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      MILLS & BOON

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT was going to rain very shortly; the grey woolly clouds, blown into an untidy heap by the wind, were tearing across the sky, half hiding the distant island of Sark and turning the water to a reflected darkness. Miss Victoria Parsons, making her brisk way along the cliff path from St Peter Port to Fermain Bay, paused to watch them, sighing with content and pleasure as she did so, for it was the first day of her holiday and she was free to tramp where she wished, uncaring of wind and rain, uncaring too of her appearance, a fact amply demonstrated by her attire; a guernsey, quite two sizes too large for her, which gave her slim curves a deceiving bulkiness, and a pair of slacks, well fitting but decidedly worn, but after several months of nurse’s uniform they were a delight to wear besides, there was no one to see her on this windy March afternoon. She stood, sniffing the air and calculating how long it would be before the clouds reached Guernsey and the rain started. Ten minutes, she thought, perhaps a little less, and she was barely halfway. She had passed the new houses built overlooking the sea, there was nothing now until she reached Fermain Bay, only the narrow up and down, roundabout path between the trees, halfway between the cliff top and the sea below. She went a little nearer the edge of the cliff now and stared down at the rocks below and a gust of wind tore at her hair, loosening the pins, so that she took the remainder out and let the coppery mass tangle in the wind.

      A drop of rain fell on to her face as she turned back on to the path once more and she remembered, just in time, the old disused powder magazine cut into the cliff, not so very far away. She could shelter there; the rain was coming down in earnest now and while her guernsey kept her dry, her hair was already hanging wetly around her shoulders and the rain pouring down her face, and by the time she reached the magazine she was drenched and a little breathless from hurrying.

      The magazine was built of granite and had lost its door long ago, but its four walls were solid, as was its roof. She squelched inside; here at least it was dry—the rain wouldn’t last long and there was time enough before she need be home again. It was dim inside and quite warm, she turned her back on the interior to peer out at the sky, squeezing the wet from her sopping hair as she did so; it might be an idea to take off her guernsey and give it a good shake— She was on the point of pulling it over her head when a voice from the furthest corner of the magazine said mildly: ‘Er—if you would wait one moment…’

      Victoria spun round, indignation at being frightened out of her wits eclipsing her fear. She snapped: ‘Who are you, and what are you doing here?’

      ‘Why, as to who I am, I imagine that’s hardly relevant to the occasion, and I’m doing exactly the same as you—sheltering from the weather.’

      The owner of the voice had advanced towards her as he spoke—a tall man, wide in the shoulder, with dark hair and blue eyes and the kind of good looks which on any other occasion would have caused her to wish to know him better. But not now; she said crossly: ‘You could have said something…’

      ‘My dear good woman, I was sitting in the furthest corner of this—er—building with my eyes closed.’ He eyed her coolly. ‘Having a nice rest,’ he added. ‘You disturbed it.’ And while she was still searching indignantly for a rejoinder to this candid remark, he went on: ‘You’re very wet. Here, have my handkerchief and at least wipe your face.’

      His look implied that her appearance was so awful that drying her face wouldn’t be of much use anyway. She took the handkerchief he was holding out to her, dried her face and began on her hair; it was a pity that her usually ready tongue was incapable of fashioning any of the biting remarks jostling each other so hopelessly inside her pretty head. She seethed quietly, handed the handkerchief back with a muttered thank you and retreated against a wall.

      ‘Now don’t do that,’ said her companion in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Come here and I’ll dry as much of your hair as I can.’ And when she hesitated, ‘Don’t be a fool, girl,’ he added in a lazily amused voice which sent the blood to her cheeks. It would be silly to refuse and anyway she liked his face—his mouth was firm and kind and his eyes steady. She advanced with dignity and turned her back at his bidding while he began to rub her hair with the damp handkerchief.

      ‘Untamed,’ he remarked, ‘your hair, I mean. Don’t you find it a nuisance?’

      Really, thought Victoria, what a man he was! Could he say nothing pleasant? He had done nothing but find fault with her, and now her hair… Her beautiful tawny eyes flashed, she said with deceptive sweetness: ‘No, not in the least—I like it