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  She dismissed him and settled to sleep.

  Greg went off early next morning to call in and see Rob before he took off for Cambridgeshire to see a horse. His paintings of horses had made his name. They were commanding high prices these days, but Greg painted them because he had a pas­sion for horses, he loved their nobility and grace, the sheen of their coats, their elegant visual lines.

  He wouldn't be back for several days, and when he did get back it would be Sara's turn to dash off, because she had a commission to paint a sombre Yorkshire hillside for the owner of a hotel who wanted a view of it to hang in his foyer.

  When Greg had gone, Sara took her sketchpad out into the garden intending to do some life drawings of birds. She wore her customary working gear; well-washed old blue jeans and a white T-shirt which had shrunk and now fitted her rather too closely. She worked for an hour and then found the sunshine too tempting to resist. Sprawling on the lawn, she closed her eyes, her arms curved above her head, letting the warmth soak into her.

  A step startled her and she opened her eyes hur­riedly and stared in disbelief at the dark face of Nick Rawdon. Sara felt herself flush, ludicrously at a disadvantage lying there at his feet, the long hard body looming over her. He was aware of it, too. His mouth had a satisfied twist as he watched her.

  'Remember me?' he asked mockingly, one dark brow curving upwards.

  'Yes,' she said shortly, sitting up, conscious of dishevelled clothes and grass in her hair.

  'You surprise me,' he drawled. 'I got the impres­sion you never even saw me.'

  'What do you want?' she asked uneasily, wishing he would stop staring at her so that she could get to her feet without feeling ungainly.

  'i got your address from our host last night,' he told her, as though she had asked him quite another question. Reluctantly she got to her feet, still find­ing herself looking up at him, since he was well over six foot and she was only five foot four.

  'You look very different this afternoon,' he mur­mured, eyeing her with a glance that followed faithfully every warm curve of her body in the over-tight shirt and jeans, and then came back to observe with amusement the warmth which had filled her skin. He took a step nearer, the blue eyes taunting. 'Not feeling quite so funny?'

  He hadn't liked it when she laughed at him, when she and Greg made fun of his bank, she real­ised, which wasn't surprising. She had been behav­ing Badly, but she had been anxious over Greg. She hadn't cared what Nick Rawdon thought.

  Something of this showed in her angry green eyes. He watched her, the hard lines of his face tighten­ing.

  'If it's about a commission, Mr. Rawdon,' she said quietly, 'Greg is away at the moment. He won't be back for a few days. Can I get him to ring you?'

  His face had altered, a dark red coming into his cheeks, his blue eyes taking on an icy glare. 'He lives here? With you?' The harsh note in his voice made her move back slightly, alarmed.

  'Well, yes, of course. Didn't you know?'

  His sensual lips had become a straight, fierce line. He parted them to ask curtly, 'You're not married, are you?' It was more statement than question and it had the ring of contempt.

  She saw then what he was thinking and because she was so used to living openly in the same house with Greg without anyone lifting an eyebrow, she began to laugh. 'No, of course not.' About to go on to explain her relationship with Greg, she was cut short by a clipped retort from him.

  'Stupid of me to ask, wasn't it? I should have remembered you were both artists. Marriage is an outdated shibboleth, I suppose? You don't need it.'

  'Don't put words in my mouth, buster,' she threw back, infuriated, the vivid red of her hair tossed back from her small face, 'I can do my own talking.'

  'Your manners are appalling, Miss Nichols,' he said furiously, taking hold of her elbows and shak­ing her like a doll between his lean hands. 'As bad as your morals, apparently, but I don't expect you to share my view.'

  'I wouldn't want to share anything with you,' Sara retorted, green eyes glittering.

  'Wouldn't you?' he said in sudden barbed mockery, and before she could evade him he had bent his black head and taken her mouth violently, surprising her lips into parting for him, hungrily probing and demanding in a kiss which was more insult than pleasure. She was too astonished to struggle or respond, and before she had had time to realise what was happening, he pushed her away and turned on his heel, walking back the way he had come, round the side of the house.

  She stared after him, a hand to her mouth, her lips stinging, filled with bruised heat.

  She was too astonished to move for several minutes. She had been kissed before, but never on such short acquaintance or with such deliberate violence. The experience lingered in her mind all day. The slightly swollen look of her lips kept re­minding her. She would put a ringer to them, frown­ing. Why had he come? Had he wanted to see Greg about a commission? Or had he come to see her?

  That thought was oddly disturbing. She was not unaware of her own looks, but her passion for work had made her almost indifferent to them. She had other things on her mind most of the time. Although she had a number of men friends, she had never had a lover. She had never let herself drift into a love affair because it might interfere with her work. Her few flirtations had been brief, a mere game, but once or twice she had been told by a would-be-lover that she was beautiful. Sara had never taken these compliments seriously since her trained eye ruefully warned her of imperfections in herself which made beauty impossible.

  She had fine-boned sensitive features; a delicate little nose, slanting green eyes with gold-tipped lashes, high cheekbones and smooth creamy skin, but Sara was too well aware that her mouth was far too wide for her face, far too generously cut, the fullness of the lower lip promising a passion which her cool green eyes denied.

  Slender and slight in most respects, her body had a lack of proportion too; her breasts fuller and more rounded than her thin hips, so that she preferred to wear jeans and a shirt since she could not find many dresses which she could wear. From the back she could look like a boy, but when she turned the thrust of her breasts gave her a sexy outline which made men stare in interest.

  She had been so intent on Greg at the party that Nick Rawdon had only just impinged on her con­sciousness, but he had forced himself into her mind now. She could not get that hard kiss out of her head, questions buzzing inside her whenever she thought of him.

  When Greg returned she told him about the little incident and he raised his brows, comic irony in his face.

  'Fancied you, you think?'

  'I hadn't noticed,' Sara said. 'Men usually make that rather more obvious. I remember thinking he was downright hostile.'

  'You did seem to be teasing him rather at that party,' Greg pointed out. 'I saw him watching you as if he'd like to hit you.'

  'Maybe that's why he kissed me, then,' she mur­mured, grinning. 'It was a substitute for a slap round the face.'

  'You sound almost regretful,' Greg teased. 'Would you have liked the slap better.'

  'The way he kisses there wasn't much difference,' she shrugged.

  'That's a mind-blowing thought,' Greg drawled, his brows quivering with amusement. 'I wish I'd been here.'

  'Just as well you weren't. He'd got the impression we were living in sin.'

  'What?' Greg stared.

  'He seems to think that sharing a house can only mean one thing. A very narrow-minded man, Mr. Rawdon.'

  'Hence the kiss?' Greg looked angry suddenly. 'He thought you were an easy target, did he? I'd like to punch his handsome nose for him!'

  That thought hadn't occurred to her until then and she flushed hotly, her eyes becoming very green.

  'He's quite a high flyer, you know,' Greg went on thoughtfully. 'I read something about him and his bank the other day. An old merchant bank, it seems, with pretty hefty assets.' He grinned at her. 'No wonder he expected you to recognise his name!'

  'And genuflect,' she said scornfully. 'He was mad bec
ause I didn't go all weak at the knees at the thought of all his money.'

  'Well, next time you bump into him, darling, curtsey respectfully,' Greg drawled lightly.

  'There won't be a next time,' Sara shrugged. 'I don't move in the sort of circles frequented by rich merchant bankers and I've a feeling he won't be coming back.'

  'He might want me to paint a horse,' Greg pointed out. 'He's rich enough to own a stableful, but he somehow doesn't look like a racing man to me.'

  'He looks as though he only has one hobby-counting his money.' Sara yawned. 'Oh, let's forget him—he's a boring subject, anyway. Now, I'm off to Yorkshire tomorrow, remember. I've left the fridge well stocked, but do try to cat fresh food now and then, Greg.'

  'Yes, ma'am,' he said piously, pulling at his fore­lock.

  'Liar,' she groaned. 'You won't even bother. You're worse than a child!'

  'But you love me,' he said, blowing her a kiss.

  'You're the only brother I've got,' she grimaced. 'Even if you are semi-detached.'

  'You mean semi-attached,' he corrected.

  'I know what I mean,' Sara said drily, and Greg gave her an amused, comprehending smile.

  Next day she drove out of London en route for the north, rueful as she became entangled in the heavy motorway traffic streaming away from the capital, her head already totally clear of all recollec­tion of Nick Rawdon, her mind moving ahead to the picture she was going to paint. Sara had an enormous capacity for self-protection, defending herself against troubling intrusion by blocking out anything that bothered her, so that she could get on with the job in hand. Since the death of their shared parents, Greg was the only human being who really mattered to her. She had a warm nature, but she had learnt to curb it, giving out freely only to Greg, and even then doing so under Greg's own rules, always keep­ing it light, laughing, never imposing demands on him or allowing any emotion to show. Greg's nature had formed her own, or rather rough-hewn it, shap­ing it to match his. Under the gay flippancy of their banter a real affection ran, but Sara was unaware of any other potential in herself, the passion her mouth hinted at always held back under the control of her cool green eyes.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Three days later she was in York, doing some shop­ping, her feet aching after several hours spent walk­ing around the narrow, crowded streets of the city. It was not her first visit to York, but each time she came she found new beauty to admire, new places to be fascinated by, her eye continually drawn to the irregular lines of the old houses and shops which tumbled down the hills on which the city had been built. It was necessarily a place in which one walked. Traffic was appalling and confusing. The most sensible thing to do was park the car in one of the car-parks outside the central core of the city and walk in to the main streets. Sara had come to buy paints, but she had been continually distracted by what she saw and her visit had been more pro­tracted than she had intended. She was staying in the hotel whose owner had commissioned her. He was a short, sturdy man with a quick deep voice, his thinning hair turning grey. The hillside he wished her to paint was his obses­sion, she had discovered. A view of it greeted him each morning as he drew the curtains in his bed­room, he informed her, and he loved it more as time passed. Sara liked people who felt like that about places. A sense of place was bitten into her own mind. That was why she painted landscapes, trying to give stark illumination to the essentials of each place she painted. She had spent her first day merely talking to her client, getting from him the feel and atmosphere he wanted her to convey and de­ciding how far she agreed with him. Luckily, they agreed very well,

  His hotel was an old public house in a road which led off the main route from York to Scarborough. The rugged white lines of the building looked charming against the deep green curves of the hills. It had at first occurred to Sarah to paint the hotel against the rolling setting it enjoyed, but her client wanted one particular view and no other. He wanted a permanent reminder of his beloved hillside.

  'I'd rather have painted it in the winter,' Sara had sighed, smiling at him. 'It must be very beauti­ful then.'

  'It's lovely now,' he had said obstinately. 'I want the oaks and that elm there and all the wall. Some sheep too.'

  He was a man who knew what he wanted. Sara had grinned at him, accepting his insistence.

  First she had done some sketches which she had discussed with him at length and now she was about to start on the actual picture, but she had had an accident with her paints. Struggling with them the day before she had dropped several and a car had rolled over them before she could pick them up. The little incident had annoyed her, meaning a delay, but now she was glad she had come to York again. The morning had been delightful.

  Glancing at her watch she realised that it was lunchtime and she was hungry. There were a number of places where she could eat, but she remembered a small bistro down near the river, so she turned back that way, smiling as she passed a long crocodile of schoolchildren on their way back from the Castle Museum. They were chattering, groaning, eating ice lollies in a surreptitious way, the teachers leading them looking round suspici­ously now and then.

  Still smiling with amusement, Sara hurried on and ran full tilt into a man coining out of a modern office block. She looked up casually to apologise, her hands on the chest into which she had walked, and her smile died as she recognised the cold blue eyes of Nick Rawdon.

  It was so unexpected that she couldn't think of a thing to say, her face reflected her dismay.

  To her own irritation she found herself blushing hotly and, to cover her embarrassment, said flip­pantly. 'Fancy running into you!'

  He was not amused. He put his own hands over hers and drew them down from his body, dropping her hands before pushing his own into his trouser pockets, the thrust of his arms pushing open his jacket to show a sexily close-tailored waistcoat which emphasised his slim waist, and a formal blue-and-white striped shirt. He looked, different, she thought, trying to decide what gave her that impression. After a moment she realised that it was his clothes. They were far more stiffly elegant than the suits he had worn on their previous two meetings. He looked what he was in them; a man accustomed to author­ity, assured, tough, impressive.

  'What are you doing in York?' he asked with a hint of accusation, as though he suspected her of following him here.

  Her colour and breathing had returned to normal. She threw back her head in an unthinking gesture of: defiance and his eyes followed the movement to catch the glint of sunlight on the rioting red-gold hair.

  'What are you}' she retorted.

  His hard mouth twisted at her avoidance of his question. 'Working. I'm here for a conference.'

  She glanced up at the block he had left. 'Bankers Anonymous?'

  The flash of his eyes told her he didn't like that. But he kept his cool, his lips ironic. 'Haven't you got a bank account, Miss Nichols? Or does Halliday see to all that for you?'

  It was her turn to be furious, but she followed his example and hid her anger, smiling with cold sweet­ness at him, her eyes very vivid and brilliant. 'Oh, I keep my money in a sock.'

  'If I believed you I would think you a fool.' He dismissed her claim with a shrug of those broad shoulders which made her notice the beautiful fit of his jacket, the smooth tailoring and cut of it. None of her male friends wore clothes like these. She imagined they must cost a fortune. 'And what arc you doing in York?'

  'Painting,' she retorted. 'Like you, I'm working.'

  'In York itself?'

  'No,' Sara said, shaking her head. 'I'm painting a landscape in a village a few miles away. I came into York to do some shopping.'

  He glanced at her then away, his heavy lids half lowered, a cynical glint in the blue eyes. 'Halliday with you?'

  'No,' Sara retorted, her rounded chin lifted in challenge. 'Greg's at home.' A taint indulgence came into her eyes unwittingly. 'Starving himself to death, probably. If I'm not there, he forgets to eat.'

  'How sad,' he muttered, his lips twi
sting.

  She stiffened at the tone and said shortly, 'Which reminds me, I've got to find somewhere to eat, my­self. Goodbye, Mr. Rawdon.'

  As she turned to walk round him he caught her arm, his long fingers tight around her skin. 'Have lunch with me. I was just on my way to eat.'

  She looked down at his hand. 'No, thank you.' Catching his eye, she felt impelled to make some excuse, adding, with a glance down at her old jeans and then his expensive clothes, 'We don't match. I can't see you eating in a cheap bistro.'

  'We'll lunch at my hotel,' he returned calmly.

  She shook her head. 'Not in these jeans.'

  'We can eat in my suite. No one will notice your clothes.'

  That amused her, the idea of him having a suite all to himself. He caught the smile she involun­tarily gave and his blue eyes betrayed anger again. He thought she was laughing at him once more.

  'I'm sorry,' she said, sobering. 'It's just that we're from such different worlds. I've no doubt your hotel does a fantastic lunch, Mr Rawdon, but I'll stick to my bistro, if you don't mind.'

  'I do mind,' he said, staring at her. 'Are you an inverted snob, Miss Nichols?'

  'No, just a realist. We come from different sides of the track and I prefer my side.'

  'Then why were you at that party the other night?'

  'Greg was there to drum up business,' she said drily. 'I was there because he wanted me there.'

  'You're his window dressing, are you? He uses you as bait for customers?'

  The insult took her breath away. 'Watch your­self, mister,' she said between her teeth. 'You may be bigger than me, but that won't stop me batting you over the head with a blunt instrument!'

  He laughed, looking astonished, and just then another party of schoolchildren rushed past them and knocked into Sara, throwing her forward so that she was (lung against Nick Rawdon, forced into his body, her hands instinctively grasping his shoulders to retain her balance. His arm went round her to steady her, and she looked up involuntarily. They were so close that she could see the faint flecks of black in his blue eyes which gave that depth of colour from a distance. Suddenly she realised his eyes were nearer and then he was lowering his head with his gaze fixed on her mouth. She couldn't be­lieve it, yet she realised he was going to kiss her. Even as she became aware of his intention he jerked back his head with an almost visible effort, his face taut. Their eyes met and he looked away at once.