Edges of love

THE August heatwave had broken into thunderstorms and London was having a

wet September. This morning, as Kate Reynolds picked her way along the streaming pavements of the City, past the towering buildings—old and new— where a great portion of the world's business took place, the sky was a uniform

slate colour. Muddy water hissed under the wheels of the ceaseless procession of

cars and vans and lorries, spewed across the road, carelessly splashing the hurrying pedestrians as it went, and finally gurgled in dismal rivulets down the

grids.

Very appropriate, Kate thought with black humour, dragging the belt of her grey

gaberdine mac tighter round her slim waist. Just the final touch to the last three

days of unrelieved disaster.

She eased back the cuff of her wet mac to look once more at her watch and a trickle of rain ran down her arm, making her shiver, more with nerves than cold.

Five to eleven. Zero hour approaching.

She stopped outside the imposing entrance to one of the great white tower

blocks, her large, wide-set grey, eyes fixed with something like panic on the

bronze plate that said Barn Trekker Electronics Inc.

Why, for goodness' sake, should she go through this misery to try to get Jerry out

of yet another scrape, even if it were the worst one of his scatty young life?

Wouldn't she be justified in leaving him to cope on his own? He had to start

taking responsibility for himself some day. Why not now?

But of course she knew why not. This last mess her young brother had got

himself into would break Father's heart if he found out about it. Break his health

too, finally. For a moment her throat choked up as she thought of, the way he had been since last Sunday—insisting on carrying on his parish duties although he looked hardly fit to drag himself out of the house. She just had to make this interview a success somehow.

She blinked and swallowed, pushing back the wave of emotion. She had to keep a grip on herself so that she could present her arguments coolly and reasonably.

She climbed the entrance steps and paused, out of the rain, to peer at her face in her small handbag mirror. Before she left home this morning she had taken particular trouble over her grooming, in the hope that nothing about her appearance should make a bad impression on this unknown, frightening

individual she was going to see. This 'inhuman bastard', Jerry had called him.

But walking in the rain had played havoc with her careful efforts. The head-scarf

which was supposed to be rainproof had long ago become soaked and was now

tucked in a damp lump into her mac pocket. Her very fine, light-gold hair hung

in darkened wet strands to her shoulders, enclosing a small, resolute face, out of

which huge, clear grey eyes stared back at her. The light application of eyeshadow had smudged at one comer, finally marring the picture she wished to

present of a quietly capable, reasonable young woman who would not easily be

brushed aside.

She clicked her tongue in exasperation, dabbing at her eye with a handkerchief.

Oh well, there was nothing she could do now about her appearance. She would

have to try to make up for it by her demeanour—very cool and collected she

would be. Not grovelling to ask a favour of this man, but rather appealing to his

understanding and compassion. Jerry's description hadn't been encouraging, but

Jerry had been under a strain when the man had interviewed him. A top man in a

huge corporation like Barn Trekker must be able to judge people accurately,

surely? He must have seen that Jerry wasn't really dishonest.

Somewhere in the distance a clock began to strike eleven with heavy strokes.

'Come on, then,' Kate said aloud, drawing in a shaky breath and lifting her

rounded small chin. 'Let's get it over.'

The entrance lobby was vast and she felt as if she were dwindling as her heels

clicked over green, flinty-hard tiles. But her secretarial experience gave her a

certain confidence as she approached the imposing uniformed porter stationed

behind a desk.

She drew herself up to her slim five feet four inches. 'I have an appointment with

Mr Paul Caister, of Barn Trekker.'

The porter pointed to Kate's handbag and she opened it and held it out. Security

precautions didn't surprise her any longer, as they had done when the family first

moved to London from their quiet West Country village, six months ago.

The porter nodded and jerked his head towards a row of lifts. 'Top floor,' he said.

'You'll have to see Mr Caister's secretary.'

The top floor was so quiet that Kate felt she should apologise to someone for the

click of the lift gates as she closed them behind her. Wide carpeted corridors

stretched to either side, punctuated by pale wood doors, each with its neat bronze

plate. No clatter, no rush. This was evidently the nerve centre of the London

branch of the Corporation, where the top brass operated.

'Look for a door on the left marked J. S. Bruce,' Jerry had told her this morning,

his eyes glassy and his face flushed with fever. 'I suppose it's too much to hope

that old Bruce himself will be back from the U.S.'

Yesterday afternoon, when he had come home pale and frightened, and blurted

out the whole wretched story to her, Jerry had told her that James Bruce, the

Personnel Director, was away in America. 'This Caister bloke's standing in for

him, and he's an inhuman bastard. That's the whole trouble. Old Bruce would

never have taken this hard line over a paltry thirty quid. He wouldn't have made

me feel like a criminal.'

Kate almost said, 'But you are a criminal. Taking money that doesn't belong to

you makes you a criminal, even if it is only thirty pounds and even if you can

argue that you were only borrowing it until the end of the month.'

She hadn't said it. Jerry was 'family' and she had to try and help. She went over

and closed the kitchen door in case Father should come out of his study, where

he was supposed to be resting but was probably working on his sermon for next

Sunday, or writing letters in the interest of one of the dozens of his parishioners

who didn't seem able to cope with life in this tough North London parish he had

been so eager to serve.

She leaned her back against the door and looked over at her brother. 'And what's

going to happen now?'

Jerry sprawled in his chair, a quiff of fair hair hanging over his forehead. He

pushed it away and Kate saw the beads of sweat there. Jerry was having a bad

scare this time. Perhaps it would take this to make him grow up at last.

'Oh, I'm bidden to wait upon his high and mightiness, Mr Paul Caister, tomorrow

morning at eleven, to hear what sentence he's decided to pass on me.'

The show of bravado didn't convince Kate. 'You'll lose your job?'

'Lose my job? That's the least of it. The swine talked about prosecution!'

'Prosecution?' An icy wave passed through Kate's body. Police—magistrates'

court—even prison! It was appalling, unthinkable. 'He can't do that!'

'I suppose he could, if he really wanted to be nasty.'

'But—but it would be too dreadful for Father. I think it would kill him—the

disgrace ‑'

'Don't get worked up, Kate, for God's sake. I wouldn't have told you if I'd

thought you were going to make such heavy weather of it.'

She glared at him angrily, 'Of course I'm worked up—how did you expect me to

feel? You know what the doctor said on Sunday, after we got Father home—that

he must take it easier and not worry so much about his work.'

She bit her lip hard as all the details of the scene in the vestry were suddenly,

starkly vivid again. Her father's thin, rather frail body slumped in the chair, his

face paper-white against the black of his cassock; his eyes closed and his bony

hands working convulsively.

'He really is terribly tired, Jerry. Another attack like that one might—might ‑'

She didn't dare to think of it. 'You must tell this Caister man tomorrow. Explain

to him.'

'I did—this afternoon. He didn't want to know.'

'You told him about Father being ill, and what the shock might do to him—as a

clergyman he'd probably think he had to resign his living, and that would just

about finish him. Did you explain all that?'

'I didn't go into all the sob stuff,' said Jerry, sulky now. 'He's not the sort of bloke

to be soft-soaped, Kate. You'd agree with me if you could see him, he's as hard

as nails.'

Kate slumped into a chair and put a hand over her eyes. 'Oh lord, Jay, what an

idiot you are! Why did you have to get into this mess?'

There was a silence, then he said in an odd, strained voice, 'You don't think I

meant to get into a mess, do you? I didn't think.'

That was the trouble with Jerry. It had always been, 'I didn't think.' She lifted her

head wearily. 'You never ‑'

She didn't finish the sentence. Jerry was doubled up in his chair, sobbing like a

little boy.

There was no point in trying to continue the discussion. Kate dropped back into

the role of mother and comforter—the role she had played since their own

mother died when she was ten and Jerry was six. Now, eleven years later, she

felt that not much had changed. She got Jerry to bed, with an excuse of 'flu, for

Father's benefit. By the time she went to bed herself the fever had become a

reality and Jerry was running a high temperature—psychological, probably, but

none the less real.

He had held on to her hand and stared up at her with swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

'What am I going to do, Kate? Oh God, what am I going to do?'

He was only seventeen and this was his first job. Kate gave him aspirins and

sponged his hot cheeks. 'Go to sleep, dopey,' she told him. 'If you're not better in

the morning I'll go and see the man myself.'

In the morning Jerry had been worse, and so now Kate was standing here,

outside the door marked J. S. Bruce, With a hollow inside where her stomach

should have been.

She took a deep breath, knocked, and went in.

The door opened into a narrow, windowless room, almost completely filled by a

desk and a nest of steel filing cabinets. A secretary's office, of course, acting as a

buffer between the man behind that inner door and the corridor outside.

A woman' with untidy fair hair, and a harassed expression in pale blue eyes,

looked up from the desk as Kate went in. 'Yes?' She frowned impatiently. 'What

is it?'

Kate had her first words ready, the ones she had rehearsed and memorised. 'My name is Reynolds. I'm Jeremy Reynolds's sister. He was told to report here at eleven this morning, but he's ill and unable to come. As the matter was important I offered to come and see Mr Caister in his place.'

Pale eyes flicked over Kate's wet grey mac, which was clinging rather forlornly

to her slim body, and the woman glanced down at a diary on the desk. 'There's

no appointment marked here,' she snapped. 'I don't know anything about anyone

called Reynolds.'

In a way that was a relief. Kate had had a horrid idea that everyone in the office

must know about Jerry and what he had done. 'This is the Personnel Director's

office? Mr Caister, acting for Mr Bruce?'

'Yes'—grudgingly—'but Mr Caister's extremely busy and I can't possibly disturb

him. Your brother, whoever he is, had better come himself. And tell him to make

a proper appointment.' The woman lowered her head to her typewriter in a

gesture of dismissal.

Kate didn't move. 'I'm sorry to be a nuisance,' she said politely, 'but I'm afraid I

must insist on your asking Mr Caister if he will see me.' Her eyes went to the

closed inner door. . The secretary jumped to her feet, her cheeks showing spots

of scarlet. 'Insist? How dare you? I won't be dictated to, you know, I'm not here

to be ordered about by any chit of a girl who cares to walk in and demand to be

seen by one of the directors. What impudence!' She bridled, jerking her head

back, her mouth closing like a trap.

Remembering her secretarial training, Kate could almost pity such hopeless

inefficiency. This certainly wasn't the way to deal with callers who didn't have

appointments. And anyway, she reminded herself, she did have an appointment.

Well—sort of.

'I'll wait, then,' she said firmly, and sat down on a chair beside the filing cabinet.

Her action seemed to inflame the secretary. Her face was livid now, her pale

blue eyes wild. 'You won't wait here, I'll not allow it. Of all the insolence—

coming here and interrupting my work and badgering me! I'll ring for the porter

to put you out. And you can tell your precious brother, whoever he is——'

Her voice rose to a screech and Kate realised that she was reacting out of all

proportion to the situation. She must have been in a jittery state already, and any

new demand on what poise she possessed must have been too much for her. She

clutched Kate's arm, pulling her up from the chair. 'Get out! Go on, get out,

before I ‑'

The door of the inner office burst open and a man's voice, deep and angry, said,

'What the hell's going on here? Miss Parkes, please explain why you have to use

your office as a wrestling booth?'

He did not raise his voice, he was perfectly in control, but his presence chilled

the atmosphere of the small office, like opening the lid of a deepfreeze cabinet.

The secretary shrivelled. She dropped Kate's arm and began to make little

fluttering movements with her hands. 'Oh, Mr Caister, I'm so sorry, but this—

this young person came in with some cock-and-bull story, demanding to see you,

and she refused to leave, and I ‑' The pale blue eyes swam with tears.

The man didn't move, neither did his expression change. He stood, tall and dark

and dangerous, towering over the wretched woman. 'Miss Parkes, I suggest that

you take yourself out of this office until you're in a fit state to deal with your job.

Go away and swallow some aspirins or black coffee or something and don't

come back until you've got control of yourself.'

She made a despairing effort. 'I don't really need ‑I'm quite all right, Mr Caister,

it was just ‑' She lifted her eyes pleadingly to the implacable face of the man

before her and choked into silence.

He stepped to the outer door and opened it. 'Out!' he ordered, and the unfortunate

Miss Parkes scuttled away down the corridor.

He kept a hand on the door knob as he turned to Kate. 'Now,' he said, 'who are

you and what do you want? Make it brief, please, I'm busy.' His eyes flicked

over her without interest.

Kate was in no state to take in details of the man in front of her. She had an

impression of height and leanness and hard muscular strength beneath the

immaculately-cut business suit. He was younger than she had supposed—midthirties probably—and she saw exactly what Jerry had meant when he called

Paul Caister an inhuman bastard. Her own instinct labelled him 'male chauvinist'

in addition. Miss Parkes was hopelessly incompetent, but he shouldn't have

treated a woman secretary like that, humiliating her before a stranger. It was

cruel and unnecessary.

But she had to keep her cool somehow for Father's sake, she reminded herself.

She had come to plead with this man for a favour, however much she hated him on sight.

She met the dark, angry eyes squarely. 'I'm Kate Reynolds, Jeremy Reynolds's

sister. My brother had an appointment with you for eleven o'clock this morning,

but he's not well enough to come himself, so I offered to see you in his place to

—to find out what you've decided to do.'

An impatient frown had been settling between his straight dark brows while she

was speaking. 'Reynolds? I don't know anyone called ‑' His expression changed,

the straight, rather sensual mouth took a downward curve. 'Oh yes—Reynolds—

the light-fingered young thug in Accounts who's been helping himself to the

petty cash.'

There was such contempt in his tone that Kate almost gave up then and there.

But somehow she managed to keep her voice even. 'If you could spare me just a

minute or two, Mr Caister, I should be very grateful. There's something I'd like

to explain to you.'

He hardly glanced at her as she stood there in her wet mac, her fair hair,

darkened by the rain, hanging in limp strands round her small face, her eyelids

slightly smudged.

'Two minutes,' he said. He turned and strode back into his office.

Kate followed him into a large, opulently-appointed room with wide windows

that looked out at the sky and down at the City far below, dotted with ant-like

traffic and divided by a narrow silver ribbon of river.

The man settled himself in a black leather executive chair behind a vast desk, his

eyes on a file of papers, on which he had evidently been working. 'Sit down,

Miss—er ‑'

'Reynolds,' said Kate. 'Thank you, but I'd rather stand. I won't keep you——'

'Sit down,' he repeated, with weary authority, not looking up.

Kate hesitated a moment and then sat down on the edge of the chair opposite

him. It was galling to have to obey this hateful man, but she mustn't antagonise

him, for Jerry's sake. Correction, she added mentally, for Father's sake.

Eventually he sat back in his chair, eyes narrowed under thick black lashes.

'Your brother's ill, you say. What's the matter with him?'

'I think it's 'flu. He's running a high temperature.'

'Oh yes?' The dark brows rose cynically. 'Very convenient! Quite a coincidence,

in fact. So he sends his sister along to plead his cause. A girl might expect

special treatment, was that the idea?'

It was going to be difficult to control her temper. 'No, Mr Caister, that was not

the idea.' She spoke more forcefully than she had intended and there was a frosty

sparkle in her wide grey eyes. 'And I haven't come to excuse my brother or plead

his cause. There's no excuse for what he did. If it weren't for my father I'd have

left Jerry to sort things out for himself. But my father's ill and I'm worried about

him. He's a clergyman, and he's been overworking since we moved to London

and the doctor says he must take it easy and avoid stress.' The words poured out

now she had started. The man opposite had bent his head over his papers again

and all she could see was the top of his head with its thick, springy black hair,

but she rushed on, hoping he was listening. 'If Jerry was—if anything really bad

happened to Jerry, I think it would -- I don't know what it would do to my

father.'

In the silence that followed her outburst she felt as if her throat were held rigid

by steel bands. Hadn't he heard what she had said? Wasn't he going' to reply at

all?

Moments dragged past until she was sure she would scream, and then at last he

lifted his head and said, 'A touching story, but how do I know it's true? If your

brother is a thief—which according to my information he certainly is—why

shouldn't his sister be equally suspect?'

Kate stared at him, cold with shock. 'Do you believe I'm lying?'

The wide shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. 'Well, aren't you? The whole scenario

looks suspiciously improbable to me. The ailing, elderly parent, the weak and

erring brother, the noble self-sacrificing sister.' He smiled nastily. 'It's almost too

good to be true.'

Kate stared at the heavy brass paperweight on the desk and itched to pick it up

and hurl it at him. 'It is true, whether you believe it or not.'

He tapped long brown fingers on the desk impatiently. 'Well, supposing it is,

what do you expect me to do about it?'

A flicker of hope arose. Eagerly she said, 'If—if you could give Jerry another

chance? Perhaps in another department where there wouldn't be any loose

money about so that he wouldn't—so that you could be sure ‑' she floundered

helplessly for a moment, and then rushed on, 'or if you couldn't keep him on, at

least let him repay the money, and—and—let the matter drop. Jerry's not really

bad,' she urged. 'He's very young-— only seventeen—and he's been in a few

scrapes, as most boys have, but he's never done anything dishonest before. He

only meant to borrow the money, he was going to put it back when he was paid

next week.'

He said nothing and she had no idea whether she was getting through to him or

not, but she had rehearsed what she would say and now she had started she had

to see it through.

'It was just an impulse-staking the money—he didn't plan it or anything. You

see, there was this girl and he wanted to take her out, to impress her.

He'd never been in love before and he got it very badly. He lost his head—you

know how it is ‑'

The slam of Paul Caister's hand on the desk sounded like a pistol shot in the

quiet office. 'That's enough, Miss Reynolds. I don't require the details of your

brother's love life. You've had your two minutes, now you'd better go before I

lose my patience.'

Kate caught her breath and her eyes went wide. What had she said to cause this

reaction of fury in the man? Nothing, reason told her. He must have been in a

vile temper when she came in—nothing to do with Jerry, obviously. That must

be a very minor episode to him.

He got up from his chair and stood holding the door open for her to leave. 'But—

but what will you do?' she faltered. She wasn't a timid girl, but it wasn't easy to

confront this dark, angry man who towered above her, scowling. She got slowly

to her feet, but she reached scarcely to his shoulder.

'Do? What the hell did you think I'd do? Did you imagine you could soften me

up? Your precious brother would have done better to face up to coming himself instead of sending a decoy.'

'A—a decoy? I don't know what you mean.'

'Don't give me that line,' he sneered'. 'How far would you have gone? Did you

propose to offer yourself as a bed-partner in return for your brother's reprieve?

What makes you think I'd be tempted?' His glance flicked over her slight body

contemptuously.

She was breathing fast, but she managed to keep her head up as she glared at

him, her hands gripping the back of the chair. 'That was your idea, Mr Caister, it

wasn't mine. I'd have done anything else for you—worked for you, scrubbed

floors for your wife—sewed, cooked— anything—anything at all. It's just a pity

that, like all men, your thoughts seem to run exclusively on bed.'

There was no point in prolonging the interview. She had failed. Worse, she had

probably made things even more desperate than they were already. She gathered

every shred of her tattered dignity. 'Good morning, Mr Caister,' she said, and

swept past him out of the office.

Once in the corridor her knees turned to jelly and she stumbled blindly to the lift.

Mercifully it was still at the top floor. She fell into it and pressed the button,

leaning against the side, shivering as the floor numbers passed in a blur before

her eyes.

She hardly noticed when the lift stopped, and before she could pull herself

together there was a soft shudder and it began to ascend again.

Kate panicked. There was no logical reason why it should be Paul Caister who

had summoned the lift upwards, but somehow she knew it was. Her finger was

already on the button when the lift sighed to a halt, but it was no use. The gates

glided open and the man she had just left stood before her, almost filling the

opening with his tall, formidable body.

He kept a restraining hand on the gate. 'We hadn't quite finished our discussion

after all, Miss Reynolds,' he said smoothly.

She glanced antagonistically at him and quickly removed her gaze to the wall on

the opposite side of the corridor. 'There's nothing to discuss.'

'I think there is,' he said crisply. He stepped into the lift beside her, clicked the

gate shut and pressed the ground floor button. 'We'll continue our conversation

off the premises.'

The lift was small and intimate, one of a slick fleet for personnel. Kate felt the

breath leave her body as she was pressed against the hard, muscular shoulder of

the man beside her.

He didn't appear to notice her embarrassment. As they swooped down he

murmured, almost to himself, 'Besides, I can do without that idiot secretary

woman breathing down my neck.'

The lift sighed to a stop. Paul Caister stepped out and gripped Kate's elbow

firmly. 'Come along,' he ordered.

She saw the porter's eyes on them. 'Let me go!' she muttered, pulling away. 'I'm

not your prisoner.'

Prisoner! That was an ill-chosen word. She had a sudden chilling picture of Jerry

standing in a dock, flanked by policemen, and she stopped struggling.

'We're going for coffee, Baines,' Paul Caister called pleasantly across to the

porter, and the man seemed to spring to attention. 'Back in half an hour. I'm

expecting my sister. If she comes before I'm back ask her to wait, will you?'

'Right, sir.' The man saluted smartly and Kate found herself led out again into

the wet street, and round the corner to a coffee-house in a small, ancient-looking

building tucked away deep in the heart of the old city. The low-ceilinged room

was dark with heavy carved wood and hazy with smoke. The aroma of expensive

coffee floated around, as it must have done here for a couple of hundred years.

They sat on high-backed seats upholstered in burgundy velvet, in an enclosed

alcove. 'It's quiet and civilised here,' Paul Caister said, glancing round the halfempty room. 'We can talk.'

Kate looked at the hard face of the man sitting opposite. It was a strikingly

handsome face; dark and brooding, the near-black liquid eyes giving it a slightly

foreign look. He was regarding her narrowly and his long lashes lowered

towards high cheekbones made his face hollow-cheeked, hungry-looking. His

mouth looked somehow hungry too—or was it merely bad-tempered?— the lips thin and straight, the faintest movement making them cynical. It was a sensual

mouth too; Kate was quite experienced enough to recognise that fact.

She frowned, suddenly confused to realise she had been staring at him. 'I don't

understand. Not five minutes ago you nearly threw me out of your office.'

'That was five minutes ago. The situation has changed.' He leaned back, relaxed,

very self-assured. 'You made me an offer. You said you'd do anything for me—

or for my wife—if I'd get your brother off the book.'

An elderly waiter approached. 'Coffee, please, Henry. How goes it with you?'

Paul Caister's voice was friendly as he spoke to the old man.

The waiter beamed. 'Nicely, thank you, sir. You back for long, Mr Caister? How

was the weather in Hong Kong?'

'Delightful—London could learn a thing or two.' He glanced at the deep, leadlighted window where the rain cascaded down outside.

The waiter padded off and returned almost immediately with a tray of coffee.

Paul Caister picked up the pot. 'Is the offer still open?' he repeated. 'Cream?

Sugar?'

'No, thank you.' Kate needed her coffee very black and strong. She sipped the

rich dark liquid and felt the stimulating heat racing through her gratefully, giving

her courage to meet the hard look of the man opposite.

'I don't happen to have a wife,' he continued, helping himself to cream, 'but

there's something you might do for me as a quid pro quo.'

Kate hesitated. Then she saw again Father's chalk-white face when they brought

him home on Sunday, after his collapse in church when evening service was

over. 'Yes,' she said steadily, 'the offer's still open.'

'With certain exceptions, of course, which you mentioned?' The long, thin mouth

twisted sardonically.

She nodded in silence, disliking the man more every minute. She almost

preferred him when he was blisteringly angry.

'I'll keep that in mind,' he drawled. 'But actually my proposition doesn't include bed.' The dark eyes glittered briefly. 'It isn't immoral. Or illegal. Or—to

complete the quote—fattening.' He glanced dismissively at that part of her body

that was visible above the table and added, 'though I don't imagine you need to

worry on that score. Won't you slip your coat off? It's warm in here.'

She drew into her grey mac as if it were armour, defending her against this

hateful man who seemed to enjoy humiliating her. 'No, thank you,' she said

stiffly.

He stirred his coffee, looking down thoughtfully into his cup. Kate watched the

long, brown fingers moving with precision. She wouldn't have thought he would

take cream in his coffee; it seemed out of character.

He drank deeply and appreciatively, then put down the cup and said, 'Now—to

business. I'm returning to Hong Kong tomorrow to finish off a job there. I'll be

away about a month, returning to England late in October. For various reasons it

would suit me to have my fiancée join me there and stay on until I leave.' He was

silent for a moment and then shot at her, 'Is that practicable, do you think?'

Kate lifted puzzled eyebrows. Why shouldn't he take his fiancée to Hong Kong?

Poor girl, she added mentally, pitying anyone engaged to this man. 'Yes, why

not?' she said.

'Good. You agree, then, we can get down to details.'

'I don't quite understand. What do you want me to do—make arrangements for

your fiancée? Bookings or something?'

He moved his shoulders impatiently. 'My dear girl, use your head. I want you to

be my fiancée for a month or so, while I'm in Hong Kong. Look on it as a job, if

you like. I don't know what job you do, but I'd pay you twice what you're getting

at present. You'd have a free holiday— Hong Kong's delightful just now—and a

new wardrobe of suitable clothes.' His eyes passed with distaste over the damp

grey mac.

Kate choked a little. 'You're mad! I couldn't— couldn't pretend ‑'

'That we were in love with each other? Oh, I expect I could convince 'em.' He

looked disgustingly complacent. 'Once they got over the shock, my friends

would probably decide that I'm the type of man to fall for a nice little clergyman's daughter. The improbable always intrigues people where love—

whatever that is—is concerned, haven't you noticed? Can't you hear them? "I

don't know what he saw in her!" ' he mimicked nastily. 'But they'll accept it.

They'll have to,' he added, tossing down the remainder of his coffee.

'So you do believe I'm a clergyman's daughter now, do you?' said Kate, more to

gain time than because his opinion was important.

'Oh yes, I've decided that you were telling the truth. Your exit line when you left

my office was entirely convincing and in character. That was what put this plan

of mine into my head. Contrary to your sweeping indictment of my sex, I don't

happen to be looking for a girl to sleep with just at the moment. I need to

concentrate exclusively on my business problems.'

Kate could hardly believe her own ears. Of all the arrogant, conceited,

overbearing—words failed as resentment flared into fury. But she couldn't afford

to give vent to her feelings—not yet. Not until she was convinced that she had

failed completely in her attempt to protect Father from the results of Jerry's

idiocy. She had to stall, to give herself time to think.

'It was very sudden, wasn't it? This brilliant idea of yours?' She couldn't help her

lip curling. with distaste.

'All the best ideas are sudden. It came to me the instant you said, with such

heartrending emotion, "I'll do anything for you—anything at all—" I thought that

if you were sincere, if you weren't play-acting, it would solve my problems.'

The first shock was wearing off now and all that remained was cold disgust.

'And what about my problems?'

He brushed that aside. 'What problems? You're not married, are you?' He

managed to make it sound insultingly improbable.

'No.'

'Well, surely anything else can be coped with.' He shot her a keen look. 'Is there

a man in the offing? Someone who would put up resistance?'

Before they moved to London there had been quite a queue of men in the offing.

None of them had been special, though, and in the past six months she had avoided making any relationships that would put a demand on her time. There

had been so much to do: getting the large, inconvenient vicarage more or less

straight; helping Father with all the small chores that a vicar's wife is expected to

do, if he has one. Most evenings were spent working on her languages and

attending classes. One day Kate Reynolds was going to command a top

secretarial job.

'I'm a career girl,' she said coldly. 'I don't ask any man's permission.'

'Spoken like a truly liberated woman!' He smiled nastily.

Too late she realised what her words implied and to her intense horror she felt

the blood rushing into her face. 'I'm not a liberated woman, not in the way you

imply,' she said quickly.

He sighed. 'My dear good girl, don't let's get involved with that subject again. I

assure you I wasn't implying anything in particular, so let's get off the subject of

bed once and for all, shall we? I promise you nothing is further from my mind.

You don't fancy me—I don't fancy you. Is that quite clear?' He paused to let that

sink in and then said, 'Now, what do you say to my proposal?'

In the dim, smoky atmosphere of the coffee room his eyes glittered darkly. It

was quite unreasonable, but Kate felt a strong prick of fear inside her, a warning

of something unknown and shattering. 'I—I couldn't,' she stammered. 'It's too

ridiculous to think about.'

The dark brows went up. 'I warn you, Miss Reynolds, you'd better begin thinking

about it. Because if not ‑'

She gasped. 'You mean—if I won't do this crazy thing you're asking you'll take it

out on Jerry?'

His lips thinned. 'Your brother has already taken it out on himself. All I should

do would be to allow justice to take its course.'

The words ran through her like a trickle of ice. She had been in a magistrates'

court once, giving evidence about a motoring offence she had witnessed, and the

memory of how the wretched defendant had looked when caught in the clutches

of the law still had the power to make her shiver. And Jerry's case would be much, much worse.

Paul Caister stood up. 'I must get back to the office now. I'll leave you here to

finish your coffee and make up your mind. If you decide to go along with my

suggestion, come and tell me and we'll take it from there. If you don't return I'll

know what to think—and what to do,' he added laconically.

Kate sat frozen, watching the man's tall, broad back as he walked out of the

room. The window beside the table overlooked the steps outside and through the

misty glass she saw him again, running up agilely, apparently unconscious of the

rain. The supreme egoist—even the weather would have no power to turn him

from his course.

It took that thought to persuade her finally that if she didn't fall in with his

outrageous plan he would do exactly what he said, with all the horrible

unthinkable consequences.

She emptied the last of the black coffee into her cup and drank off the now tepid

liquid. There was really no choice, was there? She had to agree. The prospect of

having to arrange details confused and appalled her. A man could brush aside

domestic matters, but a woman couldn't. That was the difference still.

She put a hand to her hot forehead, willing herself to be calm. She must hang on

to her priorities, and her first priority was Father's health. Everything came back

to that.

All right, Mr Paul Caister, she muttered between her teeth. I'll be your fiancée

for a month, if that's your price.

Having made the decision, doubts began to recede. Out in the streets the giant

buildings didn't seem so overpowering, or herself so tiny and insignificant. The

rain was stopping and there was even a watery sun trying to break through.

It would all be good experience, she told herself. When she finally applied for

her top secretarial job she could mention casually that she had worked in the Far

East. That would sound good. She was actually smiling faintly as she went up in the lift again to the top floor.

The luckless secretary had not come back yet and the outer office, when Kate knocked and went in, was empty. The door to the inner sanctum was ajar and voices came from inside

A female voice, light and amused, said, 'You're not contemplating marrying the

girl, then, Paul?'

'Marry her?' The sound of the deep, disdainful voice sent a shiver of awareness

through Kate and again she was acutely conscious that he held the future of her

small family in his unfeeling grasp. 'Have a heart, Polly! Marriage is out for me

in the foreseeable future. And, apart from that, can you see me marrying a little

grey mouse of a clergyman's daughter?'

A light laugh. 'Not exactly, Paul dear. But are you quite sure about her? Not all

clergymen's daughters are little grey mice, you know.'

'This one is,' he said grimly. 'Wait until you see her.'

'You're quite sure she'll come back?'

'Oh, she'll come back. If her story was true and she really has got her aged

parent's good at heart, then she's got no choice, has she?'

Kate's fingernails bit into the palms of her hands. Insulting, arrogant pig!

'But what if the girl really falls for you? Have you thought of that?'

'I can deal with that if and when it happens. But naturally I'll take good care to

see that it doesn't.'

The woman laughed again. 'If you weren't my brother I could slay you for that, Paul. You really are the limit!'

Kate didn't wait to hear any more. If she got any angrier she would rush into the

office and throw something at this impossible man—either that or dash away quickly and take a bus home, her mission having failed. Either course was an admission of defeat, and Kate had reached the stage where she wasn't going to admit defeat. She was going to get her own back on Mr Paul Caister if it was the last thing she did. Every word he uttered stiffened her resolution. Pulling herself up very straight and tightening the belt of her grey gabardine

mac, she pushed open the office door wide, without knocking. There was the

light of battle in her clear grey eyes.

'Here's the little grey church mouse, Mr Caister—Paul,' she smiled brilliantly.

'Come scurrying back to pick up the crumbs that fall from your table.'

Without waiting to be asked she sat down and straightened her mac over her

knees. 'Now,' she said pleasantly, 'shall we get on with the briefing?'