered in pleasure as he moved against her. Running her fingers through his hair, she looked up at him with passion, needing what he was doing so badly that it was almost unbearable.

      But it wasn’t Rob. A strange face looked down at her; it was a stranger’s body on top of her.

      A scream choked in her throat and she began to fight him off, writhing and kicking until she rolled right off the bed.

      As her body hit the floor her eyes flew open. The room was no longer dark; grey morning light filled it. Trembling in shock, Bianca struggled up and looked dazedly at the bed.

      It was empty.

      Breathing thickly, her heart beating so fast it deafened her, she looked hurriedly around the bedroom. That was empty, too. There was nobody here but her. A second later, her alarm clock began to ring, the noise shockingly loud in the silence.

      That was when it dawned on her. She had gone back to sleep; she had been dreaming.

      Scarlet, then white, she jumped up, staggering a little, turned off her alarm and rushed to the bathroom. In the room next to hers she heard Vicky’s alarm endlessly jangling until there was a loud moan, the sound of someone heavily turning in bed and the alarm stopped dead.

      Bianca used the lavatory, turned on the shower, stripped off her nightdress, all without thinking what she was doing. Her mind was on automatic pilot. She was in shock. The dream was still playing in her head; she was remembering her passionate response as some total stranger did that to her…

      Shame made her skin burn. How could she have felt like that? Responded to a stranger? It if had been Rob…but it hadn’t been! I thought it was! she defended herself hurriedly. At first I thought it was, until I saw his face.

      But dreams don’t come out of nowhere; you dreamt what you wanted to dream.

      No, that’s not true! she thought angrily. She could not accept that. She hadn’t wanted to dream about some strange man making love to her; she had never even thought of such a thing, not in her waking moments.

      My unconscious…she thought, biting her lip. But she knew it wasn’t that simple; she couldn’t dismiss it as something conjured up without her knowing anything about it. It had been her who was dreaming about a stranger making love to her.

      And who was he, anyway, that stranger who had shown up so mysteriously in her dream? Who had she substituted for Rob?

      She tried to remember something about him—anything—but his face was blank, she couldn’t recall a thing about him, except that it had not