Unexpected Blessings

From remarks her mother had made recently, Linnet knew that Mark Longden was not only drinking very heavily these days, but was also on drugs. It had troubled her then; it was certainly more worrying now. A man under the influence could easily become irresponsible, even erratic, and quite possibly violent – and therefore dangerous. She was fairly certain that Mark wouldn’t intentionally hurt his only child. But what if something went wrong with him, or others, and in the process Adele got hurt, albeit inadvertently?

It suddenly struck Linnet that thoughts of a similar nature must have occurred to Tessa. Never before had she heard her sister sound so vulnerable, nervous, and at such a loss about what to do than she had a few minutes ago. It seemed to her that the child’s abduction, because that was what it was, had rendered Tessa helpless.

Normally Tessa was a take-charge person who wanted to be top dog, so that she could run everything and boss everyone around. And very often, because of Tessa’s ambition to be their mother’s heir-apparent, the Dauphine as she called herself, Tessa and she had locked horns. But there was a family rule that went all the way back to Emma Harte and her brothers, and it had never been broken. No matter what the circumstances, a Harte was always loyal to a Harte. They had been brought up to stand strong and steady together in a fight, to defend each other against the world. To kill for each other, to take the bullet for each other, if necessary. Linnet knew all the Harte rules by heart and lived by them.

The child was Tessa’s vulnerable spot; Linnet was well aware of her sister’s deep and unwavering love for her child. The entire family loved Adele. The three-year-old girl was like a Botticelli angel, with her silver-gilt hair, silvery-grey eyes, and her exquisite little face. Beautiful and endearing, with genuine sweetness, she had touched them all in different ways. Linnet thought of Adele as one of those rare golden children, unique, almost spiritual. God forbid anything happened to her.

How to solve this dilemma? What to do? Linnet asked herself. And where to begin? Start driving for one thing, she decided, rousing herself from her myriad thoughts, releasing the brake and slowly pulling out onto the motorway.

Linnet knew she had to handle this. The very fact that Tessa had turned to her made her truly understand that her sister accepted that she herself was far too emotional to cope with the situation. I’ve got to deal with it fast, Linnet thought. Very fast. Today. It can’t be allowed to drag on. I’ve got to find Mark. Find that child. Immediately. Before anything goes wrong.

There really was only her. Her parents were in New York with Aunt Emily and Uncle Winston, which meant the four senior and most powerful members of the Harte family were out of action for the moment.

Gideon Harte? She thought of her cousin, her best friend, for a moment. He could be extremely helpful. He ran the Harte newspapers, was brilliant and street-wise, and he had every kind of resource at his disposal. Owning and running an international newspaper chain spelled one thing. Power. Immense power. Yes, she might have to pull Gideon into this, but right now what she really needed was an expert. A genuine professional. A policeman who wasn’t actually a policeman.

Jack Figg.

The name leapt into her mind at once. Harte’s security adviser, he was considered a member of the family. She had known him since childhood, thought of him as a pal. And so the moment she saw another lay-by ahead, Linnet pulled in and parked. Reaching for her hold-all, she groped around in it for her address book, and quickly found his name.

A few seconds later she was dialling Jack’s mobile number.

‘Figg here,’ he answered almost at once.

‘It’s Linnet, Jack.’

‘Hello, Beauty. What do you need?’

‘You, Jack. Please.’

‘I’m yours,’ he laughed, ‘anytime you want me.’

‘Remember what you said at Shane’s birthday party in June – that I could count on you in an emergency?’

‘I do. And you can.’

‘Thanks, Jack. There’s an emergency.’

‘Tell me everything I need to know.’

She did so, and gave him her own thoughts about what had happened.

‘The phone calls were meant to distract her, keep her busy. Where are you now, Linnet?’

‘Parked in a lay-by, about an hour away from Pennistone Royal. Are you in Robin Hood’s Bay?’

‘No, I’m outside York Minster with a friend. If I leave York now I’ll probably arrive at the house the same time as you. I’ll meet you there. But please tell Tessa you’ve asked me to help. Just in case I arrive before you.’

‘I will. And thanks, Jack.’

‘Anything for you, Beauty.’

He was gone, and she was back on the motorway, picking up speed as she gunned the car forward, streaking along the empty road. There was hardly any traffic at the moment, and that was something in her favour at least.

Linnet concentrated on driving for the next twenty minutes or so, and then, slowing down, she phoned Tessa at Pennistone Royal. Her sister said there was nothing new, and no sign of Adele. Wiggs and his search party were still looking. Linnet told her about Jack Figg, and his imminent arrival, and fortunately met no resistance from Tessa.

A few seconds later she punched in Evan’s mobile number, but it was turned off. No doubt Evan was with Uncle Robin, whom she had been wanting to talk to for several weeks. Linnet thought suddenly of her cousin India Standish. India had gone up to Leeds from London very early that morning, to start working on plans for revamping the store. Linnet was close to her cousin. In fact everyone in the family loved India. She had an understanding heart, was kind, with a loving nature. Many thought she was delicate, even frail, but her elegant aristocratic looks inherited from the Fairleys belied her character.

Linnet knew she was practical, down to earth, strong physically, and that, like their great-grandmother Emma Harte, she was absolutely fearless. India worked with her in the fashion department of Harte’s in London, and they had been close friends since childhood. India had grown up on her father’s estate Clonloughlin in Ireland, but she had spent every summer at Pennistone Royal. And Linnet loved to boast of some of India’s brave deeds as a child … like the time she rushed out into the backyard at Pennistone Royal wearing huge oven gloves in order to separate two dogs fighting over the dead body of a rabbit. Or the day Linnet’s little sister Emsie had climbed into the big oak and got stuck in the upper branches. Undeterred by Linnet’s warning that they would both fall out of the tree, India had climbed up it, had sat with Emsie, stopped her wailing and held her tightly until Linnet had come back with Joe, the estate-manager, carrying a tall orchard ladder.

Yes, Linnet decided, India would be helpful in this situation, and she got on well with the sometimes difficult Tessa.

India would be staying at Pennistone Royal for the next few days, as she usually did. I’d better warn her about the situation there, Linnet thought, tell her what’s happened, before she goes over there later. She dialled her cousin, and waited patiently as the mobile rang and rang.

CHAPTER THREE

‘That’s your phone ringing, not mine,’ Russell ‘Dusty’ Rhodes said, looking across at India, who stood next to the window.

She frowned, glancing around the bedroom, exclaiming, ‘Heavens, where’s my bag?’

‘Over there, on the chair. Under your dress.’

‘Oh gosh, yes, you’re right.’ As she spoke she ran to the chair, clutching the towel around her body; with her other hand she grabbed the bag, groped inside for the ringing mobile phone, turned it on, held it to her ear. ‘Hello?’

‘India?’

‘Hi Linnet.’

‘Where are you? At the Leeds store already?’

‘No. I stopped in for a few minutes, then went to … lunch.’

Dusty grinned at her from the other side of the room and began to laugh.

She glared at him and silently mouthed, ‘Be quiet.’

Linnet said, ‘India, there’s a problem. Adele’s disappeared. Several hours ago, and Tessa’s frantic.’

‘Oh my God!’ Alarm registered in India’s eyes and she sat down heavily in the chair, concentrating on the phone call.

‘She could be lost in the grounds, might have just wandered off,’ Linnet went on, ‘but somehow I doubt that. Personally, I think Mark Longden snatched her, and so does Tessa.’

‘Yes, I agree. But surely he wouldn’t hurt her –’

‘True,’ Linnet interrupted, ‘but things sometimes do go wrong, so we’ve got to find her before anything untoward does happen. I’ve brought Jack Figg in to help, and there’s a search party looking for her at Pennistone Royal. I should be there myself in half an hour.’

‘Perhaps I’d better come too.’

‘You might as well finish lunch, India. There’s not a lot you can do except be there for Tessa. Obviously, she’s very upset.’

‘I can well imagine.’ There was a slight hesitation on India’s part, and then she asked worriedly, ‘You don’t think Jonathan Ainsley has anything to do with this, do you?’

‘I sincerely hope not, but if he does it really changes the picture.’

‘Yes, you’re right. But what do you –’

‘Let’s not go there, India. At least not yet. I’ll see you later.’

‘I’ll leave shortly.’ India clicked off the phone and put it back in her bag. Her face was paler than ever, her eyes anxious.

‘What’s happened?’ Dusty asked, sitting up straighter in the bed, looking at her alertly. ‘You sounded frightened. No, not frightened, you’re not frightened of anything, are you? Concerned is possibly a better word. Or alarmed.’

India stared back at him, nodding. ‘I am a bit alarmed, yes. Adele, Tessa’s little girl, has vanished and Linnet says it could be Mark Longden’s doing.’

‘That’s bad. What do you think?’

‘I tend to agree. Mark’s not very nice, and it’s more than likely he took her.’

‘She’s not lost somewhere on that vast estate perhaps?’

‘It’s possible, I suppose. But I think she would’ve been found by now. She’s still a toddler. How far could she get? Linnet says it’s several hours since she went missing, and there’s a search party out.’

‘Why would he take her? Stupid question, Rhodes,’ he answered himself, shaking his head. ‘As a weapon in the divorce … he’s using her against your cousin, using her in order to manipulate Tessa.’ He ran a hand through his black wavy hair and a look of contempt crossed his face. ‘People. What shits they are, how they disgust me. He’s a real bastard if he’s using his child in that way.’

India sighed, stood up, reached for her clothes.

‘You can be there in less than an hour, so come back to bed.’ Dusty’s voice was lower, suddenly tender, and he smiled at her seductively. She noticed yet again how white his teeth were against the tan of his face. ‘Come back to bed with me, let’s do it all again,’ he insisted.

India shook her head. ‘I do think I have to go, Dusty,’ she answered, but regret registered on her face.

He could not fail to miss that expression, knew at once that she wanted to stay. He saw the desire in her eyes, the look of yearning. He threw back the sheets and got out of bed, walked towards her purposefully, still smiling that beguiling smile of his.

India thought his blue eyes looked suddenly dangerous, almost predatory. Her stomach lurched and she felt weak; he always managed to make her feel this way at some point or other when they were together … shaking inside … swooning … trembling. She was always his willing partner in anything he wanted to do with her … sexually aroused by a mere glance from him, the touch of his hand.

As he drew close she thought how impossibly good-looking he was, almost absurdly handsome. It was as if a sculptor had spent endless hours shaping most of his face: straight, patrician nose, broad forehead, high cheekbones, perfectly rounded chin. And elegantly arched brows above those dazzlingly-blue eyes that became soulful with passion, could turn icy cold in anger. He did not have one of those pretty-boy, matinée-idol faces; it was ruggedly handsome, with sharp angles and planes, as if the sculptor had suddenly wanted to finish quickly and had become slapdash.

His face matched his body. He had a solid torso – broad chest, wide shoulders above slender hips. About five feet eleven, he gave the impression of greater height and strength because of his powerful build. From the moment she had met him she had been aware of his potency and masculinity. No other man had ever affected her the way he did.

Now he was standing in front of her, the smile still lingering on his mouth. He pulled her into his arms and held her close to his body; the towel and her clothes fell from her hands onto the floor in a heap, and her arms went around his shoulders. And as he bent his head towards her his mouth found hers. He kissed her deeply, passionately, and she felt his erection against her thigh, and for a moment she thought she would succumb, become an all-too-willing partner in his bed for a second time that day. And she clung to him, dissolving.

But then the brainwashing of years kicked in and she remembered the Harte rules and she knew she had to go to Pennistone Royal. Whatever her physical desires and needs were, no matter how much she wanted this man, her upbringing overrode everything else. A Harte was in trouble, and every other Harte must stand alongside, to defend their rights.

When they finally stopped their kisses, India gently pushed Dusty away, her hands resting on his chest. For a moment he resisted, and then quite suddenly he stepped back with an abrupt movement, looked into her face, his own questioning.

‘You know the rules,’ she murmured. ‘I told you about them ages ago.’

‘A Harte always goes to the aid of a Harte in trouble!’ he exclaimed. ‘You don’t have to embellish. I got it then, I get it now.’

‘Please don’t be angry.’

‘I’m not,’ he snapped, turning away, walking over to the window, where he stood looking out, his stance rigid, his face a mask of discontent.

Without another word she collected her clothes, went into the bathroom, tidied herself up, slipped into her bra and panties, pulled a black linen dress over her head, then slid her feet into high-heeled, black leather mules.

When she returned to the bedroom he was still standing at the window looking out, but he had quickly dressed, was wearing his jeans and a white t-shirt.

At the sound of her heels clicking on the parquet floor he swung to face her. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, and for once he looked shame-faced.

India walked over to him, touched his cheek gently. ‘I want to stay, to be with you, you know that, and you also know how I feel about you. This sense of duty to the family is something I can’t help.’ She shrugged and finished, ‘I suppose it’s just … ingrained in me.’

He caught her hand in his, brought it to his mouth, kissed it. ‘I know. And I’m a belligerent sod at times.’ He laughed his deep-throated laugh. ‘Most of the time, wouldn’t you say? Okay, I’ll let you go.’ He led her towards the door. ‘On one condition.’

She caught the lightness in his tone, saw the sudden mischievous laughter in those amazing eyes. ‘I agree to any condition,’ she said, ‘as long as it’s a condition involving you.’

‘You’ll regret saying that when you know what it is.’ He hurried her out of the bedroom and down the grand staircase.

‘Will I really?’ she asked, her expression suddenly flirtatious. ‘So, tell me what it is, then.’

‘You have to sit for me.’ He stopped on the stairs, turned to look at her.

India gaped at him, her jaw dropping. ‘You want me to sit for you? You want to paint me? Me?’ She was flabbergasted.

He saw that he had startled her, and realized that her amazement was genuine, and for a moment or two he was baffled by this. They had paused in the middle of the staircase, were standing just underneath the domed glass ceiling. Light was streaming in, turning her hair into a silver halo and her silvery-grey eyes seemed to be lit from within. In contrast, her face was sensual, her mouth ripe and bruised. He caught his breath, wishing he could start painting right away. His fingers tingled.

She said quickly, ‘You’re staring at me, and you have the most peculiar look on your face.’ Her hand came up to smooth her hair; suddenly, she felt ungroomed, self-conscious about her appearance. ‘I know I look a mess.’

He took her face between his hands and gazed deeply into her beautiful, transparent eyes. ‘I wish I could start painting you right now, capture you the way you look at this moment. So vulnerable and open, the sensuality still lingering. You look like a woman who has just been well and truly bedded.’

‘I was.’

‘You’ll do it then? You’ll sit for me?’

‘If you really want me to, Dusty.’

He smiled and reached out, took hold of her fingers, and they went on down the stairs hand in hand. When they got to the bottom Dusty paused, gave her a long, thoughtful look. ‘How will you explain it?’

India frowned in puzzlement, returned his steady gaze with one that was slightly surprised. ‘I’m not with you.’

‘How will you explain the painting to your father?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Dusty.’

He peered at her more closely, wondering if she was being dense or perhaps even kidding him. And then he suddenly understood she was neither. Very simply, she just didn’t get it. He shook his head and began to laugh softly. After a moment, he explained, ‘Every one of my paintings is exhibited, even the portraits for private clients, and they are always photographed. Your father is bound to see photos of the picture I paint of you when they appear in the newspapers and magazines. He’ll know I’ve been screwing you.’

She winced inside; sometimes his bluntness took her breath away, but she gave him a sweet smile and answered, ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, he won’t know any such thing.’

‘He will, because the painting I intend to paint of you will be very sensual – the way you look now. It won’t leave much to the imagination.’

‘Oh Daddy won’t care, he’s … a man of the world.’

‘He’s also the Earl of Dunvale, and believe me he’ll care. He won’t want the world to know I’m … you know … having it off with his daughter. Me? The notorious, rabble-rousing working-class lad from the back streets of Leeds. Not ’alf he won’t.’

‘Now you are being silly. You’re the greatest painter in the world today. Everyone knows that. Anyway, I actually don’t care what my father or anyone else thinks. I’m twenty-seven and I can do anything I want. And I want to be painted by you, in fact I’m flattered that you asked.’

‘It’s a deal?’

‘Of course.’ She thrust out her hand. ‘Let’s shake.’

His boisterous laughter filled the air as he shook her hand, then he pulled her into his arms and embraced her. Against her hair he said, ‘There’s another condition. Before I paint you we’ll have to be together, if you get my drift. You do understand that, Lady India?’

‘Absolutely, Mr Rhodes. I’m in total agreement.’

He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you to your car,’ he murmured and turned the handle of the French windows. They opened up onto the terrace of the south façade of the house, which was very beautiful; there was a portico supported by four soaring columns, and the wide terrace stretched the length of the house and around the two end wings.

The heat of the August afternoon hit them as they stepped outside, and Dusty said, ‘It’s muggy, and it looks like rain.’ He glanced up. ‘Thunderclouds, India, but you’ll get to Pennistone Royal before the rain starts.’

‘I hope so,’ she murmured, also glancing up, and instantly thinking of the search party out on the estate in rainy weather. But hopefully Adele had been found, or returned, by now. Involuntarily, she shivered when she thought of the missing child.

Dusty noticed and took hold of her arm as they walked along the terrace, heading for the courtyard. After a short silence, he said, ‘Maybe I should go with you. You’re just three women out there and –’

‘Four with Evan,’ India cut in.

‘All right, four women. But you might need a bloke around. A bloke like me, who knows what’s what. Mark Longden could show up making demands, you know. From what you’ve told me he’s nasty.’

‘Yes, he is, but we’ll be all right, please don’t worry. There’s Wiggs, the head gardener, and Joe, who runs the estate.’

‘And then there’s that other rule, isn’t there, India? No outsiders allowed.’

India eyed him through the corner of her eye, trying to ascertain his mood. He had sounded slightly annoyed; spotting the hint of mischief in his eyes, she laughed. ‘Well, I will say this, you do learn fast, Mr Rhodes.’

‘So do you, Lady India,’ he shot back. ‘How long do you intend to stay up here?’

‘I’d planned to stay for a week before this happened. But who knows, I could be here longer now, if I’m out at the house and not at the store in Leeds. I’ve a lot of work there, and I’ll have to stay until it’s finished.’

‘When can I start the painting?’

‘Tomorrow. Hopefully. It all depends.’

He picked up on the concern in her voice, and said quietly, ‘I’m sure Adele will show up, India, I really mean that. And certainly I hope so.’

‘Thanks, Dusty …’ Her voice trailed off and she searched in her bag for the car keys, found them and headed towards her car parked next to the barns.

‘I do envy you this,’ Dusty said when he drew to a standstill, patting the bonnet. ‘An Aston Martin DB2-4, a piece of vintage mechanical art if ever there was one.’

She smiled up at him. ‘Wasn’t it nice of Daddy to part with his favourite wheels?’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘But then I am his favourite, you know,’ she added, getting into the car.

‘Don’t rub it in,’ Dusty responded, his laughter rising. ‘Give me a shout later.’

‘I will.’ After blowing him a kiss through the open window she turned on the ignition.

Once the Aston Martin had disappeared from sight, Dusty turned on his heels and crossed the cobbled yard, went down to the ornamental lake. He stood looking into its depths, taking pleasure at what he was seeing – a perfect reflection of the Georgian house on the hill, a mirror image clearly visible in that placid body of water as smooth as glass. How clever they were, those architects of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, he thought, nodding to himself. Whenever the topography allowed, they set the house on a hill and created a man-made lake at the bottom so that the house was reflected in all its glory. A double image. Very impressive indeed.

Dusty had studied architecture for a time, and he was particularly interested in the designs of Andrea Palladio. He considered it part of his training as an artist. And he had always thought that a Palladian villa set in a verdant English park was a very beautiful sight. He saw it as the perfect marriage of a building with nature. Dusty loved the classicism of the designs, because he loved all things classical, and of the Renaissance. William Kent, a follower of Inigo Jones, the great seventeenth-century architect, had designed and built his house, Willows Hall, over two hundred and seventy-five years ago, and it was pure Palladian. Dusty had fallen in love with it the first time he had seen it, although he had become concerned when he began to understand how neglected it truly was. The surveyors he had brought in had told him it was mostly surface damage, and that everything could be restored to its original state with some good repair work by master craftsmen.

He began to walk towards the house now, climbing up the grassy hill, and his thoughts automatically swung to India Standish. If anyone looked as if she belonged in this house it was she; after all, she had grown up in a very similar place – Clonloughlin in Ireland, a renowned Georgian house of impressive proportions and great beauty. And so of course she was at ease with the grand overtones of Willows Hall. He knew he looked right in it, too, even though he had been brought up in a back-to-back, a far cry from this place indeed.

Dusty had lavished a great deal of time, effort, care, love and money on Willows Hall over the past eight and a half years, and in doing so he had made it his own; he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

When he reached the top of the hill he stood gazing at the south front façade for a moment, and he couldn’t help admiring the way the pale stone gleamed in the afternoon sunlight; it looked as if it had been polished. It was perfectly beautiful.

As he lifted his eyes to the sky Dusty was happy to see that the thunderclouds had blown away; it wasn’t going to rain after all. Turning, he walked down the length of the terrace, making for his studio. This stood a little away from the house on the left, and it was of his own design. From the outside it looked like a guest villa, echoing the main house since it was in the Palladian style.

When Dusty went inside he stood blinking for a moment. The studio was one vast, open space with a high-flung ceiling that seemed to soar endlessly upward, with many windows on both sides. There were a series of skylights set in the ceiling, and the whole area was filled with intense glittering northern light. Still blinking, he touched several buttons and electric window shades slid into place over the windows, dimming the daylight, cooling the room.

Moving lithely, he crossed to a drawing board, picked up a charcoal crayon and quickly made a series of dramatic and vivid sketches of India’s face. Suddenly, he stopped, threw the crayon down and stepping away from the drawing board, went and lowered himself into an armchair.

Why was he painting her? The idea was ridiculous. It was really asking for trouble. In every way. Trouble for her. Trouble for him. Her father wouldn’t like her association with him; whatever she believed, he knew he was right. They came from entirely different worlds. She was an aristocrat from very high altitudes; he was a working-class boy. Yes, he was famous. Very famous, in fact. And rich. All because of his talent, and doing something he couldn’t live without doing. Painting. But as far as he was concerned, the Earl of Dunvale wouldn’t care about those things. Other considerations mattered to a man like her father. Propriety and background, and stupid things like where he had gone to school, and what his father did, and whether he had a posh accent.

No, it wasn’t fair to her, or to himself, actually, since he had no intention of becoming serious with India. He was wasting his valuable time with her, when he could be painting, and he was setting her up to get hurt when he said goodbye. Yes, she was trouble. For a variety of reasons.

The red phone on the counter top began to ring. He looked across at it balefully, reluctant to answer it. But it didn’t stop after six rings, so he got up in exasperation and strode over to the counter, snatched at the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Russell?’

‘Hello Melinda.’

‘How did you know it was me?’

‘Recognized your voice.’

‘I want out of this place, Russell,’ she wailed. ‘Get Dr Jeffers to release me.’

‘You know I can’t. You’ve got to stay there until he thinks you’re properly de-toxed. Then he’ll sign your release. I don’t have anything to do with it, you know that.’

‘Russell, please ask him.’

‘You know very well he won’t listen.’

‘Please don’t punish me this way.’

‘I’m not doing that, Melinda. You signed yourself into the clinic.’

‘I’ll tell Atlanta what you’re doing to me.’

‘I’m not doing anything. Anyway, she’s too young to understand.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘Yes, she’s wonderful. I spoke to your mother yesterday and she said she’s as happy as a lark. Look, Melinda, I’ve got to go. I’m working.’

‘Will you talk to the doctor? Please.’

‘Yes, I will. I’ll give him a ring tomorrow. Now rest quietly, and get well. ’Bye.’ He hung up and stared at the phone. Now that was trouble if anything was. And then some.

He groaned. What was he going to do about Melinda and his child? He dreaded the thought of someone finding out about them. And yet he knew it would leak out some time soon … he was far too famous for it not to … He let this disturbing thought go, unable, suddenly, to cope with it.

Unexpectedly, his thoughts veered to Tessa Longden and her predicament about Adele. He fully understood how she felt, the agony of mind she was going through. After all, he had a three-year-old of his own, and he could well imagine how beside himself he would be in the same circumstances.

India drove along the motorway at a steady pace; she was soon leaving Harrogate behind and heading towards the village of Pennistone Royal. The sky had changed, the thunderclouds had drifted out to the North Sea and it was a lovely pale blue again. She was relieved. There would be nothing worse than tramping over sodden fields and meadows looking for a lost child.

Was she lost on the estate? No. Mark Longden had taken her out of spite. As a bargaining chip, as Dusty had suggested. Dusty. He was such a difficult man in so many ways, and so full of contradictions. He was loaded with baggage, most of it about his background and their class differences, all of which she found silly. He wouldn’t listen to her. But no matter, she had fallen in love with him the night she had first met him, and nothing was going to change that. He was the only man she wanted, the only man for her, and she was determined to get him. Permanently. Long term. Marriage. That was her goal. It wasn’t going to be easy, she was fully aware of all the problems.

Dusty was extremely independent, loathed being pinned down. Nor did he like to make commitments. That was obviously why he had never married or had a long-term relationship. ‘Love ’em and leave ’em, that’s always been my motto,’ he had said to her when they first met several months ago, as if warning her. And then he had begun to laugh uproariously, seemingly highly amused by his own attitude.