CHAPTER ONE

      THEY were in the kitchen of the large, rambling old house when, sensing her niece’s eyes on her—her half-niece, to be exact—Leyne looked up from the school uniform shirt she was ironing.

      ‘What?’ she asked, looking into Pip’s direct gaze.

      Pip stared at her for a few more seconds and then, reddening slightly, said in a rush, ‘Leyne—do you know who my father is?’

      The question was so totally unexpected that Leyne felt winded by it and was not sure that her jaw did not drop a fraction. Pip had never shown any curiosity about her father before, and now of all times, with her mother out of the country, was not the best time for her to start asking questions on that subject.

      ‘Er—no, love, I don’t,’ Leyne replied honestly.

      ‘Mmm.’ Pip accepted her answer and went on to ask a question in connection with the history project she was working on and needed for school in the morning.

      Leyne hoped that the question of who Pip’s father was had been an idle, throw-away kind of question. But as she lay in her bed that night she could not get out of her mind that direct look of her half-sister’s eleven-and-a-half-year-old daughter.

      In the normal way of things, and Leyne admitted she was biased, Pip was the most loveable and amenable child. But occasionally, only very occasionally, she would get that direct look in her gorgeous green eyes. Direct as well as stubborn, if she did not know the answer to why, or who, or whatever, she would chip away until she did have the answer she wanted.

      Still hoping that her niece’s question the previous evening had been an idle one, Leyne dropped her and her friend Alice off at their school the next morning. From there she drove to her job as assistant management accountant, with her head in a jumble of thoughts.

      Maxine, Pip’s mother, had gone off on an extended working trip less than a week ago. ‘Are you sure you’ll be able to cope?’ Max had only yesterday insisted when she had phoned from the airport in Madrid.

      Max had at first decided against taking up the fantastic chance to accompany Ben Turnbull, one of the world’s leading photographers, when, recovering from a motor accident, he’d had to face the unpalatable fact that he would either have to take an assistant or cancel the six-month-long trip. But apparently there was no way he was prepared to cancel all his preparations, even if he had to take two assistants.

      Max, given the set-backs that went with being a single parent, was, at thirty-five, something of a photographer in her own right, and her name must have reached the great Ben Turnbull’s ears. Because it was quite out of the blue that a letter had arrived addressed to Max Nicholson. And, her work speaking for itself, it seemed, Ben Turnbull, either still recovering or not condescending to interview her, had, without an interview, astonishingly offered her the job any photographer worthy of the name would give their eye-teeth for.

      Leyne remembered the way Max’s eyes had lit up, recalled her yelp of joy when she’d read of the offer: six months, possibly longer, worldwide trip, expenses paid, salary paid, with the chance thrown in to photograph animals in their native surrounds, landscapes, wild flowers, indigenous tribespeople—Max had been near to drooling as she had read on.

      It had not taken her long, however, to realise that there was no way that she could accept the awesome job offer. ‘No,’ she had decided as reality forced its ugly way in through what she had soon seen was just one huge, big fantastic dream. ‘It’s not on.’

      ‘Why isn’t it?’ Leyne had asked, feeling her half-sister’s disappointment as though it were her own.

      ‘You